Double Helix 03_ Red Sector - Diane Carey [12]
There were only moments left before the two craft would intersect. Seconds-Stiles bolted to his feet, driven by a rash decision.
“Ambassador, can you pilot this coach? Ah-what am I saying! I’m so-I’m such-of course you can!”
As Stiles stepped through the hatch, Spock stood aside as if he were clairvoyant about Stiles’ intentions.
“I understand, Ensign,” the ambassador said as he slid into the pilot’s seat. “You know your nominal weapons will be ineffective against an assault/interceptor.”
Stiles yanked open the equipment locker and pulled out an air mask and gloves. Dry-mouthed and ashamed, he rasped, “It’s my duty to try, sir.” “Commendable.”
Perraton twisted around in his seat. “What’s going on? Eric? What’re you doing? Where do you think you’re going?” Then his blue eyes flashed with shock. “You’re not going out in the Frog !”
Harnessed by his failure to master the savoir-faire of command, Stiles didn’t respond. He yanked on his gloves and slipped the air mask’s strap over his head.
“Oh, no!” Thrusting to his feet, Perraton grasped Stiles’s arm, forcing Stiles to shake him off in order to yank on a thermal jacket. “Eric, you’re not serious?
“As you were, Mr. Perraton;’ Spock advised, steering the coach masterfully through the angry mountains.
Perraton shrank back into his seat, cold with astonishment, his lips working as he tried to think of something to say.
Spock adjusted his pitch controls, but continued speaking to Stiles. “The midwing is unlikely to be able to divert a craft of that mass,” he attempted again. Was he trying to talk Stiles out of going?
“I know that, sir,” Stiles said. “But by my calculations you only need an additional fifteen seconds to get up enough speed to break out of the atmosphere over that thing.” “Eleven seconds.” “Oh… well, I’ll try to get it for you. Good luck, sir.”
Even in the midst of piloting the heavy coach, Spock bothered to turn and give him the gift of eye-to-eye contact, a deeply meaningful effort that Stiles didn’t miss. “And to you, Mr. Stiles,” he said.
Stiles closed his thermal jacket around his chest as he ran down the aisle through the glances of frightened passengers. He wanted to forget about the jacket, but training had kicked in. If he didn’t have the jacket, he’d been too cold to be effective inside the uninsulated midwing.
As he passed the side-gunner pods, Jeremy White cranked around with surprise. “Eric, where do you think you’re going? Who’s piloting?” Stiles ran past him. “Mind your gun, Jeremy.”
Spock hadn’t tried to stop him. Why not? Travis was right-this was hopeless. A twelve-foot one-man defense plane against a hundred-foot assault/interceptor?
As Stiles crawled into the Frog, the smallness of the utility craft struck him like a club. The little detachable was a holdover from previous technology, just something people expected to see on a transport coach and could be used now and then to scout a landing area or as a spotter. It had phasers, yes, but hardly more powerful than a hand phaser, and not very useful against large targets. It was amphibious, hence its nickname, but was almost never used in water; mostly it gave passengers the illusion of safety and options which it really couldn’t deliver. It hung from the belly of the big coach, more of a wart than anything useful in a battle situation.
And he was about to launch himself in this crackerbox and pretend he could do something about a hundred-foot A/I platform. He had to do something. This was something.
They didn’t need him anyway. Spock could pilot the coach, probably better than Stiles could, so he was useless here. Might as well take a wild shot at clearing the coach past the platform out there. The A/I was big, but not maneuverable. It was made to do exactly what it was doing-hover out there, block the path,