Blind Man's Bluff

Blind Man's Bluff - By Peter David


Xenex

Now


M’k’n’zy of Calhoun was alone, which prompted him to wonder, Where the hell are they?

M’k’n’zy kept his back against the rocky wall of the mountain behind him. His breathing was light and shallow, and anyone listening in—and he was certain there was no one around—would have been hard-pressed to hear any manner of stress or strain in it. Furthermore, if any observers had happened to have biological sensors with them and been monitoring his heartbeat from a distance, they would have discovered that his pulse was slow and steady. Had he been lying out on a towel at some comfortable beach resort, he would have displayed about the same level of readings.

In short, anyone who was studying M’k’n’zy’s current situation would never have guessed that he was fighting for his life.

One might have surmised it was because M’k’n’zy had been fighting for his life for as long as he could remember, and had simply grown beyond both the fear and the adrenaline rush that others had when they were in similar situations. This, however, would have been an underestimation of the man. It had nothing to do with repetition. Instead it stemmed entirely from the way he had trained himself since the beginning of his career as the warlord of Xenex.

It hadn’t been that way in the beginning. When, at the tender age of fourteen, he had killed his first enemy, his breath had come in ragged gasps, and excitement had pounded through his body. It had taken long minutes for him to calm down as he stared at the corpse of his enemy and both savored and feared the fact that it had been his hand that had struck the lethal blow.

But he had learned in short order that such unfocused concepts as fright or excitement reduced his efficiency as a killer. That’s what a warlord was, after all: A killer who was very, very good at his job. So good, in fact, that others were willing to follow him through the gates of hell if it meant conquering an enemy.

So M’k’n’zy had ruthlessly trained himself to get a solid grip on his own biology. To him, his reactions (or lack thereof) were simply another tool or skill set to be honed, along with aim and swordsmanship. He would observe the men he led into battle, and he would see the fire in their eyes and the fury in their movements, and he wished he could impart some of his own cold-bloodedness to them. But he knew that ultimately everyone had their limits and they did the best they could with whatever the gods had given them. It was simply one of M’k’n’zy’s gifts—along with an ability to sense danger that bordered on the supernatural—that he was able to go into battle with such dispassion that he might as well have been a passive witness instead of a participant.

As a result, some who watched M’k’n’zy in action came to the conclusion that he was indifferent to the outcome of his battles. Some even whispered to each other, when they were sure he wasn’t around, that he had some manner of death wish.

Nothing could have been further from the truth. M’k’n’zy had no desire to die. This was the reason he had developed the technique of disconnect that had served him so well. Too many people perished in skirmishes because they allowed the heat of the battle to overwhelm them, and thus either made mistakes or got themselves in so deep that they froze in fear, suddenly believing that they would not get out of the situation alive. To allow for the possibility of your own death was to see it in your mind’s eye, and mental visualizations could lead to real-world consequences. Imagining what would happen if an opponent succeeded in splitting your skull open with an axe or blowing it off with a blaster was exactly the thing that could lead to your decapitation.

He who hesitates is lost. A worthwhile and salient human saying, and one with which M’k’n’zy readily agreed.

So removing oneself emotionally from the fray was the best way to survive it. This was the philosophy under which M’k’n’zy had lived his life and, as a result, he had continued to live.

It was uncertain, however, just how much longer he was going to be able to claim that status.

Where the hell are they? M’k’n’zy wondered yet again. He did not allow fear for his followers to cloud his concerns. It was more irritation that they were not where they were supposed to be. He had waited long enough to realize they were not going to meet with him as intended. That meant one of two things: they had been wiped out to the man, which of course he hoped was not the case; or, the enemy had managed to cut off their route to the rendezvous point. Naturally M’k’n’zy had anticipated that possibility, and so he had arranged a backup meeting place.

The only remaining question was whether M’k’n’zy would be able to make it there.

He reached out with his finely honed senses, endeavoring to determine if he was truly alone. The rocky pass in which he was secreted was an excellent place for an ambush. He was under a stone overhang that shielded him from the view of anyone who might be above him, while offering a clear sightline into a passageway below. Anyone trying to make their way through the crevasse running through the mountain would be a perfect target for him.

He had to work on the assumption, though, that the enemy would not be that stupid. If they were, well, then it was a gift and he would take full advantage of it. But there was no point in sitting around and waiting to see if anyone showed up that he could try to pick off from hiding, particularly if it delayed his meeting up with his troops.

It wasn’t as if the enemy was especially stealthy; their armor made a distinctive clanking when they approached. Then there was the fact that his sixth sense for danger, which had never let him down before, wasn’t alerting him to any immediate threat. He was safe, or at least as safe as the current situation permitted.

M’k’n’zy knew his way around the mountains of Xenex better than any other man alive. He knew that, from where he was positioned, there was an angled, sheltered pathway that would get him to the ground without exposing him to attack. It would be an easy matter to make it to that path unobserved.

The ideal course of action would have been to wait for night, but he had no desire to remain separated from his troops for that long. They needed him. They were up against a devastating, even overwhelming enemy, and his leadership and skill were an absolute necessity. He cursed his inability to communicate with them over long distances, and resolved that—once this business was done—he would make certain that the Xenexian army was properly outfitted with the sort of equipment necessary to fight a war. Certainly he had to assume that their enemies possessed the ability to stay in touch with each other, as if the Xenexians didn’t already have enough disadvantages.

The sun was not quite at its zenith, and M’k’n’zy decided not to wait any longer. Keeping to the wall as closely as possible, he started making his way toward the path that would take him to the ground. From there he would head due east, trying to stick to areas of cover as much as possible. There would be a few points along the way where he would be vulnerable to observers, but it couldn’t be helped. He would just have to trust his reflexes and experiences to see him through.

Frequently the planet itself was the single greatest defense against intruders, because off-worlders typically found the brutal Xenexian climate to be nearly overwhelming. Unfortunately that was not the case now. The enemy that M’k’n’zy was facing was as indifferent to the heat as was M’k’n’zy himself. He could not count on the environment to wear them down or make them think that departing Xenex in exasperation was the best option. If he and his men were going to get rid of them, it was going to have to be done by outthinking and outmaneuvering them.

The long minutes crawled past. The entire way down, M’k’n’zy kept waiting for some sort of attack. He was holding a sword in his hand, keeping it firm and steady.

Ten feet shy of reaching the ground, he stopped dead.

Something was wrong up ahead. He wasn’t sure what it was, but that alone was enough to bring him to full alert. He strained, trying to see what could possibly be waiting for him that presented a threat, but there didn’t appear to be anything. Nevertheless the hairs on the back of his neck were prickling, and that was enough to keep him rooted to the spot.

He glanced down and picked up a rock at his feet. It had some decent heft to it. He cradled it for a moment and then lobbed it down the stony, uneven path before him. It clacked and clattered its way down, and for a few moments, M’k’n’zy was sure that his sixth sense had betrayed him. He wasn’t quite sure how to react to that: Was it better that someone wasn’t trying to kill him, or that the instincts upon which he had depended for so long had somehow gone awry?

The ground exploded in front of him.

Landmine screamed through his head even as the blast knocked him backward. He cursed himself for his sloppiness; he should have braced his back against the rock wall again rather than standing there like an idiot, waiting to see what would happen. He fell back heavily, scraping his elbows, pain shooting through his arms. In a strange way, he welcomed it. It was a harsh reminder that he could take nothing for granted and had to allow for every possible eventuality.

He heard a familiar clanking from below. His sharp ears told him that it was only one person approaching him. A lookout must have been left behind to monitor the booby trap. And that sentinel, M’k’n’zy realized, would likely think that he was going to come upon the remains of a badly shredded body instead of an enemy who was ready for battle.

With the thought came instant action; hesitation simply was not part of M’k’n’zy’s genetic code. He was still about ten feet above the pathway below, and without pausing, M’k’n’zy scrambled to his feet and vaulted off the uneven path. For an instant he hung in the air, and it felt free and liberating, and then he landed noiselessly on the ground below. He had kept his arm extended and away from him so that he didn’t chance landing on his own sword, since that would certainly be an ignominious way to end a storied career.

He sprinted forward, silent, and within seconds saw exactly what he knew he was going to see.

An armored figure, with a helmet that completely encased its head so that no hint of features was visible, stood at the base of the path that twisted upward into the hills. It was scanning the area, using the thermal imaging that M’k’n’zy knew provided it with the ability to see its surroundings. He also knew that he had scant seconds before the armored figure became aware of him, and he raced toward his enemy.

He was not quick enough.

The armored figure turned and looked right at him, and then brought its palm level with M’k’n’zy. It was frustrating to M’k’n’zy that his enemies did not carry sidearms. Blasters or disruptors or phasers could be knocked out of their hands, rendering them weaponless and giving him an advantage. These bastards had all their weaponry built right into their armor, and that made disarming them impossible. The only option left was killing them. Not that M’k’n’zy would hesitate to do so, but it seemed a waste, making it impossible to take one of them down and grill him for information. They had two modes: attack and dead.

The one thing that M’k’n’zy had going for him was that, when his enemy did fire, the weapon required a few moments to recharge. By contrast, M’k’n’zy’s sword didn’t need any time at all.

Energy crackled in the palm of the armored figure’s metal gauntlet and M’k’n’zy knew he was going to have to time his movement perfectly. He also needed to get his attacker to commit to the assault. He charged with all of his body weight leaning forward, howling a defiant battlecry, conveying in every way the image of someone totally committed to this particular path and trajectory, either unaware or uncaring of whatever offensive strategy the enemy might employ.

The armored figure unleashed a blast of energy when M’k’n’zy was still ten feet away.

M’k’n’zy never slowed his attack. Instead he leaped to the side, rebounding directly off the mountainous wall to his right. He felt the air sizzling just to his left, and some of his hair crispened slightly. If the blast had struck home, or even provided a glancing blow, he would have been finished.

As it was, the angle of his attack brought him within range of his assailant. He saw the target that he needed: the small vent on the side of the helmet, the one that permitted the creatures to keep their inner temperature balanced. It was incredibly narrow, seemingly impregnable. A flaw in their armor that should not have put them at risk in any way.

M’k’n’zy drove the point of his sword forward, trying to stab deep into the vent.

He almost made it.

The armored being moved with a speed that belied its appearance. It brought up its hand and brushed aside M’k’n’zy’s blade just before the sword could strike home. The enemy’s weaponry had not recharged yet, but it didn’t matter. The soldier swung his fist around in a pile driver move that struck M’k’n’zy in the temple, knocking him to the ground. Scalding heat radiated along the glove and seared M’k’n’zy’s skin. M’k’n’zy cried out as he hit the ground and the sword was jolted out of his grasp.

M’k’n’zy twisted around and saw the bottom of his enemy’s boot driving straight toward his head. He rolled to the side, barely evading the attack, and instead the foot came down on his sword, shattering it.

Quickly M’k’n’zy got to his feet and tried to find a new direction from which he could come at his opponent, but the armored figure wasn’t giving him the opportunity. Instead it brought its hand up again, its weapon fully charged, and from this distance it seemed there was simply no way that it could miss him.

The armored figure fired.

And missed.

M’k’n’zy had dropped to the ground faster than would have seemed possible, and the air again fried over his head. The cliffside behind him exploded, rock fragments flying. Pieces rebounded around him, and he brought up his arms to shield his head. There was a series of rapid pok sounds as the debris ricocheted off his opponent’s armor.

Then M’k’n’zy saw several shards of rock within his reach. He grabbed them up, lunged to his feet, and collided with the armored figure even as he brought his hand up and around and shoved as hard as he could. The prolonged contact with the superheated armor was even worse this time, and M’k’n’zy wanted to scream in agony as he clutched on like a bat, pounding the rock fragments into the vent. But he refused to give his opponent the satisfaction of hearing his weakness.

Instead he punched his fist once, twice more against the vent, which was all he could do before his mind nearly went into sensory overload from the pain of being against the armor. Then he fell backward and hit the ground, rolling into a crouch. His battle-trained mind was already coming up with a new plan of attack.

As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary. The armored figure was staggering, clutching at the area of the vent access. M’k’n’zy was thrilled to see that there were fragments of rock wedged in, and they weren’t coming out anytime soon. The thick fingers of the figure’s gloves were unable to get any sort of grip on them.

The armored figure twisted and spun bizarrely, as if it were some sort of stringed puppet whose operator was completely inebriated. The legs began shaking, the knees buckling, and it was clawing at its helmet. For a moment, M’k’n’zy thought he might actually see the unprotected head of one of the damned things. He wasn’t entirely sure if they could survive without the helmet since he wasn’t certain of the environment that had spawned them. For that matter, he wasn’t altogether positive that—if one of them exposed its head—he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself from grabbing the nearest blunt object and using it to reduce the bastard’s skull to a bloody pulp.

The armored figure was shuddering even more violently, and then M’k’n’zy was sure that he heard a muffled explosion from within the armor. The soldier’s arms flew out to either side and his body trembled one final time. Then, like a newly chopped tree, he fell slowly forward and hit the ground with a resounding thud. He lay there, flat and unmoving, and it was obvious to M’k’n’zy that his opponent would not be trying to kill anyone else in this life.

He stood over his downed foe, knowing and regretting the fact that he didn’t have any tools that would have enabled him to crack open the armor. Then, before he even knew he was going to do it, he drew back a leg and drove a furious kick straight into the side of the armored figure. It tilted slightly from the impact but otherwise didn’t move.

It was a rare indulgence for M’k’n’zy, allowing anger to seize him in such a way that he would waste the energy on physically assaulting someone who posed no threat.

He was surprised by the result as yet another explosion, this one even louder, sounded from within the armor. He jumped back, alert to whatever danger might be posed by the discharge, but he needn’t have concerned himself. The armor contained the detonation. It bent outward slightly, bulges appearing all over it. Other than that, aside from the muffled noise, no one would have known that anything untoward was transpiring. Indeed M’k’n’zy, standing a short distance away and looking on in confusion, wasn’t entirely certain what had just happened. He couldn’t tell whether the second explosion had been some biological follow-up—perhaps a cataclysmic release of internal gasses—or if it had been some sort of fail-safe within the armor itself, determining that the warrior within was no longer capable of functioning and self-detonating to prevent enemy capture. Either way, it was the final movement that the downed combatant made.

M’k’n’zy allowed himself only the briefest moment of relief, a quick exhalation in a situation where others might have needed to take a few minutes to compose themselves. It wasn’t as if near-death experiences were uncommon for those who walked the same path that M’k’n’zy did. But it was a somber fact that M’k’n’zy seemed to have far more close scrapes with death than the average individual.

He briefly considered the idea of trying to drag his fallen opponent with him. Perhaps someone else might have some thoughts as to how to crack open the armor. He then dismissed the idea in short order, for two reasons: First, the surface of the armor was still hot to the touch, and waiting around for it to cool down—presuming it ever did—simply was not an option. And second, the armored figure was just too damned heavy. If he had an antigravity sled or maybe about a dozen extra hands, it might have been feasible. But he possessed none of those things, and so dismissed the idea.

Leaving the body behind, he continued to the backup rendezvous point. It was a network of caves at the base of the Tower Rim, a mountain range that had often served him in the past as a refuge where he could elude pursuit.

As he ran, doing his best to stick to concealment, he was already developing new strategies to use against the enemy, new ambushes that might be planned, and new ways to marshal his forces as effectively as possible. There was never a moment where M’k’n’zy considered the notion that his people might be defeated and that he himself would fall before the weaponry of the enemy. He was prepared for setbacks. Everyone had them. But there was no question in his mind that he would eventually triumph.

He encountered none of the enemy as he made his way to the Tower Rim. He wondered if this was simple happenstance or if it was indicative of something bigger. Was there a possibility that they had withdrawn from Xenex entirely? If that was the case, then how had he happened to encounter and kill one of them? Perhaps he was the last one remaining on the planet’s surface, separated from the rest of his squadron, and they’d had the poor luck to run into each other. At least the other guy’s luck wound up being poorer than mine, M’k’n’zy thought grimly.

It seemed to M’k’n’zy that the sun had not moved in its path across the sky, as if time itself had come to a halt.

He made it to the base of the Tower Rim, so named for the unusually tall peaks that dotted the area. It was one of his favorite hiding places, since the height of the rocky spires that surrounded them made aerial attack problematic. The spires provided some degree of protection. Even if enemies got it in their heads to carpet bomb the entire area, the network of caves that threaded through the Rim afforded considerable protection.

He arrived at the mouth of the cave entrance where he was expecting to see his people. The stench of death wafted through the air.

“No,” he whispered, as he froze there in a rare instance of uncertainty as to what to do next. He wanted to believe that his senses were wrong. Or it could have been that he was detecting the remains of some random animal rather than what he was afraid that he perceived.

It only took moments for his olfactory senses to confirm for him, however, that his first impressions were exactly correct. The contents of the cave were precisely what he feared them to be.

His feet growing heavier with each step, he entered the cave. He knew that he was potentially heading into danger, but he trusted his instinct to alert him to any such hazards. Furthermore, on some level, he simply didn’t care. If something was lurking within, then he was essentially inviting it to take its best shot. He would either kill it or he would be killed, and at that moment he wasn’t sure which outcome was preferable.

He moved slowly through the dark, his eyes adjusting immediately to the dimness as they typically did. To some degree it didn’t matter; his nose would have been able to guide him even if he’d been stumbling around sightless.

Bastards. Bastards, kept going through his mind, stoking the fire in his chest that was helping to propel him forward when so much of him simply wanted to give up.

M’k’n’zy stopped just short of the first body, his foot nearly bumping up against it. He knelt next to the corpse and discovered it to be one of his lieutenants, a young woman who had possessed a steely gaze and a projected sense of invincibility. In that regard, she had reminded M’k’n’zy of himself. The reality, however, had proven to be other than that which she had believed, as evidenced by her corpse. The right side of her face and much of the right side of her body had been burned away. It might have been from the superheating of the enemy’s armor or perhaps an unleashed blast of power that had broiled her flesh. M’k’n’zy supposed that it didn’t make much difference either way. Dead was dead.

So were a number of the others.

Bodies were scattered all over the cave. There was blood everywhere, on the ground and spattered against the interior wall, mixed in with scorch marks indicating that considerable power had been unleashed. It was painfully obvious what had happened: The enemy had tracked them there somehow, found them, and attacked. M’k’n’zy’s people had put up a valiant defense; that much M’k’n’zy was able to discern by looking at the scuff marks on the ground. From those he could determine how many people had been engaged in battle and exactly how the fight had gone, even if the bodies hadn’t been lying there to inform him of what he already knew.

He sagged to his knees, momentarily overwhelmed. How long had they been waiting for him? Did they die thinking that M’k’n’zy was already dead and their situation hopeless? Did they hold out hope for a rescue right up until the last moment when the life had fled their bodies?

“I’m sorry I let you down,” he whispered.

Then he began counting.

Within sixty seconds, he determined that several people were missing. That meant one of two things: they had managed to escape, or else they had been taken prisoner. The former was far more likely, because this particular enemy wasn’t big on taking prisoners.

Either way, it meant that M’k’n’zy could still save some lives.

He had not noticed anything on the ground at the entrance to the cave, but that was because he hadn’t been looking. His awareness of what was awaiting him in the cave had distracted him. Now, though, he scrutinized the ground, looking for a hint of where the survivors had gone, and—even more important—if there was some way that he could follow them.

Any other eye would have been stymied in the attempt, but M’k’n’zy was quickly able to discern small fragments of dirt, broken stone, and marks that served to tell him with clarity which way his people were and what their condition was.

He set off after them.

And as he did so, he couldn’t help but ponder the fact that mere decades earlier, he had been a youthful warlord, his clothes little more than tatters, his shaggy mane of hair hanging askew around his shoulders, leading his Xenexian comrades against a foe determined to crush them. It was during that time that he had made a name for himself, a name that had united the Xenexians and made them a formidable race that would never again allow itself to be conquered. It was also a name that had attracted the attention of one Jean-Luc Picard, a Starfleet officer who had taken an interest in the young M’k’n’zy and had suggested to him that a career in Starfleet was a path worth pursuing. M’k’n’zy had taken him up on his offer after much consideration, and eventually he had become better known as Mackenzie Calhoun.

Now his two worlds had collided. Calhoun was using all the knowledge, all the cunning and savvy that he had learned under fire in his youth, combined with all the tactics and wisdom he had accrued over the years as a Starfleet captain, to aid his people in battling a fearsome enemy that he had encountered during his tenure as captain of the Excalibur.

The Brethren—the fearsome armored race that had slaughtered so many aboard the Excalibur’s sister ship, the Trident; the race that Dr. Selar had died battling—were pursing him and his people across the face of Xenex.

And there was no way of knowing when, or if, help would ever arrive.