My friends, do
you remember the young Orion girl ? The one bound to be the prey of Hayes and
who ended mercifully passed out at the hands of a certain Captain of the Élite
Guard?
Here she is. She woke up and...
Here she is. She woke up and...
... what are they watching, her eyes, open wide in horror or, perhaps better, in terrorized wonder?
Are they perhaps beginning to glimpse, maybe without their owner being even remotely conscious of such a thing, the earthly concreteness of the...
Are they perhaps beginning to glimpse, maybe without their owner being even remotely conscious of such a thing, the earthly concreteness of the...
It may be, my friends, it may be. So, to satisfy your curiosity, here's to you
the ninth chapter of
the ninth chapter of
where, precisely, we speak... mh, no... we start talking of legends
And, on the other hand, what else can you expect if not legends from a fanfiction story?
Oh yeah, sure. Fanfiction.
Yeah yeah. Fanfiction.
Certainly.
Oh yeah, sure. Fanfiction.
Yeah yeah. Fanfiction.
Certainly.
Chapter Nine
Her head was spinning.
The young Orion female was incapable of realizing where she was, what was happening, what she was seeing. The nightmare that had clawed her had turned into a kaleidoscope of incomprehensible realities.
Hayes, yes, him she remembered well.
And his eyes of ice.
His voice, derisive and sharp, as he said to her what would be for her.
And of her being dragged in chains.
And... and of that man, the one whom her guard had called Captain.
And of the head of the guard, who had splashed away, severed by the weapon of that Captain.
The blood, squirting out upon her.
And the punch, sudden, of the Captain.
The dark.
And the re-emergence to consciousness, just to see ... to see...
That was Harrad-Sar. She could not be mistaken. The man, wounded, bleeding, panting, exhausted, who was before her, and was staring at her, looking dazed, it was him. The great Harrad-Sar. The guidance and light.
The legend.
Now true, real, tangible, in front of her.
But an awfully tattered legend, to watch him!
And who was that woman, that Vulcan, who was practically clinging to him as if everything depended on him? Everything, even she herself?
A Vulcan, who acted like that?
And a torn, bruised, dirty, Vulcan female, with her clothes in tatters, with eyes wide-open as... as a yawning chasm opened wide on fear and despair!
She! That young woman! A Vulcan female!
What could those eyes have seen, so horrible, so hard to endure, to push her to behave like that, so far away from everything that made the Vulcans - those damned people, who had given the Humans the strength and the power - what were they? Cold fishes in human form, without the slightest spurt of true life?
What? What had reduced her like this? What… - the fear, a nameless fear, seized the young Orion woman, a fear deeper, more intense, more chilling than she had felt before, because before she could not have such a sharp perception of what might have happened to her, in the hands of the Humans, in the hands of Hayes - … what had reduced like this... Harrad-Sar?
Harrad-Sar! HARRAD-SAR! The man who couldn't be wounded, nor touched, nor bent!
He, in this state!
Yes, her head was spinning, she did not understand, she was scared and confused.
But the kaleidoscope of disconcerting and ghastly realities that had sucked her into its phantasmagorical figures, gave her no respite, didn't allow her even to try to realize.
Gunshots, screams, coming from Temple inside.
Then, soldiers, dressed as soldiers of the Empire, emerging steeply from its portal; running toward them, looking back over their shoulders, toward the ajar Temple door.
And then, on the threshold, he, the Captain of the Guard elite, that Captain.
It was him. She was sure. It was him!
With his Lirpa in his hand.
The eyes of the young woman could not break away from him.
They followed him, step by step, in the suddenness and rapidity of his actions, as he closed, with force and with a crash, the Temple's door, strongly pushing the half closed leaf, until it beat against the other; as he turned on himself in a trice; as he rushed headlong down the stairs leading to the Temple, toward the outside, while shouting incomprehensible things.
The eyes of the Orion girl saw everything; they did not miss a thing.
Nothing.
Not even the sudden flash behind the man.
They saw him leap sideways and twist himself, as though blown by a terrible force.
Saw him rolling down the stairs.
Saw him fall to the ground and stop there, like plumb.
They saw the pool of blood that started to spread on the soil, under his body, stock-still and inert.
His whole body. Even… his chest.
Unable to bear that sight, the eyes of the girl broke away from the figure, motionless on the Temple square. With his Lirpa, motionless at his side.
They climbed back to the Temple.
Its great portal now was wide open, as it had never been.
A lot of soldiers were coming out from the inside, running between the two widened leaves. Only one appeared firm, right on the Temple door. One couldn't distinguish him well among the others who ran in a zig zag and intercrossed with each other ahead of him, but ... yes, it was a phaser, what he was holding in his hands and it seemed ... seemed that he was staring at the still figure bleeding on the pavement, as if he was watching the result of the fatal blow which his phaser had fired.
But the girl did not have time to figure out if her intuition was correct, because all hell broke loose.
The imperial soldiers started to shoot, against... against the other imperial soldiers, the ones who had come out of the Temple as firsts, and who now were all around her and Harrad-Sar, with his Vulcan companion. These began to return fire, some throwing themselves to the ground, trying to expose less of themselves to the fire of the other Imperial soldiers, who were far more numerous.
Much more.
The cross-fire of the weapons and the light of the blazes vividly illuminated everything.
The girl felt herself being yanked by her neck; she turned her head and saw that the guard who was holding her chain had fallen to the ground, hit by the enemy fire.
She was free, but did not even have time to realize it.
A voice beside her. A shout of pain.
Harrad-Sar! Struck, him too!
He was lying on the soil, and the Vulcan was bending over him, crouched on the ground; she was holding his head in her lap, between her hands; was calling him, aloud.
"Harrad-Sar! Harrad-Sar!"
His voice, hollow and weak. Stunted. While an acrid smell of burning flesh was rising from him.
"My... shoulder ..."
In that exact moment, another voice rose, strong and powerful. Harsh. Peremptory.
She knew very well this voice!
"Enough. The last worms still on this world, I want them alive. Catch them."
She could never forget that voice, even if she had lived a hundred times the lifespan of a Vulcan.
Her eyes snapped towards the Temple gate, to the man who was still erect and solitary in the midst of the leaves, behind the protective fire of the other soldiers.
She jumped up, as if looking for a better view.
She recognized the friezes on the helmet.
She shivered with terror.
The helpless aura of her useless hormones spread through the scorching air.
Yes, yes, yes! It was Hayes! It was him!
The young Orion female was incapable of realizing where she was, what was happening, what she was seeing. The nightmare that had clawed her had turned into a kaleidoscope of incomprehensible realities.
Hayes, yes, him she remembered well.
And his eyes of ice.
His voice, derisive and sharp, as he said to her what would be for her.
And of her being dragged in chains.
And... and of that man, the one whom her guard had called Captain.
And of the head of the guard, who had splashed away, severed by the weapon of that Captain.
The blood, squirting out upon her.
And the punch, sudden, of the Captain.
The dark.
And the re-emergence to consciousness, just to see ... to see...
That was Harrad-Sar. She could not be mistaken. The man, wounded, bleeding, panting, exhausted, who was before her, and was staring at her, looking dazed, it was him. The great Harrad-Sar. The guidance and light.
The legend.
Now true, real, tangible, in front of her.
But an awfully tattered legend, to watch him!
And who was that woman, that Vulcan, who was practically clinging to him as if everything depended on him? Everything, even she herself?
A Vulcan, who acted like that?
And a torn, bruised, dirty, Vulcan female, with her clothes in tatters, with eyes wide-open as... as a yawning chasm opened wide on fear and despair!
She! That young woman! A Vulcan female!
What could those eyes have seen, so horrible, so hard to endure, to push her to behave like that, so far away from everything that made the Vulcans - those damned people, who had given the Humans the strength and the power - what were they? Cold fishes in human form, without the slightest spurt of true life?
What? What had reduced her like this? What… - the fear, a nameless fear, seized the young Orion woman, a fear deeper, more intense, more chilling than she had felt before, because before she could not have such a sharp perception of what might have happened to her, in the hands of the Humans, in the hands of Hayes - … what had reduced like this... Harrad-Sar?
Harrad-Sar! HARRAD-SAR! The man who couldn't be wounded, nor touched, nor bent!
He, in this state!
Yes, her head was spinning, she did not understand, she was scared and confused.
But the kaleidoscope of disconcerting and ghastly realities that had sucked her into its phantasmagorical figures, gave her no respite, didn't allow her even to try to realize.
Gunshots, screams, coming from Temple inside.
Then, soldiers, dressed as soldiers of the Empire, emerging steeply from its portal; running toward them, looking back over their shoulders, toward the ajar Temple door.
And then, on the threshold, he, the Captain of the Guard elite, that Captain.
It was him. She was sure. It was him!
With his Lirpa in his hand.
The eyes of the young woman could not break away from him.
They followed him, step by step, in the suddenness and rapidity of his actions, as he closed, with force and with a crash, the Temple's door, strongly pushing the half closed leaf, until it beat against the other; as he turned on himself in a trice; as he rushed headlong down the stairs leading to the Temple, toward the outside, while shouting incomprehensible things.
The eyes of the Orion girl saw everything; they did not miss a thing.
Nothing.
Not even the sudden flash behind the man.
They saw him leap sideways and twist himself, as though blown by a terrible force.
Saw him rolling down the stairs.
Saw him fall to the ground and stop there, like plumb.
They saw the pool of blood that started to spread on the soil, under his body, stock-still and inert.
His whole body. Even… his chest.
Unable to bear that sight, the eyes of the girl broke away from the figure, motionless on the Temple square. With his Lirpa, motionless at his side.
They climbed back to the Temple.
Its great portal now was wide open, as it had never been.
A lot of soldiers were coming out from the inside, running between the two widened leaves. Only one appeared firm, right on the Temple door. One couldn't distinguish him well among the others who ran in a zig zag and intercrossed with each other ahead of him, but ... yes, it was a phaser, what he was holding in his hands and it seemed ... seemed that he was staring at the still figure bleeding on the pavement, as if he was watching the result of the fatal blow which his phaser had fired.
But the girl did not have time to figure out if her intuition was correct, because all hell broke loose.
The imperial soldiers started to shoot, against... against the other imperial soldiers, the ones who had come out of the Temple as firsts, and who now were all around her and Harrad-Sar, with his Vulcan companion. These began to return fire, some throwing themselves to the ground, trying to expose less of themselves to the fire of the other Imperial soldiers, who were far more numerous.
Much more.
The cross-fire of the weapons and the light of the blazes vividly illuminated everything.
The girl felt herself being yanked by her neck; she turned her head and saw that the guard who was holding her chain had fallen to the ground, hit by the enemy fire.
She was free, but did not even have time to realize it.
A voice beside her. A shout of pain.
Harrad-Sar! Struck, him too!
He was lying on the soil, and the Vulcan was bending over him, crouched on the ground; she was holding his head in her lap, between her hands; was calling him, aloud.
"Harrad-Sar! Harrad-Sar!"
His voice, hollow and weak. Stunted. While an acrid smell of burning flesh was rising from him.
"My... shoulder ..."
In that exact moment, another voice rose, strong and powerful. Harsh. Peremptory.
She knew very well this voice!
"Enough. The last worms still on this world, I want them alive. Catch them."
She could never forget that voice, even if she had lived a hundred times the lifespan of a Vulcan.
Her eyes snapped towards the Temple gate, to the man who was still erect and solitary in the midst of the leaves, behind the protective fire of the other soldiers.
She jumped up, as if looking for a better view.
She recognized the friezes on the helmet.
She shivered with terror.
The helpless aura of her useless hormones spread through the scorching air.
Yes, yes, yes! It was Hayes! It was him!
He had hit him. Whoever it was that damn man, that unknown enemy,
with the uniform and the bars of a Captain of the Élite Guard and with
that strange Lirpa in his hands, who had suddenly materialized at the
head of a handful of worms, dressed as imperial soldiers and had
unexpectedly come to Harrad-Sar's aid, he had hit him.
And deadly, it seemed.
With cold satisfaction, Hayes had seen the man roll down along the temple steps, to knock down against the ground, remaining at last lying on the soil, motionless in a pool of blood.
Hayes had not bothered to give orders to his men. They knew what to do and how to act, but his sharp eyes and probing, able to capture and analyze in a heartbeat even the smallest detail and elusive, had caught in a flash the scene that had appeared to them out of the temple, far different from what they were supposed to see.
Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan woman, well, yes, this was obvious, as well as the Orion girl.
What was not obvious, what had not been foreseen, was that, to sustain the chain of the girl, it was not the man he had left on guard, but another man, wearing, yes, the same uniform of the other, but with decidedly superior size, and that his soldier, the one who was supposed to guard the girl and inform them of whatever was happening, was lying on the ground in a lake of blood.
Headless.
*Headless!*
This realization struck Hayes with the force of a hammer, as his eyes darted over the helmet smeared by blood, laying on the parvis and hiding the head of his man, detached from its neck.
A part of his brain began to ruminate frantically, while another part followed the destructive action of his men, and a further part was careful to take every possible reaction of the enemies that could harm him.
They had been suddenly attacked by unknown men.
As it had happened when the Empress had wanted to show everyone and everywhere the end that she wanted to reserve for T'Pol.
It was highly unlikely, almost impossible, that there was more than one breed, sect or whatever it was, able to plan and engage in command actions, so risky and well organized.
As the one to the rescue of T'Pol and the one to the rescue of Harrad-Sar.
Conclusion? The origin of the two rescue expeditions was, with the highest probability, not to say with absolute certainty, the same. In both cases it involved the same enemy. For what purpose? Hard to tell, but one thing was certain: purloining that Vulcan bitch from the revenge of the Empress, in the middle of the "ceremony" which was to consecrate once and for all and forever her power, by showing to all what was the end of those who would dare to defy her and the Empire, had had a destructive effect, and it had needed a hard and difficult work, to regain what had been lost.
Similarly, retrieving Harrad-Sar, just as he was about to be captured and delivered into the hands of the Empress; just when the Empire was showing its strength to the whole universe, by destroying once and for all and forever the latest outbreak of revolt remained, indeed the source itself, the very origin of the revolt; and retrieving him in his own homeland, just while this country was falling to pieces under the blows of the Empire; him, the flag, the symbol, the emblem of the revolt ... well this, if it had been done, would have an even more destructive effect. New outbreaks of revolt would be turned on everywhere, because the subject peoples would have proof that someone, some unknown enemy of the Empire, was able to conduct victorious military actions against it, and the Empire, however strong and powerful and well organized and equipped with the new and extremely mighty weapons, could not be everywhere, without forgetting that there still were the few forces remained loyal to the old Emperor, who could take advantage of the situation.
Okay, everything was hanging together, everything made sense. But what need to act this way? And why ... - The brain of Hayes continued briskly to unravel the tangle of his reasonings. - … why his soldier…?
Hayes narrowed his eyes in the effort to put in its place the last piece, the one he felt he still lacked.
His soldier had been beheaded.
As Reed.
A Lirpa, if well used, could easily remove the head of a man from his body at a single stroke.
As the one the would-be Captain of the Élite Guard had held in his hands.
Hayes's eyes widened in final understanding.
That Captain, the one who had led the unknown intruders in the attempted rescue of Harrad-Sar, perhaps, indeed for sure, had also been the Commandant of the rescue expedition of T'Pol. The unknown enemy who had so graciously put an end to the days of Reed could be, indeed certainly was, the same who had deprived the soldier of the housing of his thoughts.
He, in both cases, had left his mark.
His brand of fear.
"Be careful, mind you. Look to your head.". This was the message of those severed heads, and this was the strategy - yes, the strategy - of the unknown enemy: a strategy of terror.
Yes, undoubtedly there was the same hand behind the two rescue actions, and this hand was guided by a brain that was following a clear strategy. Maybe its "body" did not have the forces and means to fight the Empire in the open field, or maybe it was unsure that an open war could have been resolved in a victory, maybe it feared defeat. But then... if you can not or do not want to knock down your enemy with a well-aimed punch to his face, well ... in this case, work at his ribs. Sap him, take away energies from him.
Strike terror in him.
By showing him how his head could end up.
And eventually he will yield.
If things were this way, and all suggested it was so, there was only one way to win out over such an enemy. Tracking down him, unearthing him and tackling him at his own home. The best defence is offense, history teaches. But to do this, it was necessary to have data, it was needed to have someone who, maybe "gently" asked, could provide useful information to track down this enemy, and, possibly, helpful details about its strengths, its organization, its logistics... its real strategy.
All information, that only someone high enough in the chain of command of this enemy, could possess.
Someone like that self-styled Captain of the Élite Guard.
If he was, as it was logical to think, the same officer who had led both enemy actions, he must have been a Commandant damn good, damn capable, regardless of whether the last action went badly for him. It was even rational and plausible to think that he might be the deviser of both actions, the inspirer, somehow, of the strategy lying behind them. It is not uncommon that commando actions are conducted in the first person by those who have devised them. These actions are not infrequently carried out also in order to test the validity of a certain strategic line, line that, almost always, was born in the brain of their designer. In practice, the responsibility of the proof of the merits or otherwise of this strategic line is left entirely to him. Glory to him, if he is successful. Nothing lost, if he fails. Nothing, but him.
So, that unknown Commandant had to know, necessarily, a lot of things about the enemy.
Useful, highly useful things.
And he, Hayes, had killed him!
Hayes clenched convulsively his phaser, in a dumb rage, as punched mentally himself. If he had discovered that one of his subordinates had made a mistake serious even just a quarter of that made by him, he would have locked his man in the pain machine invented by Reed and would throw away the key.
But how the hell could he have been such an idiot? How could he have let anger, at having been surprised in that way, overwhelm him to the point to shoot that bastard with intent to kill, when, to prevent his escape and any other devilment he was going to orchestrate with those strange cries turned to whom knows whom, it would have been enough scything his legs, just to make an example?
But no! Stupid, stupid man! No! He had shot to kill, and his unerring aim had not betrayed him. No, damnit! Had not at all betrayed him!
He breathed deeply, trying to calm down. What had been done, had been done, no point in crying over spilled milk.
He concentrated his attention on the battle that was taking place in the parvis. The few moments that he had used to develop the thread of his reasonings and to come to his not precisely satisfactory conclusions, had been enough to his men to get the better of their enemies. Of course, that hadn't happened without having to pay the price. Not a few of his soldiers lay lifeless on the ground, but their number and their training were too superior. Only two of the hostile soldiers were still standing, firing their last futile shots, and, in a second, they would have reached their companions, with their damned Commandant, in a better world. Or worse.
Unless...
Hayes kicked himself mentally for the second time in that short amount of time. What the hell? Was there something in the air of that planet, which made his brain numb?
Why the heck would he have to let his men kill all the enemies? Sure, it was unlikely that those two enemy soldiers were in possession of information as useful as those that certainly had been in the head of their dead Captain, but some helpful and significant data, well, they could still deliver. Not to mention that if, once back, victorious, he had presented to the Empress, and especially to her Gigolo, the fruit of his ruminations, together with the possible means to track down the unknown enemy, or at least, to have some useful information about him, whereas previously there was only a groping in the dark, that is to say those two enemy soldiers, certainly not despicable seasoning to the main course consisting of Harrad-Sar... well, who ever would be able to hinder his ascent? That dirty, but far from unpleasant, Vulcan female who had been caught together with Harrad-Sar and that young Orion girl, would even have been, the one along with the other, a very small thing in comparison to what he would be able to ask and obtain.
And to hell with Corporal Cole, and her eyes full of sadness and reproach!
*Come on! Before it's too late.*
His voice rose up strong and powerful. Harsh. Peremptory.
"Enough. The last worms still on this world, I want them alive. Catch them."
And deadly, it seemed.
With cold satisfaction, Hayes had seen the man roll down along the temple steps, to knock down against the ground, remaining at last lying on the soil, motionless in a pool of blood.
Hayes had not bothered to give orders to his men. They knew what to do and how to act, but his sharp eyes and probing, able to capture and analyze in a heartbeat even the smallest detail and elusive, had caught in a flash the scene that had appeared to them out of the temple, far different from what they were supposed to see.
Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan woman, well, yes, this was obvious, as well as the Orion girl.
What was not obvious, what had not been foreseen, was that, to sustain the chain of the girl, it was not the man he had left on guard, but another man, wearing, yes, the same uniform of the other, but with decidedly superior size, and that his soldier, the one who was supposed to guard the girl and inform them of whatever was happening, was lying on the ground in a lake of blood.
Headless.
*Headless!*
This realization struck Hayes with the force of a hammer, as his eyes darted over the helmet smeared by blood, laying on the parvis and hiding the head of his man, detached from its neck.
A part of his brain began to ruminate frantically, while another part followed the destructive action of his men, and a further part was careful to take every possible reaction of the enemies that could harm him.
They had been suddenly attacked by unknown men.
As it had happened when the Empress had wanted to show everyone and everywhere the end that she wanted to reserve for T'Pol.
It was highly unlikely, almost impossible, that there was more than one breed, sect or whatever it was, able to plan and engage in command actions, so risky and well organized.
As the one to the rescue of T'Pol and the one to the rescue of Harrad-Sar.
Conclusion? The origin of the two rescue expeditions was, with the highest probability, not to say with absolute certainty, the same. In both cases it involved the same enemy. For what purpose? Hard to tell, but one thing was certain: purloining that Vulcan bitch from the revenge of the Empress, in the middle of the "ceremony" which was to consecrate once and for all and forever her power, by showing to all what was the end of those who would dare to defy her and the Empire, had had a destructive effect, and it had needed a hard and difficult work, to regain what had been lost.
Similarly, retrieving Harrad-Sar, just as he was about to be captured and delivered into the hands of the Empress; just when the Empire was showing its strength to the whole universe, by destroying once and for all and forever the latest outbreak of revolt remained, indeed the source itself, the very origin of the revolt; and retrieving him in his own homeland, just while this country was falling to pieces under the blows of the Empire; him, the flag, the symbol, the emblem of the revolt ... well this, if it had been done, would have an even more destructive effect. New outbreaks of revolt would be turned on everywhere, because the subject peoples would have proof that someone, some unknown enemy of the Empire, was able to conduct victorious military actions against it, and the Empire, however strong and powerful and well organized and equipped with the new and extremely mighty weapons, could not be everywhere, without forgetting that there still were the few forces remained loyal to the old Emperor, who could take advantage of the situation.
Okay, everything was hanging together, everything made sense. But what need to act this way? And why ... - The brain of Hayes continued briskly to unravel the tangle of his reasonings. - … why his soldier…?
Hayes narrowed his eyes in the effort to put in its place the last piece, the one he felt he still lacked.
His soldier had been beheaded.
As Reed.
A Lirpa, if well used, could easily remove the head of a man from his body at a single stroke.
As the one the would-be Captain of the Élite Guard had held in his hands.
Hayes's eyes widened in final understanding.
That Captain, the one who had led the unknown intruders in the attempted rescue of Harrad-Sar, perhaps, indeed for sure, had also been the Commandant of the rescue expedition of T'Pol. The unknown enemy who had so graciously put an end to the days of Reed could be, indeed certainly was, the same who had deprived the soldier of the housing of his thoughts.
He, in both cases, had left his mark.
His brand of fear.
"Be careful, mind you. Look to your head.". This was the message of those severed heads, and this was the strategy - yes, the strategy - of the unknown enemy: a strategy of terror.
Yes, undoubtedly there was the same hand behind the two rescue actions, and this hand was guided by a brain that was following a clear strategy. Maybe its "body" did not have the forces and means to fight the Empire in the open field, or maybe it was unsure that an open war could have been resolved in a victory, maybe it feared defeat. But then... if you can not or do not want to knock down your enemy with a well-aimed punch to his face, well ... in this case, work at his ribs. Sap him, take away energies from him.
Strike terror in him.
By showing him how his head could end up.
And eventually he will yield.
If things were this way, and all suggested it was so, there was only one way to win out over such an enemy. Tracking down him, unearthing him and tackling him at his own home. The best defence is offense, history teaches. But to do this, it was necessary to have data, it was needed to have someone who, maybe "gently" asked, could provide useful information to track down this enemy, and, possibly, helpful details about its strengths, its organization, its logistics... its real strategy.
All information, that only someone high enough in the chain of command of this enemy, could possess.
Someone like that self-styled Captain of the Élite Guard.
If he was, as it was logical to think, the same officer who had led both enemy actions, he must have been a Commandant damn good, damn capable, regardless of whether the last action went badly for him. It was even rational and plausible to think that he might be the deviser of both actions, the inspirer, somehow, of the strategy lying behind them. It is not uncommon that commando actions are conducted in the first person by those who have devised them. These actions are not infrequently carried out also in order to test the validity of a certain strategic line, line that, almost always, was born in the brain of their designer. In practice, the responsibility of the proof of the merits or otherwise of this strategic line is left entirely to him. Glory to him, if he is successful. Nothing lost, if he fails. Nothing, but him.
So, that unknown Commandant had to know, necessarily, a lot of things about the enemy.
Useful, highly useful things.
And he, Hayes, had killed him!
Hayes clenched convulsively his phaser, in a dumb rage, as punched mentally himself. If he had discovered that one of his subordinates had made a mistake serious even just a quarter of that made by him, he would have locked his man in the pain machine invented by Reed and would throw away the key.
But how the hell could he have been such an idiot? How could he have let anger, at having been surprised in that way, overwhelm him to the point to shoot that bastard with intent to kill, when, to prevent his escape and any other devilment he was going to orchestrate with those strange cries turned to whom knows whom, it would have been enough scything his legs, just to make an example?
But no! Stupid, stupid man! No! He had shot to kill, and his unerring aim had not betrayed him. No, damnit! Had not at all betrayed him!
He breathed deeply, trying to calm down. What had been done, had been done, no point in crying over spilled milk.
He concentrated his attention on the battle that was taking place in the parvis. The few moments that he had used to develop the thread of his reasonings and to come to his not precisely satisfactory conclusions, had been enough to his men to get the better of their enemies. Of course, that hadn't happened without having to pay the price. Not a few of his soldiers lay lifeless on the ground, but their number and their training were too superior. Only two of the hostile soldiers were still standing, firing their last futile shots, and, in a second, they would have reached their companions, with their damned Commandant, in a better world. Or worse.
Unless...
Hayes kicked himself mentally for the second time in that short amount of time. What the hell? Was there something in the air of that planet, which made his brain numb?
Why the heck would he have to let his men kill all the enemies? Sure, it was unlikely that those two enemy soldiers were in possession of information as useful as those that certainly had been in the head of their dead Captain, but some helpful and significant data, well, they could still deliver. Not to mention that if, once back, victorious, he had presented to the Empress, and especially to her Gigolo, the fruit of his ruminations, together with the possible means to track down the unknown enemy, or at least, to have some useful information about him, whereas previously there was only a groping in the dark, that is to say those two enemy soldiers, certainly not despicable seasoning to the main course consisting of Harrad-Sar... well, who ever would be able to hinder his ascent? That dirty, but far from unpleasant, Vulcan female who had been caught together with Harrad-Sar and that young Orion girl, would even have been, the one along with the other, a very small thing in comparison to what he would be able to ask and obtain.
And to hell with Corporal Cole, and her eyes full of sadness and reproach!
*Come on! Before it's too late.*
His voice rose up strong and powerful. Harsh. Peremptory.
"Enough. The last worms still on this world, I want them alive. Catch them."
Phlox no longer knew what to do.
He was watching T'Pol, sitting inert on the floor with her back against the wall, her arms lying absolutely limp at her sides, the hospital gown all disarrayed around her body and pulled up, until to discover the thighs, her legs folded beneath her.
He was watching her.
Was watching her face as blank as a sheet, her mouth now closed and colourless, her eyes wide open and glassy, that saw nothing.
He was staring at her.
And was sweating.
In the despair.
In the helplessness.
And in fear.
But it was not only the fear for what was happening, that he did not know how to deal with, that would end up to break up T'Pol and that, consequently, would end up to break up him too, when he would have give account of that.
It was something different.
He had never seen T'Pol in this state and would have never thought to see her that way. Even when Tucker, the "General" Tucker, had shown her to him in the conditions in which she had been reduced by her unequal fight in the cage of horror in which she had been locked up, not even at that moment had he experienced such an impression.
This was a T'Pol that was beyond the sphere of existence that was fitting for her.
And was a T'Pol that frightened him, much more than the cold and stainless T'Pol he had been accustomed to dealing with.
And this fear, this invincible sense of unreality, paralyzed him.
It was something that went beyond the pre-established order of things, it was not ... was not fair. Exactly so. It was not fair. T'Pol would be gone thus, broken by the last, supreme injustice of an unjust world, by a Bond with a Human, with one of the worst exponents of the breed that had oppressed her, her people and all peoples who fell under its yoke.
Or, perhaps, a strange, bizarre sort of justice, the only form of pitiless justice that there could be in this wicked world, there was, in what was happening. She should have paid so, in this way, unnatural and abhorrent for her, the penalty of what the breed to which she belonged had done, allowing Humans to become the masters of space.
Phlox could not understand how such ideas were able to make their way into his brain, or, perhaps, in part, he could, despite what he was, what he had become. Perhaps, in what was happening, he felt the end of what could have been a possible spark of light in this dark world.
And this hurt, made him think, even in the situation in which he was standing; indeed, in some ways, made the situation even harder to bear.
But what was happening to him? What the hell was happening to him? And yet this, this odd mixture of such unusual thoughts and perhaps because of this even more able to increase his fear, were stirring in the mind of Phlox, while he was watching T'Pol, as he was waiting, helpless, for it to happen.
And lastly, it happened.
Suddenly, the Vulcan narrowed her eyes. She tightened them. She stiffened throughout, holding her breath and clenching her fists, her wan lips convulsively tight against each other. One could clearly hear her grit her teeth.
Phlox stiffened in turn, sweating like a pig.
Here! It was about to happen! T'Pol was going... to crack!
Phlox closed his eyes, he too, his fists clenched, as T'Pol.
He knew he was not mistaken. He knew well, as everyone on the ship of which he had been part, that Tucker was the one, as much as this might seem incredible, that T'Pol had chosen to satisfy her needs and desires; but the fact was that, although even stranger, even more absurd, even more unthinkable this could appear, he now knew, with full evidence, that from this unimaginable attraction a Bond had get formed between Tucker and T'Pol, a Vulcan-type Bond, a Bond of those that the Vulcans whispered, reluctantly, could occur, in the ancient times, between two Vulcans, a male and a female, destined to be one.
One. To the point that the death of the one would lead to the death of the other.
Between Tucker and T'Pol had been formed a Bond of legend.
And the legend, the tragic legend, was now going to be fully turned into a tragic reality.
If, before, Phlox could have nourished a few doubts, now he could no longer have any. The very thing that was happening in front of him was evident proof.
Tucker had departed, he didn't know why and to do what, but certainly had not gone to pick peanuts.
And he was dead.
And now T'Pol was dying with him.
And... cursed Tucker! Cursed T'Pol! Cursed the Humans, and the Vulcans, and the whole Universe!... he, too, Phlox, would die, because it mattered little that Tucker couldn't keep his promise to make him pay dearly if he had failed to heal T'Pol completely. He, Phlox, would remain alone at the mercy of the strange and unknown people Tucker had made cahoots. And what need had those Aliens of him? What the hell would they would make of him? They would have thrown him in the trash!
Cursed them! Cursed the world! Cursed his cursed fate!
Phlox slumped on the floor, contemplating his doom, his eyes still closed, with, in the ears, the harsh sound of the rough breathing of T'Pol.
Rough?
Rough?
It was not rough!
Not daring to believe what he heard, Phlox gasped, tense in the most extreme attention, with his eyes always closed, as afraid to open up and realize that what they would see wouldn't correspond with what the ears were hearing.
But no. NO! He was not deceiving himself! T'Pol's breathing had changed. It had regularized, had become calm, rhythmic, quiet.
His agitation had prevented him from realizing it before, but it was so.
Phlox snapped open his eyes and looked at the Vulcan from his position on the floor. In that way she was exactly in front of him, at the same level.
She was still sitting on the floor, in fact, with her back against the wall, but had changed her position and now looked anything but broken.
She had crossed her legs, totally oblivious that they appeared entirely exposed from the edge of the hospital gown, had rested her arms on her knees, with the tips of the index and thumb of each hand together, and the remaining fingers slightly flexed.
She stood well upright with her back.
Her visage was facing forward.
Her features had relaxed.
And her expression had changed completely.
It was calm.
And intent.
Incredibly intent.
With eyes closed.
With the mouth that opened and closed, lightly, rhythmically, in one with the pace of her breathing, to utter words almost inaudible, so much they were spoken softly.
He was watching T'Pol, sitting inert on the floor with her back against the wall, her arms lying absolutely limp at her sides, the hospital gown all disarrayed around her body and pulled up, until to discover the thighs, her legs folded beneath her.
He was watching her.
Was watching her face as blank as a sheet, her mouth now closed and colourless, her eyes wide open and glassy, that saw nothing.
He was staring at her.
And was sweating.
In the despair.
In the helplessness.
And in fear.
But it was not only the fear for what was happening, that he did not know how to deal with, that would end up to break up T'Pol and that, consequently, would end up to break up him too, when he would have give account of that.
It was something different.
He had never seen T'Pol in this state and would have never thought to see her that way. Even when Tucker, the "General" Tucker, had shown her to him in the conditions in which she had been reduced by her unequal fight in the cage of horror in which she had been locked up, not even at that moment had he experienced such an impression.
This was a T'Pol that was beyond the sphere of existence that was fitting for her.
And was a T'Pol that frightened him, much more than the cold and stainless T'Pol he had been accustomed to dealing with.
And this fear, this invincible sense of unreality, paralyzed him.
It was something that went beyond the pre-established order of things, it was not ... was not fair. Exactly so. It was not fair. T'Pol would be gone thus, broken by the last, supreme injustice of an unjust world, by a Bond with a Human, with one of the worst exponents of the breed that had oppressed her, her people and all peoples who fell under its yoke.
Or, perhaps, a strange, bizarre sort of justice, the only form of pitiless justice that there could be in this wicked world, there was, in what was happening. She should have paid so, in this way, unnatural and abhorrent for her, the penalty of what the breed to which she belonged had done, allowing Humans to become the masters of space.
Phlox could not understand how such ideas were able to make their way into his brain, or, perhaps, in part, he could, despite what he was, what he had become. Perhaps, in what was happening, he felt the end of what could have been a possible spark of light in this dark world.
And this hurt, made him think, even in the situation in which he was standing; indeed, in some ways, made the situation even harder to bear.
But what was happening to him? What the hell was happening to him? And yet this, this odd mixture of such unusual thoughts and perhaps because of this even more able to increase his fear, were stirring in the mind of Phlox, while he was watching T'Pol, as he was waiting, helpless, for it to happen.
And lastly, it happened.
Suddenly, the Vulcan narrowed her eyes. She tightened them. She stiffened throughout, holding her breath and clenching her fists, her wan lips convulsively tight against each other. One could clearly hear her grit her teeth.
Phlox stiffened in turn, sweating like a pig.
Here! It was about to happen! T'Pol was going... to crack!
Phlox closed his eyes, he too, his fists clenched, as T'Pol.
He knew he was not mistaken. He knew well, as everyone on the ship of which he had been part, that Tucker was the one, as much as this might seem incredible, that T'Pol had chosen to satisfy her needs and desires; but the fact was that, although even stranger, even more absurd, even more unthinkable this could appear, he now knew, with full evidence, that from this unimaginable attraction a Bond had get formed between Tucker and T'Pol, a Vulcan-type Bond, a Bond of those that the Vulcans whispered, reluctantly, could occur, in the ancient times, between two Vulcans, a male and a female, destined to be one.
One. To the point that the death of the one would lead to the death of the other.
Between Tucker and T'Pol had been formed a Bond of legend.
And the legend, the tragic legend, was now going to be fully turned into a tragic reality.
If, before, Phlox could have nourished a few doubts, now he could no longer have any. The very thing that was happening in front of him was evident proof.
Tucker had departed, he didn't know why and to do what, but certainly had not gone to pick peanuts.
And he was dead.
And now T'Pol was dying with him.
And... cursed Tucker! Cursed T'Pol! Cursed the Humans, and the Vulcans, and the whole Universe!... he, too, Phlox, would die, because it mattered little that Tucker couldn't keep his promise to make him pay dearly if he had failed to heal T'Pol completely. He, Phlox, would remain alone at the mercy of the strange and unknown people Tucker had made cahoots. And what need had those Aliens of him? What the hell would they would make of him? They would have thrown him in the trash!
Cursed them! Cursed the world! Cursed his cursed fate!
Phlox slumped on the floor, contemplating his doom, his eyes still closed, with, in the ears, the harsh sound of the rough breathing of T'Pol.
Rough?
Rough?
It was not rough!
Not daring to believe what he heard, Phlox gasped, tense in the most extreme attention, with his eyes always closed, as afraid to open up and realize that what they would see wouldn't correspond with what the ears were hearing.
But no. NO! He was not deceiving himself! T'Pol's breathing had changed. It had regularized, had become calm, rhythmic, quiet.
His agitation had prevented him from realizing it before, but it was so.
Phlox snapped open his eyes and looked at the Vulcan from his position on the floor. In that way she was exactly in front of him, at the same level.
She was still sitting on the floor, in fact, with her back against the wall, but had changed her position and now looked anything but broken.
She had crossed her legs, totally oblivious that they appeared entirely exposed from the edge of the hospital gown, had rested her arms on her knees, with the tips of the index and thumb of each hand together, and the remaining fingers slightly flexed.
She stood well upright with her back.
Her visage was facing forward.
Her features had relaxed.
And her expression had changed completely.
It was calm.
And intent.
Incredibly intent.
With eyes closed.
With the mouth that opened and closed, lightly, rhythmically, in one with the pace of her breathing, to utter words almost inaudible, so much they were spoken softly.
Without getting up, Phlox leaned well forward, resting on the floor with his hands.
His face was now only a short distance from that of T'Pol, slightly lower down, his eyes fixed on her mouth, from below upwards, as if to pull out of it the sound of the words she was saying.
He now could pick them out.
Was not English.
It was a language that he and a few other non-Vulcans knew.
Was High Vulcan.
Phlox listened attentively to those words.
They were always the same, rhythmically repeated in the same tone, in the same cadence, in the same sequence, at the rhythm of the breathing of T'Pol.
One breath, one word. One word, one breath.
An inspiration, an exhalation along with a word. An inspiration, an exhalation along with a word…
And so on. Without rest. Without end. Monotonously. Without ever stopping a single moment.
In an unremitting, steady, mesmerizing, hypnotic mantra.
"Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou…"
His face was now only a short distance from that of T'Pol, slightly lower down, his eyes fixed on her mouth, from below upwards, as if to pull out of it the sound of the words she was saying.
He now could pick them out.
Was not English.
It was a language that he and a few other non-Vulcans knew.
Was High Vulcan.
Phlox listened attentively to those words.
They were always the same, rhythmically repeated in the same tone, in the same cadence, in the same sequence, at the rhythm of the breathing of T'Pol.
One breath, one word. One word, one breath.
An inspiration, an exhalation along with a word. An inspiration, an exhalation along with a word…
And so on. Without rest. Without end. Monotonously. Without ever stopping a single moment.
In an unremitting, steady, mesmerizing, hypnotic mantra.
"Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou…"
End of chapter Nine
"Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou…"
But what kind of words are ever these ones? What is T'Pol doing? What? WHAT!?!
Is it not, by chance, that she is doing... she is doing...?
Is she trying, possibly, to steal away from the darkness...?
Whom, my friends? WHOM?
Is it not, by chance, that she is doing... she is doing...?
Is she trying, possibly, to steal away from the darkness...?
Whom, my friends? WHOM?
Legends. LEGENDS! Nothing but legends.
But it is worth to know these legends, do not you believe, my friends?
Yes? So then a tiny bit of patience and you'll know what legends can do, when they find a woman capable of turning them int reality.
You'll know.
You'll know what is desperation.
The desperation of a woman in love who does not know she's in love.
And you'll know what is hope.
The desperate hope.
The hope of a woman desperately in love.
And the Hope of an Empire.
But it is worth to know these legends, do not you believe, my friends?
Yes? So then a tiny bit of patience and you'll know what legends can do, when they find a woman capable of turning them int reality.
You'll know.
You'll know what is desperation.
The desperation of a woman in love who does not know she's in love.
And you'll know what is hope.
The desperate hope.
The hope of a woman desperately in love.
And the Hope of an Empire.
___________________________________________
COPYRIGHT 2013 © Asso - [email protected]
COPYRIGHT 2013 © Asso - [email protected]