Wrath of the Prophets Page 12

  "You're going to regret what you did to me!" the alien snapped, his voice seething with anger.

  No doubt, he was right. The captain had only to see the way the Denebian was pulling back his fist to make that determination. He could almost feel the impact already.

  And the Denebian had barely warmed up. This wasn't going to be pleasant, he told himself.

  "Hold it right there!" came a familiar voice.

  Sisko turned, though it cost him a shot of pain in his tortured ribs. Despite everything, he smiled. How could he help it?

  For there was Quark, standing over the prone figure of the Skelarian. And bless his bulbous little head, he had a phaser in each hand. One was pointed at the Denebian, the other at the Rythrian.

  The captain felt himself released by his captor—a good thing, but also a bad one considering his injury. As he made jarring impact with the floor, he felt as if someone had prodded him in the side with a hot poker.

  "He's not fast enough to take us both down," hissed the Rythrian. He was referring to the Ferengi, of course.

  "I beg to differ," Quark said, the picture of confidence.

  Sisko didn't expect they'd take his word for it. In the next fraction of a second, both of his antagonists went for their weapons.

  The captain only had time to spoil one adversary's aim. Unfortunately, the Rythrian was the closer of the two. Lashing out with his foot, he slammed his heel into the alien's ankle. The Rythrian's shot went awry, missing Sisko's ally by nearly a meter.

  But by then, Quark and the Denebian had already fired, their respective blasts of tightly focused energy crisscrossing savagely in the corridor's narrow confines. For a moment, in the silence that followed, the captain wasn't sure exactly what had happened.

  Then the Denebian fell to his knees, made a loud sighing sound, and pitched forward onto his face. Despite all his speed, the Ferengi had nailed him.

  The Rythrian cursed loudly and volubly. Obviously, he couldn't figure it out either. Slumping against the wall to take his weight off his damaged ankle, he took aim at Quark a second time.

  But the Ferengi had him dead to rights. Depressing the trigger mechanism on his phaser, Quark blasted the Rythrian in the chest—knocking him over the Pandrilite, who was just starting to get up off the floor.

  Then he trained his weapon on the Pandrilite as well. One more lurid red beam, one more grunt, one more unconscious alien.

  Sisko turned to the Ferengi, making no attempt to disguise his admiration. "Where in hell did you learn to do that?" he asked.

  The Ferengi looked at him, making an all-too-obvious attempt to feign puzzlement. "Do what?" he asked.

  Sisko frowned and pointed at one of the phasers in Quark's hands. "Do that," he replied, playing the game.

  Quark looked down at the weapons as if seeing them for the first time. His brow creased. "You know," he said, "I haven't the slightest idea."

  Sisko grunted. "I'm sure you don't," he remarked cynically.

  Bracing himself against the wall, the captain got to his feet with an effort. The pain must have shown on his face.

  "What's wrong?" asked the Ferengi, with what seemed like real concern.

  "Nothing I can't handle," Sisko informed him, making his way along the wall toward his companion.

  "Don't give me that," Quark said, tilting his head to get a better look at the captain. "You're hurt. I don't need Dr. Bashir to tell me when someone's cracked a few of his ribs."

  "It's not as bad as it looks," Sisko insisted.

  "You'd better hope not," the Ferengi remarked, wincing sympathetically. "If it were, I'd be offering you a brochure on a variety of lovely burial sites." He paused. "Where do think you're going, anyway?"

  Now within a half-meter of Quark, Sisko reached out and grabbed one of the Ferengi's borrowed phasers. "I think I'm going to commandeer one of these," he explained.

  "Ah," said the Ferengi. "I see. You know, I could have just handed it to you, if you'd simply asked for it."

  "I didn't want to inconvenience you," the captain replied.

  He straightened experimentally. The pain didn't get any worse as a result—a good sign, in his estimation.

  "Incidentally," he said, casting a look back at Quark. "What did you do to the Skelarian?"

  The Ferengi shrugged. "I worked on a Ferengi freighter for a while. There was a Skelarian aboard. You could say we didn't like each other. And since he was a lot bigger than I was, I had to find his weak point."

  "Which was?" Sisko asked, as he made his way back toward the fallen aliens.

  "If you want to know that," Quark said, "you'll have to pay for the information, the same way I did. So are you going to interrogate one of these fine specimens? Find out why they came after us?"

  "That's what the phaser is for," the captain explained.

  Kneeling beside the Rythrian, who seemed the least likely to resist a show of force, Sisko pointed his weapon at the alien's face. Then he slapped the Rythrian lightly on the cheek with the back of his hand.

  The alien stirred. His eyes fluttered open.

  He saw the human.

  He saw the human's phaser.

  He swallowed.

  "What is it you want?" he asked.

  "You know what I want," Sisko told him. "The identity of the one who hired you—who he is and why he wanted us."

  The Rythrian swallowed again. He didn't take his eyes off the captain's weapon. "And if I don't want to tell you?" he inquired, aspiring to bravado.

  Sisko smiled, despite the searing pain in his side. "Then I'll just get it from one of your playmates. Your corpse will show them how serious I am."

  That was all it took to make the alien a veritable font of useful information.

  Zeber was beginning to be sorry he had asked for guard detail this time around.

  Under normal circumstances, Zeber liked coming along to the auctions in Sorshaq. The women up on the block were often scantily clad. And the ones he was guarding would, occasionally, be so desperate to try and break free that, well … things could go well for him. He never let them go, of course, but desperation could be a great motivator.

  The Bajoran, however, had not exactly been cooperative. He hadn't intended to cut her; in fact, he was worried Manimoujak was going to be angry with him. No one liked merchandise that was damaged.

  Still, the cut was a fairly superficial one, and she could be cleaned up and patched with no outward sign of a problem. It's not as if he had sliced off something she was going to need later on.

  Then Zeber noticed that the arguing between the two Bajorans was getting louder again. They'd been making some sort of noise in their cell before, but it had tapered off.

  Now they were at it again. Words were being flung around in heated fashion, each of them accusing each other of all manner of things.

  "That is stupid!" one of them was saying. He recognized the voice as that of the one he'd injured. Ro, her name had been. "That is no kind of escape plan! There is no way in hell that's going to work!"

  "It's just like you to give up and say there's no hope!"

  "There is no hope! It's all your fault, you stupid rinta. If it weren't for you, everything would be fine! But now everything is screwed up, and there's nothing you can do about it!"

  "I'm warning you," said the other prisoner, and her voice really sounded on edge. "I have absolutely had it with you! So help me, one more word—"

  Ro supplied the word. In fact, she supplied several.

  And then she shrieked, a cry of pure terror. Zeber, who'd been lazily leaning against the door, heard the shout, followed by a loud thud. He peered in through the window of the door.

  The other Bajoran was withdrawing from Ro. And Ro was on the floor, flopping around like a just-landed fish, trying to extract …

  A knife. Zeber gasped. There was a knife in her chest, buried almost up to the hilt. She was gasping, whimpering, and there was blood trickling from her mouth.

  Zeber could only imagine
his boss's fury. He yanked open the door and whipped out his disruptor, aiming it at the other Bajoran.

  "Stay back!" he snarled. "Stay right where you are!"

  She showed no inclination to move. She just watched him with her dark and glowering eyes.

  He crouched next to Ro. "Just … just stay calm," he said. "I'll take care of everyth—"

  That was as much as he managed to say before Ro suddenly sat up, grabbed his disruptor hand, and shoved it upward. His finger squeezed the trigger reflexively, but it discharged harmlessly overhead.

  Before he knew it, the other Bajoran woman was in front of him, driving the heel of her hand in his direction. He felt an impact on the point of his chin, then fell into a deep dark pit of unconsciousness.

  Kira surveyed her handiwork. The guard was out cold, sprawled on the straw of their cell.

  Ro sat up, tossing aside the remains of the knife … the knife that she'd broken off just above the hilt, so it could effectively look as if the rest of the blade had been sunk into her chest.

  "Now that was the performance of a lifetime," she murmured.

  "How did you bleed out of your mouth?" Kira asked.

  "Bit down on my lip and inner cheek. It's going to swell a bit, but it's nothing I can't live with."

  "Well," said the major, "you scared the hell out of me when I saw that, and I knew what was going on."

  Ro wiped away the blood. Her face was already starting to look slightly puffy. She extended a hand to Kira and said, "Help me up?"

  For the first time in any of her dealings with Ro Laren, Kira did not hesitate. She took Ro's hand firmly and pulled her to her feet.

  As they emerged from their cell, they heard footfalls. No doubt, they belonged to whoever was going to escort them to the auction facility.

  Kira flattened against a wall and cradled her weapon. So did Ro. Then they waited.

  CHAPTER

  11

  THE PLACE WAS more crowded than usual, Manimoujak reflected. But then, it was always crowded when there was a slave auction on the schedule.

  It was held in the back room, as usual. Actually, the back room was almost as large as the interior of the Place itself. It had to be, to accommodate the usual hordes of both buyers and onlookers.

  The crush of typical Sorshaq lowlifes and reprobates spread into the room like a fungal infection. There was a podium up front where the slaves were supposed to be brought up, one by one, for viewing and bidding.

  Sandon, the bartender, had taken the job of auctioneer for himself, leaving the backup bartender at the front while he attended to the business in the back. Looking over an audience packed with Bajorans, Orions, Yridians, Tellarites, Andorians, and others, he called out, "As always, bidding will be in gold-pressed latinum! We're not exactly in a position to accept credit." This generated a couple of guffaws from the crowd.

  The slaves were being huddled together in a pen located at one end of the room. From his vantage point some ten meters away, Manimoujak studied the frightened assemblage of property.

  He frowned and turned to one of his men. "Where are those two Bajoran women? I sent Tobar and Wiley over to fetch them. What's taking them so long?"

  "I'll check on them," his aide said, and hurried off.

  A familiar face caught Manimoujak's attention. "Gnome," he called.

  Gnome sidled through the crowd and drew near to Manimoujak. "Good to see you," Gnome said.

  "I should have known you'd be here," Manimoujak replied. "You never miss one, do you?"

  "Well," Gnome said, "I've got a personal stake in this." He pointed to the slave pen. "See that one?"

  Manimoujak looked at a Bajoran woman, who appeared to be just shy of twenty. She was half-naked and clearly frightened as she huddled with the other slaves in the holding pen.

  "What about her, Gnome?"

  "That, my friend, is Varis Sul, tetrarch of the Paqu village. I had"—he framed the word distastefully—"a dealing with her. She slipped away from me and stole my ship to boot. If she'd had the brains to stay put in her village, she would have been safe. I wouldn't have bothered with her. But she came back out, started poking around some more … and a longtime associate of mine was kind enough to steer her right into my hands."

  "Payback is truly a joyous thing," acknowledged Manimoujak.

  At that moment, Sandon set the festivities into motion. "Our first item," he called, "had been intended as a set—a fine Bajoran male and his son. However, we've had several inquiries about breaking up the pair, since there are some who are interested in the boy but not the father. We are happy to accommodate all reasonable requests, and so …"

  He snapped his fingers, and his men reached into the pen and began to drag the boy out. He shrieked for his father, clutched at him, and his father tried to lunge forward. Prods were produced by Sandon's men and the father was jolted back, falling into the arms of Varis Sul, as the boy was hoisted up onto the stage.

  "Now," Sandon called, "who will start the bidding …" And then his nose wrinkled.

  There was a new aroma added to the smell of the Place. A very distinctive, very frightening aroma.

  An aroma that was confirmed a moment later when the right side of the room suddenly erupted in flame. It was as if someone had soaked it in alcohol and set it ablaze.

  Which was, as Manimoujak would learn later, exactly what someone had done.

  "Fire!" Sandon shrieked, but he was somewhat late in the announcement. Already there were shouts of fear, stampeding feet, and jostling among the attendees, as they sought a way out of what had become a death trap.

  And the way was quickly provided as the far wall blew open, rocked by an explosion. It sounded as if someone had discovered Sandon's hidden cache of explosives in one of the side rooms, wired the exterior wall, and blown that side of the building sky-high.

  Which was, as Manimoujak would also learn, exactly what someone had done.

  With the fire spreading at alarming speed, the entire Place—both front and back rooms—emptied out. The only occupants not accounted for were the intended slaves, who stood within the confines of their enclosure and shook the bars, screeching to be let out. But no one listened or cared.

  The flight of the customers carried them out into the labyrinthine side alleys. Manimoujak and Gnome charged down one of them … only to skid to a halt.

  Running toward them, a disruptor in her hand, was Ro Laren. Her eyes narrowing, she fired at them. Somehow, they managed to avoid the resulting disruptor blast.

  Then Gnome, moving with startling speed, came at her. But Ro whirled, and suddenly she was holding a knife that whipped across Gnome's upper chest. He let out a high-pitched yelp and backpedaled, taking a header over a trash can.

  Ro looked as if she was going to inflict even more damage. But fortunately for Manimoujak—and Gnome—a section of flaming ceiling fell in front of her, screening them from view. Taking advantage of it, they fled, heading down a connecting alley and putting as much distance between themselves and the Place as they could.

  Kira Nerys was in the middle of the inferno. Like a salmon fighting upstream, she had shoved her way into the room and was working on prying open the cage that held the prospective slaves.

  "Hurry!" they were shouting. "Hurry!"

  "Stand back!" she said, and pulled out a disruptor.

  She fired once at the lock and it blasted free of the enclosure. "Okay!" she yelled. "Come on! Let's go! Move! Move!"

  With the father scooping up his son, the lot of them tore out of their prison. Ro poked her head through the hole they'd made in the wall, gesturing for them to hurry through. Smoke billowed behind the prisoners as they made their exit.

  "You sure took your sweet time!" Kira shouted at her as she brought up the rear.

  Suddenly someone grabbed her by the foot, sending her crashing to the floor. She rolled over just in time to see the slave-barker lunging at her, a jagged bottle in his hand and murder in his heart.

  Kira barely m
anaged to roll out of the way as the bottle shattered against the floor next to her. She drove a foot up, caught the barker in the pit of the stomach, and sent him stumbling back.

  "You idiot!" she cried. "The place is burning!"

  "It's my place! You've ruined my place!" he howled.

  "Kira, get out of there!" Ro shouted through the smoke.

  The major couldn't see her. The smoke was too thick—which meant Ro probably couldn't see her either. And even if she could, she'd have been crazy to risk her life doing it.

  Apparently Kira was on her own.

  The barker came at her like a man possessed.

  Obviously he wasn't thinking clearly, and there wasn't going to be enough time to wait for him to come to his senses.

  Heat billowed over Kira and she staggered back, firing her disruptor blindly. Her adversary ducked in under it, knocking into her arm and sending the shot high.

  The blast struck a part of the ceiling that hadn't fallen yet. Huge flaming chunks of debris rained down on the slave-barker, crushing him instantly. Instinctively Kira took a step forward to try and help him, but she knew it was too late.

  Then a hand grabbed her by the wrist. She turned and, through the smoke, saw Ro. The Maquis got hold of Kira's arm and pulled her toward the hole in the wall—which, in all the smoke and flames, Kira might not have been able to find on her own.

  They ran from the Place, then heard a crashing sound. They stopped and turned in time to see the entire establishment collapse in on itself, a swarm of embers rising from the impact.

  "All right," Ro said finally. "Now what?"

  Kira pulled in draft after draft of the clean air. "Looking to me for a decision? I'm honored."

  The Maquis grunted. "I didn't say I'd be bound by it; I just wanted to know if you had any thoughts."

  "Now," Kira said, "we go back after Manimoujak."

  "Good thought," Ro agreed. "We went there once to try and find out what he knows about this disease. I think a second visit will prove more fruitful."