Star Trek-TNG-Novel-Imzadi 1

  you. Which meant either he should kill her or not. If

  he killed her, he had a corpse and nothing

  to hold over any of the Fed men should they catch up

  with him. There was no point to it. Hell, there was no

  point to any of it.

  With a curse he released her and took some

  small measure of satisfaction in watching her

  thud to the ground like a bag of stones. Then he

  perched himself on the rock that she had occupied

  moments before and stared down at her, waiting for her

  to come out of it.

  Slowly, after some minutes, she did. She

  lay there, staring up at him.

  "You wonder why I haven't killed you yet?"

  She tilted her head slightly and said, "You

  hope that I will serve some purpose in the near

  future."

  The membranes on his neck fluttered a bit

  faster as he asked, "And have you wondered why I

  haven't raped you?"

  "You're not a rapist. A thief, yes. A

  killer as needed. But not a rapist."

  Maror studied her. "You're that certain?"

  "I wasn't at first." She drew her knees

  up under her chin. "At first I was terrified that you

  might do that. When the two of us were the only

  survivors of the crash, I was certain you might

  take that course. But as time has passed, I have

  begun to have a sense of you. Prolonged exposure

  to you has enabled me to get an empathic feel for

  you that I didn't have before."

  "Keep your empathic feelings to yourself." He

  walked toward her and yanked her rudely to her

  feet, as if to try to make up for the fact that he

  wasn't the type to assault a woman sexually.

  "I still can't believe," he grumbled, "that you

  survived the crash when others of my men

  didn't."

  "I was not tense," she said simply. "I had

  relaxed myself. Your men were tense. The stiffs

  resulted in the internal injuries that killed

  them."

  "Thank you for that diagnosis," he snarled.

  He led her through the jungle, watching carefully

  all about him for any sign of pursuit.

  Deanna, for her part, took the opportunity

  to expand her senses and get a feel for the life that

  throbbed all about her in the jungle. It was rare that

  anyone really ventured any real distance into the

  Jalara, and rarer still for anyone to be out this far. In

  a way she found it exciting. She just wished that that

  excitement wasn't coming at the expense of those who

  loved her.

  She was certain that her mother must be frantic

  by now, and not for the first time she silently cursed the

  fate that had made her half-human. Had she

  been full Betazoid, there was a great

  likelihood that she would be able to send

  free-ranging thought broadcasts as far back as the

  city. Summon help right to the spot where she

  presently was. It wouldn't matter that

  geographically she didn't have a clue as to her

  whereabouts. They would simply be able to sense her.

  But her ability to send and receive was diluted by her

  human heritage. She needed greater proximity

  to be at all reliable. And out here, in the middle

  of nowhere, proximity was not exactly easy to come

  by.

  Birds fluttered past her, and she had to step

  carefully to avoid treading on a small serpent

  that slid past her. It was not poisonous, but she

  had no desire to injure something innocent. The thing

  she found most heartening was that she had sensed the

  creature's presence rather than seen it.

  The vegetation around them was thinning out, and ahead of

  them was a cleared area that prompted Maror to let

  out a sigh of relief. It was a watering hole.

  He turned to Troi. "Even you have to be

  thirsty. You're made of ice, but ice

  requires water."

  "I'm hardly made of ice," she said,

  brushing strands out of her face and trying not to let the

  fatigue she felt be betrayed in her voice.

  "That water will taste as good to me as it does to you."

  "That's very comforting." He gestured with the gun.

  "You first."

  "Thank you."

  She went to the water and knelt down before it. The

  rips in her dress exposed more skin than she would

  have liked, but at this point there was no use getting

  overly concerned about such things. She cupped her

  hands, scooped up water and brought it to her lips,

  sipping gingerly and being careful not to take the big

  gulps that her impulses urged.

  He frowned as he watched her. "You

  drink like a bird."

  "There's no point in overdoing it," she

  replied evenly. "If I overindulge, the

  result will simply be stomach cramps. I see

  no advantage to that."

  "Fine. Fine. Do what you want."

  She looked at her reflection in the water and

  moaned softly. Then she shoved her hands in once

  more, wetting them thoroughly, and brought them up to her

  face, making an effort to wash away as much of the

  dirt as possible. After a few moments she

  studied the result and decided that, while it

  wasn't perfect, at least it was an

  improvement.

  "You realize," she said, "that you're not heading

  anywhere in particular. You're just marking time. You have

  no one waiting to pick you up. No rendezvous.

  No secret hideout."

  "I've never been caught. I take

  tremendous pride in that. I'm not about to get

  caught now, no matter what. Besides, I'm

  betting that they stop looking for us. They've

  probably found the ship by now. They found the

  bodies of the others. Maybe they'll even continue

  the search for a couple of days. But sooner or

  later, they'll conclude that we couldn't have

  survived--t we probably fell into a ...

  what did you call it?"

  "Mud pit," she said evenly.

  "Right. Mud pit. Or maybe a ravine.

  Or maybe even got eaten by some huge animal

  they didn't even know hung about in these woods.

  They won't search for us forever."

  "Oh, yes, they will," she replied with quiet

  confidence. "I don't believe they'll ever stop.

  And neither, in all honesty, do you."

  "Really? Then why am I going to all this trouble

  if it's so certain that I'll be caught?"

  She turned and looked at him with her ebony

  eyes. "You are afraid. You are afraid of

  whatever actions might be taken against you

  by Starfleet. Afraid of giving up some measure

  of your freedom. So afraid, in fact, that you

  would much rather live a handful of days fighting for

  survival, but free ... than you would live many

  days, or months or even years, in captivity

  or under the supervision of the Federation."

  His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  After one more brief pass of the water over her

  face, she rose and pointed to the water.

  "All yours."


  He nodded and gestured for her to step away from the

  water. "You know, I was just tired of you before. But

  now I'm really, really sick of you. All you're

  doing is slowing me down." He crouched in front

  of the water and scooped some up. He was able to bring

  it to his mouth and continue to converse at the same

  time. "You yammer at me. You analyze me. You

  try to make me feel like some sort of coward.

  I'm starting to think that whatever minimal use you

  might have had as a hostage would pale next to the

  sheer, selfish pleasure I'd feel at blasting

  the top right off of your pretty little--"

  She kicked him in the small of the back.

  With a yell, Maror stumbled forward, wet soil

  slipping beneath him, and he fell headfst into the

  water. He floundered around and was about to pull his

  upper body out when some inquisitive water

  snakes, which Deanna had sensed were in the area,

  came to investigate and did so by wrapping themselves

  around Maror's throat.

  Deanna, for her part, bolted.

  For a moment she had considered the idea of making

  a grab for the gun, but a tentative step she had

  taken toward it quickly dissuaded her of that notion.

  Maror's hand was firmly on the grip, and she had

  a feeling that if she'd pulled at the gun, it would

  simply have told him, without any shadow of doubt,

  precisely where his target was located.

  And right now she did not want to be a target.

  That was why she had chosen that moment to make a bid

  for freedom. For she had sensed, beyond any doubt,

  that Maror really had had enough. That he was beginning

  to realize that his flight was hopeless and was becoming

  angry enough and frustrated enough to take that realization out

  on anyone who happened to be near.

  In other ^ws, he was genuinely ready to kill

  her as the likelihood for her serving any

  purpose faded.

  So she ran.

  Maror sputtered in indignation as he lurched

  to his feet, pulling at the snakes. The

  snakes, for their part, were uniformly startled to be

  removed so unceremoniously from their natural

  watery habitat. The shock caused them to lose

  their grip on Maror, and he was able to yank them

  free. He threw them back down into the water with

  loud splashes, spun, and roared Deanna's name

  in a frenzy. He even fired blindly into the

  jungle with his weapon and by blind luck

  came within two feet of blasting Deanna's head

  off.

  There was no rational reason for him to pursue her

  at that point. Dashing pell-mell through the jungle

  the way she was, the odds were that she was just going

  to get even more lost and maybe even run headlong

  into something that was lethal. Whatever pleasure that knowledge

  might have brought him, however, was diluted by the fact

  that she had royally embarrassed him. And that was

  something that he was simply not going to tolerate.

  With a howl of vexation he lashed his weapon around

  himself and took off after her.

  It wasn't difficult to track her. Her

  rush through the jungle left a series of broken

  branches and crushed shrubbery in her wake. He

  could have followed the trail if he were blindfolded.

  Deanna hadn't been sure if he would try

  to chase her, or whether he would be happy just to be

  rid of her. She was banking to some degree on the

  latter. When she heard the crashing of the jungle

  underbrush behind her, her heart sank.

  She looked around desperately, trying to find

  some sort of weapon, or perhaps some place to hide

  so that he would run past her. But no place

  seemed to be sufficient shelter.

  She dodged to the right and stumbled on an

  outstretched root. She fell forward, catching

  herself by hitting her palms against the ground, and she

  felt pain stab through her forearms. She lifted her

  right hand and found a small, pointed rock, which she

  wrapped her fingers around for reasons she didn't

  even fully understand. Then she scrambled to her

  feet and kept going.

  She heard his pursuit getting closer and

  closer. Between the noise of shoving shrubbery

  aside, and his loud and constant string of profanity,

  it was hard to miss him.

  His blaster roared behind her and she could feel the

  heat. He must have used it, she realized, to clear

  away some underbrush so that he could make better

  time. She would have given anything to have some sort of

  weapon or tool like that.

  For one insane moment, she envisioned Will Riker

  coming to her rescue. Striding forward like some great

  hero, showing up out of nowhere at the penultimate

  moment, drawn there by fate, happenstance, and that

  incredible timing that always seemed to accompany such

  last-minute saves. She wanted it more than

  anything, to believe that such things could occur in real

  life. Because it would mean that in real life

  people really could be drawn together not because it was the

  intelligent or smart thing to do, but simply because

  not to be together would be completely wrong. It would

  mean that in real life there were greater things than that which

  her mind could grasp, analyze, and study.

  She wanted him. Gods, she knew that, had

  known that all along, and she had been such an

  idiot to fight it for all sorts of reasons that

  had made sense then but now seemed pointless. If

  only she had that time back. If only she could

  see him again.

  But she knew, in her heart, that that wasn't

  going to happen. It was up to her; live or die,

  it was up to her, and there would be no rescue, and the

  chances were extremely good that in a few minutes,

  there would be no Deanna Troi either.

  Abruptly the ground in front of her angled

  upward sharply. She'd come to the base of some

  sort of small slope. It would take her more time

  to make her way up it, but backtracking wasn't

  possible. She took a deep breath and started

  upward. Roots and small outcroppings of rock

  provided her with handholds that sped her on her

  way.

  But they did not speed her nearly enough, and

  suddenly she heard a triumphant yell from behind

  her. She tried to climb higher, but a hand

  wrapped around her foot.

  "Got you, you Betazoid bitch!" growled

  Maror.

  She screamed, her fingers clawing for purchase,

  but he dragged her down toward him and spun her

  around so that his face was mere inches from hers. "You have

  been far more trouble than you could possibly be

  worth," he snarled, "and I'm going to ..."

  In her palm she felt the hardness and sharpness

  of the rock she'd grabbed mere moments before. She

  didn't hesitate as she brought the pointed end

  around and slammed it squarely into Maror's

  forehead.
>
  The Sindareen raider shrieked, a high-pitched

  sound emanating from the sides of his throat, as

  blood trickled down his face. Deanna,

  animalistic, fighting for her life, twisted the

  rock around and tried to drive it farther into his

  forehead. But the Sindareen was far too strong. With a

  roar he shoved Deanna back, but she maintained

  her grip on the rock as she fell and it tore

  loose from his forehead. More blood poured freely

  down his face.

  He shoved one hand against it to staunch the wound as

  he approached her, his gun trembling because of the

  sheer fury filling him. "You--!" And his rage was

  beyond his ability to articulate, so he stammered out

  again, "You--!"

  He dropped down on top of her, pressing his

  full body weight against her. She squirmed under

  him but couldn't dislodge him as he pressed the gun

  squarely against her stomach and snarled, "Belly

  wound. Very slow, very painful, and you'll die

  anyway. It's what you deserve. You've ruined

  everything--"

  "I didn't--"

  "Shut up! You never shut up! But I'm

  going to shut you up! I'm going to blow a hole in

  your--"

  And from above them, a voice spoke in a tone that

  was deliberately cool and controlled. "Back

  away from her."

  Maror looked up and his already pale face went

  one shade lighter. Deanna twisted her head

  around, her eyes wanting to confirm what her ears and

  her mind had already told her but she still couldn't quite

  believe.

  Riker was standing about ten feet higher up on the

  slope. He held a phaser, aimed squarely

  at Maror. He was dressed in survival gear,

  with a utility jacket, and a supply belt

  strapped around his middle containing food rations, a

  patch holster for the phaser, and other miscellanea

  in small pouches.

  His emotions flooded over Deanna, he being

  open to her in a way that no one outside of her

  closest friends or her mother ever was. Relief

  mixed with fear, all carefully bottled up so that

  he could present an image of utter composure

  to the frazzled and desperate Sindareen.

  "I said back away from her." Riker's

  phaser wasn't wavering. "Put your hands over

  your head."

  "ationo, Federation man!" snapped Maror.

  He twisted his body around, his legs wrapped

  around Deanna's middle and exposing no part of

  himself to a clear shot. "No, you're going to put

  your phaser down! You're going to put your hands