Broken Bow - Diane Carey [21]
“Ah.”
Archer just nodded, annoyed that everybody seemed to be taking classes in etiquette from the Vulcan Institute of Creative Condescension.
“That’s why,” Phlox went ignorantly on, “the Vulcans initiated the Interspecies Medical Exchange. There’s a lot to be learned.”
But Archer had stopped paying much attention. Instead, he wandered to the ward and stood over the Klingon. Was he breathing?
“Sorry I had to take you away from your program, but our doctors haven’t even heard of a Klingon.”
“Please!” Phlox blurted. “No apologies! What better time to study human beings than when they’re under pressure? It’s a rare opportunity! And your Klingon friend ... I’ve never had a chance to examine a living one before!”
“Ensign Mayweather tells me we’ll be to Qo’noS in about eighty hours.” Archer turned to the intern. “Any chance he’ll be conscious by then?”
“There’s a chance he’ll be conscious within the next ten minutes,” Phlox said. “Just not a very good one.”
“Eighty hours, Doctor,” Archer told him. “If he doesn’t walk off this ship on his own two feet, he doesn’t stand much of a chance.”
“I’ll do the best I can.” The alien smiled infectiously—and his smile got bigger, bigger ... bigger ... weirder ... “Optimism, Captain!”
Trip Tucker climbed through the ship’s cramped crawl space, a laddered passage meant pretty much for maintenance, not really for daily use. Preoccupied with thoughts divided between the ship, the captain, and the Vulcan, he didn’t even realize he had company until a boot heel scraped his shoulder. He turned and looked above him.
There, in an open gap between two ladders, Ensign Mayweather was enjoying his off time by squatting on what really was the ceiling. In space, of course, there was no real ceiling, but just an artificial feeling of up and down created by spinning gravitons.
“You’re upside down, Ensign,” he mentioned.
Travis Mayweather blinked at him. “Yes, sir.”
Tucker got the idea he’d interrupted a meditation session or something.
“Care to explain why?” Tucker asked. He really meant how.
“When I was a kid, we called it the ‘sweet spot.’ Every ship’s got one.”
“ ‘Sweet spot’?”
“It’s usually halfway between the grav-generator and the bow plate.” He pointed to a thin conduit crossing below them. “Grab hold of that conduit. Now swing your legs up.”
Tucker took a grip on the conduit, but couldn’t quite muster the nerve to jump off the ladder, the only stability between him and three decks looming below.
“Swing your legs,” Mayweather encouraged.
“Wow ...” Tucker gulped as an unseen force took hold of him with the slightest encouragement and gave him support as he twirled in sudden zero-G. He still had a grip on the conduit, just in case.
“Now, let go,” Mayweather said.
One hand, then the other ... he laughed at the sensation. Just like basic training! He spun and pirouetted merrily, tucking his legs and stretching them out again.
Then he bumped his head on the ceiling next to where the helmsman sat.
“Takes practice.” Mayweather reached for him and helped him find a stable sitting position. “Ever slept in zero-G?”
“Slept?”
“Like being back in the womb.”
Tucker paused and eyed him. “Captain tells me you’ve been to Trillius Prime.”
Mayweather nodded. “Took the fourth, fifth, and sixth grades to get there. I’ve also been to Draylax, and both the Teneebian Moons.”
“Mm ... I’ve only been to one other inhabited planet besides Earth. Nothing there but dust-dwelling ticks. I’ve heard the women on Draylax have ...”
The helmsman nodded drably. “Three. It’s true.”
“You know that firsthand?”
“Firsthand, secondhand, and thirdhand.”
Uh-huh, sailor stones already. Tucker offered a shrug and made no further comment about their slipping back into a pointlessly prepubescent moment. Officers and gentlemen, right?
“Guess growing up a boomer has it advantages,” he said, avoiding a comment about how a cow has four. They shared a silly smile.
“The Grand Canyon?”
“No.”
“Big Sur Aquarium?”
“Sightseeing was not one of my