Текст книги "Summon the Thunder"

Автор книги: Dayton Ward

Соавторы: Kevin Dilmore
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Текущая страница: 15 (всего у книги 30 страниц)

26

Morqla’s eyes snapped open and he sat up on the hard shelf that served as his bed. Every muscle tensed and every sense strained to detect the presence of whatever it was that had disturbed his already fitful slumber.

“What?” he blurted, though of course there was no one in the room to answer the question.

The low rumbling seemed to reverberate through everything around him, emanating from the stone floor and continuing up along the coarse, dark walls that formed the simple, unassuming chamber he had chosen as his private quarters. It was only a slight vibration, and had he not been a habitual light sleeper Morqla might well not have noticed it at all. Had he been aboard ship, the governor would almost certainly have dismissed the subdued murmur as the characteristic drone of powerful warp engines.

Here, however, where the native inhabitants were still centuries away from developing even the most primitive forms of mechanization, the odd thrumming sound was as alien to this planet as he was.

Rising to his feet, Morqla paused long enough to retrieve his disruptor pistol and his d’k tahgknife from the small bureau situated next to his sleeping platform. He stepped into the hall, having to duck in order to pass through the doorway designed with the shorter Palgrenai physiology in mind. The low rumble was somewhat louder here, and more evident in the cold stone floor beneath his bare feet. He was satisfied to see that in addition to the sentries posted at each end of the narrow corridor, other officers under his command had exited their own rooms, and he noted his own expression mirrored on the other eight faces, each of his men regarding him and one another with puzzlement.

“Where is that coming from?” Morqla snapped as he tucked the d’k tahginto the waistband of the loose-fitting trousers he wore. Securing the knife at the small of his back and tucking the tail of his rough-hewn shirt behind the weapon’s handle, he ensured he could reach it without having to fumble with his own clothing.

His second-in-command, Kertral, emerged from his own room with disruptor in hand, shirtless and with his dark, long hair flying wildly about his head and shoulders as he turned to face him. “It feels as though it comes from underneath us,” he said. “Has Terath finally succeeded in activating that ancient power generator?”

“At this hour of the night?” Morqla asked, doubt coating every word. While he knew Dr. Terath was dedicated to her pursuit of science, he also had seen her during the evening meal and knew from her own comments that the scientist had planned to retire soon after eating. Her intention had been to rise before dawn so that she and her team could journey some three thousand qelI’qamsto the far side of the continent in order to explore another recently discovered storehouse of centuries-old artifacts, which appeared to be of the same type as those she had been studying these past weeks.

Still, the governor realized, the activation of some ancient power source far beneath the surface of the village made the most sense. All that remained now was to discover who was responsible. Common sense told Morqla it had to be a member of Terath’s science contingent. They had tended to work at all hours of the day or night, never bothering to observe the curfew rules enacted for the village. Their casual dismissal of that and other directives he had enacted since the garrison’s arrival here had given Morqla cause for annoyance more than once.

“Find Terath,” he snapped at Kertral. “Bring her to me.” Now fully awake with no hope of returning to sleep before the new day began, Morqla grunted in resignation. The desk in his office was littered with incomplete status reports, supply requisitions, and other administrative detritus that defined the role and life of a planetary governor, the majority of which he had ignored for days already. There seemed to be no compelling reason to put it off any longer now that he had an unexpected window of opportunity to make an attempt at gaining back some of that ground. “And send me K’voq,” he added as he turned on his heel and lumbered down the narrow, low-ceilinged passageway. “I’m going to need rakta-jino.”

It likely was going to be one of thosedays.

Running footsteps echoing in the stone stairwell preceded the arrival of his aide, K’voq, even his trim form seeming to fill the narrow archway leading to the steps as he dashed into the corridor. He pulled up short at the sudden sight of his superior officer, his eyes wide with unease.

“Governor,” he said, holding up a communicator, “we’re starting to receive reports of disturbances from several of the neighboring villages.”

His brow furrowing in confusion, Morqla’s reply was more growl than spoken word. “What?”

“Fires have been set in many buildings that our forces have occupied,” the aide continued. “The jeghpu’wI’are employing catapults to launch balls of lead coated in a flaming oil. Lieutenant Vekpa reports that the supply depot we established at the Grap’hwuprovince has been destroyed.”

Despite the alarming nature of K’voq’s report, Morqla actually smiled. “So, it seems the jeghpu’wI’have gained a new measure of courage.” Taking the proffered communicator from his assistant, he made his way down the stairs and outside the building that had been commandeered for use as officers’ billeting. He noted that even at this early hour, the air was still thick and humid in keeping with this hemisphere’s near-oppressive summer season.

His attention was drawn to the flames licking the edges of the building at the opposite end of the village’s center square. A hole was visible in the thatch material that covered the structure’s sloped roof. Groups of Palgrenai had emerged from a few of the surrounding buildings to investigate the source of the commotion. Flickering light cast off from the fire reflected off their leathery skin, momentarily reminding Morqla of one species of particularly fierce reptile he had encountered during his youth while hunting in the jungles of Qo’noS.

As Morqla moved farther into the courtyard he noted from the expressions on some of the villagers’ faces that few of the locals appeared to be frightened or surprised by the sudden assault of the otherwise peaceful night. He saw nothing that indicated outright guilt or even complicity, but instinct told the governor that the local populace was not entirely ignorant about what had happened.

“Look out!” a voice shouted from somewhere behind him at the same instant Morqla caught sight of something hurtling through the air to his right. A ball of fire, perhaps the size of a bloodwine barrel, then two more objects of similar size all arced over the trees surrounding the outskirts of the village. The trio of flaming projectiles sailed into the perimeter of the courtyard. Klingons and Palgrenai alike scattered in all directions as two of the fireballs struck the compacted earth while the third plunged through the roof of the building that had been designated as a dining facility for the Klingon garrison. Sparks and pieces of the structure flew into the air from the point of impact.

“ Bekk!”Morqla heard Kertral shout above the rising din of people yelling and the sound of alert sirens echoing through the courtyard. The governor turned to see his executive officer gathering a cadre of QuchHa’as they emerged from the building that served as a barracks for enlisted troops. “Form a search party. I want those cretins found and their heads on pikes before the sun rises!”

Even as his second-in-command issued further orders for the rounding up of Palgrenai villagers, other Klingon soldiers and locals continued to seek shelter from a new barrage of flaming shot raining down from the surrounding forest. Morqla had to admire the audacity of the attack, by far the most intensive act of sedition the jeghpu’wI’had attempted since the beginning of the occupation.

“Catapults,” he said, as another pair of flaming shots was launched from the trees and into the village square. “Impressive.”

Both of the projectiles missed hitting any of the buildings ringing the courtyard, though a few of his soldiers had to scramble to avoid being in the path of one as it plunged back to earth and bored a hole into the dry, dusty soil. Burning globs of whatever flammable substance the jeghpu’wI’had used to coat the makeshift cannonballs were flung into the air, some of it landing on a few of his troops, who in turn smacked and swiped at the flaming debris now sticking to them.

For the Palgrenai to have constructed not only the primitive implements but also the strategy to deploy them—apparently in concert with similar attacks taking place at other villages in the region—without their preparations being discovered by members of the Klingon garrison was a surprising feat. It spoke volumes not only of the villagers’ abilities to employ secrecy and cunning but also the seeming ineptitude of his own soldiers to monitor the activities of the not-so-helpless primitives over which they presided.

Turning to K’voq, he asked, “Have any casualties been reported?”

His aide shook his head. “None so far, Governor. The buildings that have been targeted to this point have either been designated as storage facilities, or else were unoccupied at this time of night.”

Morqla nodded at the report. “Interesting.” The number and tenacity of the attacks would seem to have invited at least some casualties, but would not be consistent with what he had learned of the Palgrenai since arriving on this world. While the jeghpu’wI’had been content to destroy structures, equipment, and other matériel during their previous acts of insurrection, they had gone out of their way to avoid injuring anyone, Palgrenai or Klingon alike.

It was an approach the governor could not understand, particularly given the fact that a large number of the conquered had died at Klingon hands. Still, he knew the approach would prove futile. So long as the Palgrenai were unable to do everything in their power to secure their liberation, they had no hope of ever shaking off the hand of their oppressors.

Nevertheless,Morqla reminded himself, this defiance must be crushed. Now.

“Kertral!” he shouted toward his executive officer, who still was in the process of disseminating orders to subordinates. “Execute Special Occupation Order Two!” It was a choice he made with much reluctance.

His second-in-command offered a terse, formal nod before saluting in response to the directive. “As you command, Excellency.”

Releasing a grudging sigh, Morqla shook his head as he watched his troops begin the process of corralling those villagers who still remained in the courtyard. Around the village square, he saw other soldiers kicking or shooting their way through the doors of buildings or using their bat’lethsto tear through the comparatively thin walls of neighboring dwellings, all in the name of rounding up those jeghu’wI’who still remained in the village and carrying out the order he had issued.

The time had come for total suppression of the uprising—merciless punishment not only of those responsible for the revolt but also those who might be complicit in the action. At the moment, Morqla was not concerned that he might be taking into custody parties innocent of any wrongdoing. The priority now was to restore order to the populace and reaffirm with brute force the nature of their status as servants of the empire.

Elsewhere, the telltale pulses of disruptor cannons pierced the night air at the same time as hints of harsh crimson energy illuminated the dark jungle surrounding the village. It seemed that his soldiers had found at least a few of the locations from which the insurgents were attacking and had taken to deploying weapons to deal with the rebels’ comparatively archaic and ultimately wasted efforts.

As expected, the increased measures on the part of his soldiers were causing a reaction from the forest. More of the flaming shot sailed through the air, this time crashing through the wooden walls of homes or digging furrows in the stone façades of the larger structures. Fire could be seen scorching the roofs of several of the buildings surrounding the square, and one smaller dwelling at the far end of the courtyard was already being consumed by massive flames and clouds of billowing smoke.

“Reports are coming in from all of the surrounding provinces,” K’voq reported, holding out his communicator and running to stand alongside Morqla. “The rebels are attempting counterattacks, throwing improvised firebombs at our soldiers and trying to damage disruptor cannons with those cursed catapults of theirs. We’re starting to take casualties, Excellency.”

At last,Morqla mused. It seemed the Palgrenai were indeed still capable of surprising him. Not that it would help them, of course. A line had been crossed, not only by the slaves but by the masters as well, and it was now far too late to turn back. Order demanded that control be restored, by any means necessary.

If that meant killing every jeghpu’wI’for hundreds of qelI’qamsin every direction, then so be it.

“Governor! Look out!”

Only the timely warning from his loyal aide and his own battle-honed reflexes allowed Morqla to avoid the ball of fire coming right at him. He threw himself to the right and rolled across the dry, hard ground just as the massive flaming sphere plummeted from the sky and drilled a hole in the dirt less than an arm’s length from where he had been standing.

Unfortunately, K’voq was between the projectile and the ground.

The Klingon moved too slowly, and the fiery shot plowed into his chest, driving him to the earth. He was dead even before he came to rest in the parched soil, his loose-fitting and rough-hewn clothing erupting into flames as it was coated by burning oil. The stench of sizzling flesh assailed Morqla’s nostrils as he scrambled away from other patches of blazing debris.

More of the projectiles rained down on the village, now coming from points all around the forest perimeter. The steady whines of disruptors and the angered battle cries of his warriors echoed in the humid night as fire painted the settlement in blistering crimson that paled only fleetingly in any feeble moonlight that penetrated the low, heavy cloud cover.

A last gasp, perhaps,Morqla mused with some bitterness as he brushed dust and dirt from himself. Do what you must to retain what little dignity and honor you still possess. It will make no difference.

Looking down, he regarded the unrecognizable body of K’voq, now nothing more than a lifeless shell while his warrior’s spirit made the journey to Sto-Vo-Kor. Rage welled up within him, and Morqla felt his muscles tense, blood rushing in his veins as he drew air into his lungs and released a deep, bellowing howl that rattled every ounce of his being. The Heghtaycry echoed off the walls of the surrounding buildings, augmenting the glorious ritual and heightening the warning he issued to the dead that a warrior was about to enter their midst.

His anger refused to abate, however, fueled by the knowledge that there was no honor in dying before an enemy who attacked from the shadows, one too weak or timid to stand on the field of battle and engage an opponent while looking them in the eyes. It was possible that loyal K’voq might yet be denied the ultimate fate promised to all loyal warriors who died in service to the empire.

“Worry not, old friend,” Morqla said to the still-burning remnants of his long-trusted aide. “I will see to it that you are greeted in Sto-Vo-Koras you deserve.”

Turning away from the gruesome sight, the governor headed into the courtyard and the chaos threatening to consume it. There would be much blood spilled before the sun colored the horizon, he decided, and he wanted to be sure that some of it stained his own blade.

He ran through the narrow streets leading away from the courtyard, toward the sounds of running and screaming coming from the direction of the main entrance to the village. Rounding a corner, he emerged into an open plaza that prior to the occupation had been used by the villagers as a meeting and entertainment venue. Now it was the scene of unchecked carnage as dozens of jeghpu’wI’fell beneath the onslaught of a mobile disruptor cannon. Klingon soldiers added to the unchecked chaos of the scene by firing their own weapons into the scrambling crowd. Others had waded into the mass of villagers, attacking them with blades or with bare hands.

Ruthless bursts of brutal crimson energy sliced through the night air, cutting through wood, stone, and soft flesh with equal impunity. The stench of death filled the plaza, a disjointed chorus of horrific screams and plaintive, vain calls for help or mercy competing with the rhythmic, mechanical cycling of the massive weapon. In the cannon’s operator seat, a Klingon soldier sat with his face pressed to the gunner’s sight that covered the front portion of his head, focusing his view on the disruptor’s computer-generated targeting display. From his own experience as a young officer manning such a weapon, Morqla knew that anyone or anything unfortunate enough to fall within the targeting sights of the cannon’s fire-control computer was as good as dead.

Hurried movement from his right caught his attention, and Morqla turned to see an atypically large Palgrenai lunging for him, brandishing what looked to be a shovel. Feeble moonlight reflected off the tool’s dulled, rusted blade, and it was obvious to the governor that the villager was attacking out of desperation. Saliva dripped from both sides of its narrow, elongated mouth, and Morqla saw rows of teeth bared in anger and fear as it charged forward, releasing a garbled hiss.

Morqla ducked as the flat side of the shovel swung past his head, taking advantage of the Palgrenai’s sudden loss of balance to step forward and deliver a powerful punch to his attacker’s head. He felt bone cave beneath his fist as he drove it down into the villager’s skull, and the jeghpu’wI’dropped to the ground, already dead but its body offering up a final series of spasms as life drained from its dark, leathery carcass.

Now feeling the heat of battle coursing through his veins, Morqla turned away from his first kill of the night and began looking for another.

And then he saw it.

A dark, indistinct blur, it might have been humanoid but it moved with such speed that there was no way to be certain. There was no time to study it, for no sooner had it appeared than it lunged for the Klingon soldier closest to it.

“Defend yourselves!” Morqla shouted, but it was already too late. The creature, whatever it was, towered over the warrior, who saw it only at the last moment and tried to bring his weapon around. His movements were far too slow as the new arrival loomed closer, lashing out with at least two extremities that Morqla was able to distinguish from its fluid, undulating form. They slashed across the soldier, and the governor felt his mouth go slack as he watched his subordinate instantly separated into four lifeless hunks of dismembered flesh, bone, and clothing, each falling to the floor of the plaza and releasing a torrent of blood that stained the dark, dry cobblestones.

Uttering a tortured, enraged battle cry, Morqla raised his disruptor and fired at the creature even as it moved again, the pulsing red energy bolts chewing into the stone of the nearby buildings as the thing moved. Other soldiers were firing at it now, as well, a few of their shots even hitting it, of that Morqla was certain, but their efforts seemed to have no effect.

“What isit?” he heard someone yell above the hail of disruptor fire as the creature, all but formless and defying description, moved with deliberate haste, altering its path not the least in reaction to the attack now being directed at it. Instead, it charged other members of his garrison, and blood arced into the air yet again as whatever unholy blades the thing wielded found new targets, and two more of his men fell decapitated to the ground. The appalling scene was repeated twice within the space of seconds, with half a dozen of his soldiers unable to flee the creature’s unchecked wrath as it slashed again and again, with Morqla watching helpless as the thing cut through his men with the ease of a fish swimming through water.

Then it changed direction yet again, this time its trajectory bringing it directly at Morqla.

“Come to me, you filthy ha’DIbah!” he roared, standing his ground and firing at his nearing opponent, watching as the bolts from his disruptor were swallowed by the creature’s body, which reflected none of the light cast off by the cloud-dulled moon or the surrounding fires. Undeterred by the weapon, the thing drew closer, threatening to block out everything with its looming, all-encompassing darkness.

Then the concentrated whine of the disruptor cannon erupted in the plaza once more, and Morqla saw the creature enveloped by a cocoon of frenzied scarlet energy. A chilling wail of pain echoed off the walls around him, and he watched as the thing crumpled beneath the force of the cannon’s blast.

Thankfully, the soldier operating the formidable weapon had the sense to fire again, unleashing another hellish barrage upon the creature. This time the effects were more pronounced, parts of the thing’s formless, featureless hide exploding as its molecular structure was decimated by the disruptor cannon. Morqla saw the creature’s body start to come apart, finally surrendering to the weapon’s vicious fury before collapsing in upon itself in a burst of destabilized molecules that within seconds faded altogether.

The silence enveloping the plaza in the aftermath of the horrendous firefight was all but deafening now, Morqla realized. His soldiers could only stand in silent awe, staring at the patch of scorched stone where only moments before the creature had stood. Even those Palgrenai who had survived the initial wave of attacks by his garrison could only look on, the terror and uncertainty in their wide, dark eyes matching Morqla’s own as each of them tried to comprehend the staggering scene they had just witnessed.

“What servant of Gre’thorhas Fek’lhrunleashed upon us now?” he asked aloud, but the night swallowed his question whole.