Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [100]
Picard felt empty inside. His people, his ship—they had done everything he’d asked of them and more. He’d come so close. But now there didn’t seem to be any option but surrender.
At the sound of a snarl, he turned. It was Worf at the battle bridge’s tactical console.
“The Romulans are hailing us,” the Klingon reported, his expression evidence of his own heartfelt frustration. “The communication is coming from the vessel we just stripped of its weapons function.”
The captain swallowed his pride. “On screen, Lieutenant.”
In an eyeblink, the image of the newly arrived warbirds gave way to a new one—that of a high-ranking Romulan official. What’s more, Picard recognized the face.
“Proconsul Eragian,” he observed.
“I see you remember me,” said the proconsul. “I am flattered, Captain. Now, if I were you, I would lower what remains of my shields and prepare to be boarded.”
The very idea went against Picard’s grain. On the other hand, to do otherwise would be to seal the deaths of the battle section’s crew—not to mention those on the Yorktown. He sighed. There was nothing left but to ask for terms and hope that Eragian would be magnanimous enough to grant them.
Just then, he felt a hand on his arm. Turning, he saw Admiral McCoy standing beside him, his eyes focused on the image of the proconsul.
“Let me try something,” the admiral whispered.
The captain looked at him. The last time McCoy had “tried something,” he’d made a mess of things. But there was something in the jut of the man’s jaw that encouraged optimism this time around.
Besides, thought Picard—what did they have to lose?
“All right,” the captain replied sotto voce. “Good luck.”
The admiral stepped closer to the screen, purposely eclipsing Eragian’s view of the captain. “I don’t think we’ve met,” he said. “My name is McCoy. Admiral Leonard McCoy.”
The proconsul sized him up. “Is it your function to ask for surrender terms?” he asked.
The admiral smiled at him, as if that were the furthest thing from his mind. “It’s my function,” he replied, “to suggest an alternative to this combat we’ve been engaged in.”
“I see,” commented the Romulan. “How thoughtful of you. And why would I entertain one of your suggestions—when I so clearly enjoy the upper hand at this juncture?”
“Well,” said McCoy, “you’ve heard some of this before—but I think it bears repeating. After all, these unificationists present a problem, you have to admit. And you could solve that problem by letting us slip away with them, quietly. That way, you look like a hero—and there’s no need to give any credit to that o hound dog Tharrus.”
It seemed to Picard that the mention of Tharrus had piqued Eragian’s curiosity. Some Romulans were good at keeping their emotions to themselves; apparently this fellow wasn’t one of them.
“Y’see,” the admiral continued, “we’re aware of the little o tug-of-war going on between Constanthus and Romulus. I won’t waste your time or mine by going into unnecessary detail. Let’s just say this could be one of those scenarios where everybody wins.
“The Federation gets to sweep an embarrassment to Vulcan under the rug. You, Proconsul, come out smelling like a rose. And the only loser in all of this would be our friend the governor—though, frankly, I don’t like that scalawag any better than the folks on Romulus do.”
Eragian seemed to consider the human’s approach. But after a while, he grunted disdainfully. “I could turn my weapons on you and accomplish the same thing, could I not? Would that not rid the homeworld of the problem just as easily?”
Picard tried his best not to frown. He had seen that hole in the older man’s logic from the beginning. But McCoy didn’t seem to be taken aback by the Romulan’s response.
“You’re absolutely right,” the admiral told him, wagging a finger at the screen. “The problem is, that would almost certainly be the start of a shooting war between the Empire and the Federation.” He paused. “And unless I miss my guess, the Empire has devoted a significant number