Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [99]
“Let them,” he said.
It wasn’t as if he had any choice, given the poor condition of the Yorktown. Still, the admiral liked the captain’s style.
Picard didn’t flinch as the warbirds loomed on the screen. “Target the third vessel only,” he instructed. “As before, phasers as well as torpedoes—but this time, give it everything we’ve got. Our objective remains the same.”
“Its weapons banks,” Worf confirmed. “Targeted and ready, sir.”
The admiral clenched his teeth. By emptying their larder, the captain was gambling everything on this next roll of the dice.
And why not? In this kind of confrontation there would be no opportunity for clever maneuvers—at least not on Picard’s part. Even though his shields were badly depleted, he couldn’t budge from his position, and everyone knew it—the Romulans included.
The question was
could the enemy take advantage of it? Hobbled as they were, was their brute force greater than that of the Enterprise?
“Fire!” the captain commanded.
Predictably, their adversaries had the same idea. The viewscreen lit up with blast after mind-searing blast, until even its built-in light dampers couldn’t disguise the hellish fury of the Romulans’ attack.
The ship lurched, the bulkheads shrieking with the strain of impact after impact. McCoy tried to anchor himself as he had before, but this time he wasn’t strong enough. Tearing loose of the control panel, the admiral felt himself pitch forward …
Until something grabbed him from behind. Looking back, he saw that it was Worf. Reeling the older man in, the Klingon held on for both of them.
At the same time, a geyser of sparks erupted from one of the aft stations, sending its operator reeling in pain. Another crew member tackled her before she could strike her head on the bulkhead—just as a second station burst into flame.
The battle bridge was a screaming, sputtering, embershot vision of chaos. And above it all, cutting through it all, Picard stood like a beacon of hope, somehow staying on his feet just forward of his center seat.
He stared at the viewscreen as if daring it to tell him he’d failed. And as it cleared, it seemed to relent before his scrutiny, showing him the Romulan ships in a ragged retreat.
As the ship regained its equilibrium, the captain didn’t call for a damage report. He just made his way forward to the Ops console, where he peered at the instruments.
No doubt, the admiral thought, there were systems offline. With luck, they wouldn’t be any of the critical ones.
“Repair crews to decks thirteen through sixteen,” Pi-card bellowed. “Doctor Selar, we’ve sustained casualties. I’ll need trauma teams on decks twelve and fifteen.”
“On my way,” the Vulcan replied.
The doctor in McCoy felt compelled to go with the trauma teams. But the admiral in him was peering at the tactical board, assessing the rest of their situation.
All in all, it seemed they’d weathered the assault pretty well. The shields were down to nothing, but most everything else was still in working order.
Picard looked to Worf. “What about the Romulans, Lieutenant?”
The Klingon took a moment to check his monitors. “Sensors show we accomplished our objective, sir. The third ship has only a single weapons bank still operational. The rest of its offensive capabilities have been disabled. Also, its shields are down twenty-eight percent.”
The captain nodded. “Then we’ve got a chance—if we can capitalize on it. Lock tractor beams on the Yorktown, Mister Worf. Let’s see if we can’t—”
“Sir!” cried Middleton, who’d suffered a cut to her temple in the confusion. She turned to Picard, eyes wide. “There are more of them on the way—bearing two-four-two-mark-four!”
The captain’s mouth became a thin, hard line. “Rear view, Ensign.”
Middleton worked her controls. A moment later the image on the viewscreen changed. Instead of three Romulan vessels in disarray, it showed three new ones, whole and eager for battle.
That made it six against one. Or two, if one included the crippled hulk of the Yorktown.
McCoy felt a deep pang of disappointment. They’d