The engineer continued to study his readout. "Now, that's interesting."
"What is?" asked the mutant.
Geordi showed him the tricorder. "When you left, there was nothing remarkable about you. But when you came back, you were literally dusted with verteron particles."
Nightcrawler looked at him. "Verteron ... ?"
"Sorry," said the engineer. He'd forgotten that in the mutants' universe, which was roughly equivalent to his own in the twentieth century, verterons probably hadn't been discovered yet. "They're subatomic particles associated with subspace phenomena." Nightcrawler still didn't look enlightened. "Subspace ... ?"
"A spatial continuum," said Geordi, "with different properties from our own. It's by ducking into subspace that the Enterprise is able to travel at faster-than-light speeds. In fact, one might call subspace another dimension-which leads us to an interesting question."
The mutant tilted his head. "That being?"
"Whether this other dimension you're traveling through isn't related to subspace. I mean, we don't come out of warp smelling like brimstone-at least, I don't think we do. But the presence of those verterons suggests you're doing with mind and body what we need an entire warp drive to accomplish." Geordi looked at his guest with newfound respect. "Let me tell you ... if that's true, it's pretty amazing."
Nightcrawler stroked his blue-furred chin, his golden eyes fixed on the possibilities-of which there were many. "Does that mean," he said, "there's a way for me to travel from world to world ... maybe even star to star ... without benefit of a ship?"
Geordi thought about it. "Maybe," he conceded at last. "But then again, maybe not."
Nightcrawler looked at him quizzically.
"You see," the engineer said, "even after we enter subspace, we still have to apply a lot of power to move the ship from place to place. It's true, your mass wouldn't be anywhere near that of the Enterprise-but then, in subspace, mass isn't really the main issue."
"In other words," said the mutant, trying to boil down Geordi's comment, "it wouldn't be enough just to access this continuum, or whatever it is. I would also have to have a way to propel myself across it."
The engineer took a breath, then let it out. "I think so-but honestly, I'm just taking a stab at it. I'd have to study you a lot more closely to come up with an accurate answer."
Nightcrawler shrugged. "I'm game if you are."
"Maybe later," said Geordi. "Right now, I want to run some computer models with regard to those verteron particles you're wearing."
The mutant's brow creased. "Why? You think they had something to do with our timehooks malfunctioning?"
"I think it's a possibility," the engineer told him.
"And if that's the case," said Nightcrawler, "it'd be silly not to check it out."
Geordi smiled. "You said it, not me."
When Erid emerged from the mess hall, hugging the high wall on his right as always, he saw new faces among the guards on the parapets. Apparently, Rahatan's act of rebellion had gotten the government's attention. Reinforcements had arrived overnight.
A few new transformed were in evidence also. But there was no sign of Rahatan, Denara, or Leyden. Osan had restricted them to their cells, as the prime guard had recommended the day before.
Still, Erid thought, Rahatan had a powerful talent at his fingertips. So did Leyden, for that matter. If either of them had wanted to escape their containment, they might have done it.
In fact, if he were Osan, he would have seen to it that Rahatan and Leyden were guarded around the clock-and maybe Denara as well. Anything less would have been foolish.
Then Erid had a terrible thought. What if Rahatan and the others had been deemed too dangerous to confine? What if the administrator of the fortress had decided to kill them instead?
It was hard to believe someone could be destroyed for an insignificant offense. However, worse offenses might follow-probably would follow, if Erid was any judge of character. And the government had never faced anything like the transformed before.
"Erid?" came a voice from behind him.
He turned and saw it was Corba who had spoken to him.
She tilted her head slightly. "That'syourname, isn't it?"
Erid nodded, intrigued by her strange, quick way of talking. "Yes."
"You don't talk much," Corba observed.
He shrugged. "I think a lot."
"Aboutwhatyou'vebecome," she said.
"That," he replied, "and other things."
Corba glanced at the opposite wall, where the guards were looking down on the yard. Erid glanced that way, too. Their conversation hadn't drawn any special attention. But then, they were hardly the only ones conversing.
"Otherthings?" she echoed. "Likewhat?"
"Like how much I hate it here," he told her.
He hadn't intended to say that. But it had been days since he exchanged more than a couple of superficial words with anyone, and the sentiment had simply come pouring out.
"Weallhateit," Corba answered. "That'swhyRahatan didwhathedidyesterday. Becausewe'repeople, notanimals. We'renotsupposedtobecagedup."
"No," Erid agreed. "We're not."
Her gaze seemed to harden, become more resolute. "Andwithanyluck, wewon'tbecagedmuchlonger."
He didn't understand. He told her so.
Again, Corba cast a glance at the battlements. "Rahatanwantstobreakoutofthisplace."
Erid looked at her. "Break ..." He shook his head. "But how do you know?"
"Paldulcontactedhiminhiscell," she said. "Hecando that. Rahatantoldhimwedon'tneedtostayhereanylonger -not withthepowerswe'vegot."
He swallowed. "But the guards ..."
Corba frowned. "Allweneedtodoisworktogether. That's whatRahatansays. Ifwedothat,theguardscan'tstopus."
Erid felt his cheeks flush. "And the others ... ?"
"I'vespokenwithhalfadozentransformedmyself," she said. "Noonesturnedmedownyet. They're all sick of being here."
Suddenly, Erid was more frightened than ever. It was bad enough he had become some kind of freak, and worse still that he had been imprisoned because of it. But now he was contemplating an act of violence-one that would forever alienate him from Xhaldian society.
And yet, he thought, if he didn't do it, he would be alienated from a different kind of society-maybe the only kind realistically left to him. He took a breath, then let it out.
"Has Rahatan got a plan?" Erid inquired.
Corba nodded. Then she told him what it was, and what role had been chosen for Erid in it.
"Soyou'rewithus?" she asked. She quirked a smile. "Ordoyoulikethewayitfeelswhentheystunyouintheyard?"
He thought about it. If Rahatan was right and they were able to break out of the fortress, he might never have to feel a stun blast again.
Erid swallowed even harder. "I'm with you."
Chapter Nine.
THE HOLODECK DOORS opened with a soft hiss. Worf found himself bathed in sun and shadow as he studied the scene in front of him. Wolverine, who was standing beside him, just grunted.
They were in a clearing in the middle of a steamy, tropical jungle. A blood-blackened, white-stone altar was the only man-made structure in sight.
Birds screamed from high up in the lush, golden foliage and darted across a patch of crimson sky. Halfseen creatures peered out from their sun-dappled hiding places with wide, frightened-looking eyes.
"Nice place ya got here," Wolverine rasped. He wiped sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I prefer somethin' a little frostier myself, but to each his own."
As it happened, Worf had no particular liking for this place either; the flora gave off a most unpleasant scent. Still, the program had been a gift from his son, Alexander, who had been living with Worf's foster parents back on Earth at the time. And if one could ignore the smell, the opportunities for battle were most exhilarating.
Hefting his batt'leth, the Klingon turned to his guest.
"You're certain you do not require a weapon?" It wasn't the first time he had asked.
The mutant held up his fist, showing Worf the deadly-sharp spars of bone that protruded well past his knuckles. "I've got all the weapon I need right here," he said.
The Klingon had seen Wolverine use his claws to considerable advantage. "Very well," he said.
Taking a couple of steps in the direction of the altar, he felt the program respond to his presence. The shrieks of the birds grew louder, the wind in the trees fiercer, the sense of danger more immediate.
Worf could feel his pulse quickening, his blood growing hotter. His lips pulled back in anticipation of the battle to come.
And Wolverine was right behind him, his eyes sliding warily from side to side, his nostrils flaring beneath his mask. It seemed he could sense the danger as well.
But then, as Worf understood it, the mutant's faculties of smell and hearing-not to mention his most basic, primitive instincts-were far superior to those of normal humans. In that regard, Wolverine was more like the Terran predator he had been named for.
Or-Worf thought-more like a Klingon.
The only thing about Wolverine he didn't understand was the mutant's disguise. If a warrior concealed his identity from others, how could he bring honor to his house?"
"They're out there," Wolverine whispered.
"Indeed," Worf responded.
The mutant's lip curled. "So what are they waitin' for?"
As if that were a cue, adversaries charged them from four different directions. Worf flung his bat'leth up in time to ward off the mace-stroke of a hulking, blue-skinned Pandrilite, then whirled and parried the sword thrust of a lightning-quick Orion.
A glance told him Wolverine wasn't bored either. A Chardeni whipmaster was trying to snare the mutant's ankles while a Drilikan assassin looped a garrot around his neck.
With the claws of one hand, Wolverine sliced off the business end of the whip and drove his fist into the Chardeni's face. Unfortunately, he wasn't quick enough to prevent the garrot from taking hold around his neck-but even then, he was far from vanquished.
Driving his elbow into the Drilikan's ribs, the mutant cracked a couple, forcing his adversary to loosen his grip. Then, with some room in which to work, he slashed the assassin's belly.
Worf, meanwhile, was getting a workout. No sooner had he opened the Pandrilite's throat with his bat'leth than the Orion was on the attack again. Ducking the green man's flashing steel, the Klingon parried a second assault and a third.
Then, just when the Orion thought he was gaining the advantage, Worf struck low and swept his legs out from under him. With a single, quick thrust, the Klingon finished off his adversary.
Some of Worf's colleagues might have been shocked at his love of violence. But not Wolverine, he knew. Turning to the mutant, the Klingon grinned.
Wolverine was grinning too. "Not bad for a start," he gibed. "But when're we gonna see some real action?"
In answer to his question, a shaggy Bandelaar dropped on him from the trees above. Pinning the mutant to the ground, he raised a large and deadly looking axe over his head.
Taking two quick steps, Worf hurled himself at the Bandelaar. He managed to knock the alien off-balance before he could bring his weapon down on Wolverine's head. Then, before the Bandelaar could recover, the Klingon sliced his axe-handle in two.
Weaponless, the alien reached out and grasped Worf's naked throat. The Klingon felt his windpipe closing in the Bandelaar's vicelike grip. Reluctant to let his enemy finish the job, he plunged the point of his bat'leth into his opponent's ribs.
That made the Bandelaar let go in a hurry. With his throat open for business again, Worf raised his weapon and savagely terminated his adversary's brief existence.
That's when he saw someone big and dark hurtling out of the jungle at him. A Shriiton trident-warrior, he thought. Whirling, he tried to brace himself for the newcomer's attack.
It turned out not to be necessary. Before the Shriiton could get anywhere near the Klingon, Wolverine tackled him.
For a moment, the trident-warrior and the mutant rolled across the clearing, driven by their momentum. Then they scrambled to their feet, separated by less than a meter. The Shriiton thrust his weapon at Wolverine, who caught it and broke its shaft over his knee.
As the alien tried to regain his balance, the mutant drove his heel into the Shritton's belly. When the trident-warrior groaned and doubled over, Wolverine laced his fingers together and delivered a two-handed blow to the back of the neck.
The Shriiton collapsed and fell on his face. After a moment or two, it was clear he wasn't getting up again. The mutant made a show of brushing off his hands, then turned to Worf.
"Don't tell me that's it," he said.
"Actually," the Klingon told him, "we are just warming up." He looked up. "Computer-Level Four."
Wolverine's eyes narrowed. "Geez, Worf-ya mean we've been loungin' on Level Three the whole time?"
The Klingon shook his head. "No. On Level One."
Then there was no time to talk. He was too busy defending himself against one enemy after the other.