Part 21 (1/2)

O'Connor, who was sitting next to Geordi amids.h.i.+ps, glanced back at the captain. ”We're getting out of here,” she said.

Picard nodded. He could see through the shuttle's observation port that they were accelerating, putting distance between themselves and the station.

Getting to his feet, the captain made his way forward to determine how his chief engineer was doing. He was pleased to see Geordi's head rotate as he approached.

Picard bent over him and smiled. ”How are you feeling, Mr. La Forge?”

Geordi shrugged. ”I've felt better, sir.” A pause. ”But I have to admit, I've also felt worse.” His head rolled again as he turned to face Barclay. ”Your grandfather was wrong, Reg.”

The thin man's brow creased. Obviously, he didn't understand. ”Wrong, sir?”

The commander chuckled. ”You're not rubber after all. Considering what you just pulled off, I'd say you're made of some of the toughest stuff around.”

Barclay grinned. ”I am?”

”You are,” Geordi affirmed.

Picard looked from one of them to the other. ”Rubber?” he repeated.

The commander grunted. ”A private joke, sir.”

The captain nodded. ”I understand.” Patting Geordi on the shoulder, he got up again and deposited himself in the seat beside Data. The android had locked one of his monitors onto a view of the station as they left it behind.

The place was convulsing with one violent flash after the other. Then, as Picard watched, a piece of the station started to come away. And another. And finally, the whole structure erupted in a blossom-cloud of blue-white light. What's more, the cloud hung there long after the station itself had been turned into debris.

Data turned to the captain. ”It is a pity,” he observed. ”There was still a great deal we might have learned from it.”

Picard frowned, intent on the spectacle. ”No doubt,” he replied, sincerely. Or was it, perhaps, better this way?

There were some things best left unknown, he mused. And some places best left unvisited. He sighed and, sitting back in his chair, closed his eyes.

Before long, they'd rendezvous with the Enterprise. Until then, he wanted only to sleep.

Lieutenant Harold had used the last of his strength to drag himself out of the bunker, which had been the colony's main residence complex until just about a day ago. The bunker was where the last of the colonists had huddled after the invaders destroyed the brave people in the administration center.

To the best of Harold's knowledge, he was the outpost's only survivor. And then, only barely. The skin on one side of his body was dark and cracked, the result of severe radiation burns. And something inside him had been damaged. Every few minutes, he coughed up blood and had to clench his teeth against the intolerable pain.

But at least he was alive. The others-the people with whom he had shared the bunker-were gone. Just like that, without a trace, except for the stink of disruptor energies that yet lingered in the still, hot air.

If he hadn't been buried under a collapsing interior wall during one of the heavier salvos, he probably would have been just as dead as the rest of them-just as untraceable. As it was, the concealing debris had probably saved his life. It had kept the lizard-beings from finding him and frying him like the others.

Harold s.h.i.+vered at the thought of the invaders. He had only caught a glimpse of them, but it had been enough. They were as cruel-looking, as cold-blooded, and as efficient as their fiery green beams. Like many of his comrades, he had screamed for them not to shoot. After all, there were women and children in the bunker.

But none of that made any difference to the lizard men. They had simply fired their weapons of destruction. And fired. And fired.

And where were they now? Had they left, their h.e.l.lish job accomplished? Or were they still here somewhere? Gazing across the plaza, Harold saw no evidence of them, only waves of s.h.i.+mmering desert heat. But then, it was difficult to trust his senses, what with all he had been through.

Steeling himself, he tried to pull his body forward again, in the direction of the ruined administration building. Maybe the communication system was still intact, he told himself. Maybe he could call for help, warn other colonies about the horror that had overcome them.

But as he inched ahead, a wave of nausea overtook him, and he started to dry-retch uncontrollably. Finally, spent, he looked up-hoping that he had made some progress toward the administration center, knowing full well that he hadn't.

Gritting his teeth, he took another stab at it. This time, movement came a little easier. He wasn't sure if that was a good sign or not, but he continued crawling. And, eventually, reached the debris that was all that remained of the administration building.

Setting his back against a partially destroyed wall, he took a burning breath and let it out. There was no communication equipment here. There wasn't anything at all, except a few twisted hunks of metal and some severed cables.

Then something caught his eye. Something moving across the plaza. His heart thudded in his chest. The invaders?

No. Not them, he realized. It was a handful of men in Starfleet uniforms. A landing party-a couple of them in gold s.h.i.+rts like his own, another one in the red s.h.i.+rt of operations, three more in the blue of science and medicine. And they were coming his way, as if they had spotted him and wanted to help.

Unless ... they were a mirage. They could have been, too. An illusion born of suffering and fever, of wanting and needing, aided and abetted by the blinding rays of the afternoon sun.

No. Illusions didn't talk. And he could hear these men talking, their words getting louder and louder, more and more distinct as they approached. Finally, they were right in front of him, and there was no doubt as to their authenticity. They were close enough now, and tangible enough, for him to see that one of them was a Vulcan.

Two of the men knelt beside him-a golds.h.i.+rt with captain's bars on his sleeve and a doctor. The physician pulled up one of Harold's eyelids as he activated his tricorder.

”Shock,” he announced. ”Radiation burns, internal injuries for certain. He's in a bad way, Captain.”

The other man frowned. ”Keep him alive, Bones. I want to know what's been happening here.”

Harold felt a pressure against his arm and heard a hiss. The doctor had given him something for the pain, he realized. He could feel himself getting woozy.

That's when the Vulcan spoke up. ”Getting another life reading, Captain.”

The golds.h.i.+rt stood. ”Survivors?”

”Not survivors,” the science officer corrected. ”Not warm-blooded. Living creatures. But not human.”

Harold could have told them that. He had seen the lizard-beings. He knew that they were anything but human.

”Where?” asked the captain.

The Vulcan consulted his instrument. ”Azimuth ninety-three degrees, range one-five-zero-seven yards.”

Nodding, the captain directed the reds.h.i.+rted security officer to move forward, to take a look around. The man's name was Hurlihy, apparently. Doing as he was told, he seemed to catch a glimpse of something in the distance.

Harold tried to tell him to get down, to watch out for the lizard men's disruptors. But he couldn't get the words out, just a rasping sound that barely got even the doctor's attention.

”Calm down, son,” said the medical man. ”Conserve your strength.”

”Captain,” said Hurlihy, ”I see something... .”

Suddenly, he was caught in a greenish aura. Turning the color of blood under the glow, the security officer grimaced and disappeared.

”My G.o.d,” breathed the doctor.

Then the ground around them erupted with bomb blasts. The captain opened his communicator. ”Kirk to Enterprise. Lock on transporters. Beam us up.”

Harold couldn't hear the response, but there seemed to be a problem. And then he realized what it was: the invaders' s.h.i.+p. It would be up there in orbit somewhere, attacking the Federation vessel, forcing whoever was in charge to defend himself.

”Keep those screens up,” commanded the one called Kirk. ”Fire all phasers.”