TOS 91 - New Earth 3 - Rough Trails (c) by Star Trek

Author:Star Trek [Star Trek]
Language: deu
Format: epub
Tags: \Star Trek
Publisher: POCKET BOOKS
Published: 2011-01-02T07:59:14.539000+00:00

Instinct pulled Chekov off the camel more quickly than he thought he could dismount. He swept the rifle clear of its bindings at the back of the saddle and glanced to see that it was ready to fire as he reached up to pull on Thee’s cloak.

“Bob? Jan?” Her voice ricocheted off the banks of the little valley, frightened and desperate. A dozen meters farther down the slope ahead of them, the dogs turned and stared back at her in alarm.

Chekov clenched his fist in her wrap, suddenly desperate to drag her down out of harm’s way. “Quiet!”

She wrenched herself loose with both hands. “Don’t start ordering me around, mister!” she snarled. “I didn’t—!”

But he had her off the camel and pinned against its bulk before she could do more than swing at him in impotent anger. “You said it yourself—” He leaned in close, the rifle aimed off to one side and his free hand wound in her collar. “This is what I do! I trusted you with the medicine, you have to trust me with this.” He gave her a little shake to make her look straight at him. “Agreed?”

Thee’s dark eyes burned with frustration. But she nodded grudgingly, and he felt her resistence leach away. He let go of her cloak and took a measured step toward the homestead. “We’re going to find out what happened,” he promised, “but you have to stay close to me and be quiet.”

She grabbed at his arm when he would have turned away, pointing at the saddle above him. “If you won’t let me ride up there, don’t leave the puppies up there either.”

Chekov swept the squirming bag over one shoulder, then tucked Thee behind him and took hold of the camel’s reins. He didn’t know how effectively the big creature could shield them from rifle fire, and hoped they wouldn’t have to find out.

They half-slid, half-walked down the incline into the farmyard, braking their momentum to match the camel’s slower gait as much as possible. Wind, already warm and tasting of olivium, finger-painted the air with the stench of aging blood. Chekov swallowed hard against the metallic bitterness it brought into his own mouth, but had no real illusions about clearing it away. He kept his eyes on the ruined homestead as they picked their way through the carcasses, their feet making soft, wet noises in the dirt. The rest of his senses stretched in all directions, straining to split him into pieces in his effort to hear every footstep, smell every windshift, feel the beating of any heart not accounted for within his small group. Whoever had done this hadn’t been gone very long—if they were gone at all. Only the faintest tracery of dust lay over the carcasses, and the blood had barely begun to thicken in the sand. Chekov tried to follow the confusion of human and animal footprints in that ochre mud, but could tell nothing about where the attackers had come from, or where they

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