Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [52]
“Alt right, then,” Picard told him, ignoring the comparison. “Forget how long I’ve been doing this. Think of the officers we’re sending out in that shuttle. Think of the lives you’re playing fast and loose with.”
McCoy’s nostrils flared. “I am thinking of lives,” he replied, his anger boiling over. “I’m a doctor, dammit. I’ve never thought of anything else.”
“Then act like it,” the captain told him. “Give up this
. . this plan of yours.”
“Not a chance,” the admiral insisted. “To save a patient, you’ve got to act quickly sometimes. You’ve got to make choices. And you’ve got to live with the choices you make.” He stuck his thumb in his chest. “This is a choice I can live with.”
Picard bit his lip. This jousting was getting him nowhere. If he couldn’t put a cap on his anger, he would lose everything.
Taking a deep breath, he forced himself to think rationally. To appeal to McCoy’s better judgment.
“I beg you to reconsider,” he said. “Romulus is a strict hierarchy, after all. Once you ignore that fact, you’re asking for trouble. And with the stakes so high—”
“I told you,” the admiral advised him, unrelenting in his stubbornness. “I’ve already given this plenty of thought. Now it’s time to act.”
He started toward the door. Without thinking, Picard grasped him by his spindly upper arm—an action he immediately regretted.
McCoy’s eyes blazed. “I have no desire,” the man said in a low voice, “to throw you in the brig, Captain. But if you make it necessary, I’ll do just that.
“Picard released him. He had never before felt so helpless. There had to be a way to get through to him—to make him understand.
“Admiral,” he pleaded, “you are going to get someone killed. How can I make you see that?”
McCoy didn’t answer. He simply turned and exited the observation lounge, leaving the captain alone.
Behind his back, Picard could hear the admiral address Lieutenant Worf. “Open a channel for me,” the older man snapped.
The Klingon hesitated, no doubt wondering why McCoy was giving such an order. Finally he asked “Where is the captain?”
“Forget the captain,” the admiral ordered. “You’ll answer to me now.”
Silence.
Picard knew that Worf would not simply obey McCoy’s directives—not without some explanation. After all, personal loyalty meant even more to the Klingon than his duty to Starfleet.
Sighing, the captain exited the lounge. All eyes were drawn to him—Worf’s in particular.
“You have received an order,” he told the Klingon, the apology in his voice belying the harshness of his words. “You will follow it, Lieutenant.”
“Well?” said McCoy. “Are you going to open that channel or not?”
Worf scowled, obviously still uncomfortable with the situation. But this time he did as he was told.
“To what location?” he asked.
The admiral darted a glance at Picard. “To Constanthus, Mister Worf.”
As the Klingon complied, albeit reluctantly, the captain crossed in back of him and made his way to the turbolift. Nor, when its doors opened, did he look back.
He simply stepped inside and let the doors whisper closed again. For the first time in years, someone else was in charge of the Enterprise.
CHAPTER 13
Lieutenant Goodwin turned and saw Commander Riker enter the shuttlebay with Commanders La Forge and Data close behind him. He bit his lip and concentrated on running the shuttle Justman through some last-second diagnostics.
“Mister Goodwin,” said the first officer.
The lieutenant sighed, raised his head, and saw the frown on Riker’s face.
“Aye, sir?” he replied, wincing at the catch in his voice that made him sound like someone much younger than his twenty-eight years.
“I alerted you that we needed a shuttlecraft nearly five minutes ago,” the first officer told him. His voice was gentle but firm. “Don’t tell me you’re still running diagnostic routines.”
“Actually,” said Goodwin, “I am, sir.”
Riker’s frown deepened a little. “It shouldn’t take more than a minute to get a shuttle ready for departure, Lieutenant. What have you been doing for the last five