Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [47]
Ramirez was nodding. “I was on a space station once where the humidity content of the air went from twenty-five percent to ninety percent every ten hours, to accommodate the needs of the species that had built her.”
“They should have made up their minds,” said Garner.
Ramirez chuckled. “You can say that again.”
Ben Zoma liked the banter. It kept them loose. On a mission of such importance, that could only be an asset.
Seeing nothing that might deter them from pursuing their plan, the first officer turned to Paris and said, “All right, Ensign. You can let her go.”
“Aye, sir,” said Paris.
He looked a little reticent to comply. It was understandable, considering he was the member of their team who had piloted the Livingston and therefore knew her the best.
On the other hand, her continued presence outside the supply ship was a danger to them, as she would alert the enemy that there was someone within. Removing a remote-control device from a pocket of his suit, Paris closed the Livingston’s door. Then he disengaged her and sent her on her way.
It left them alone in the alien supply vessel, without a way to get off it in the event of a problem. But with luck, they would have another way to get off soon enough.
Picard was standing in front of his captain’s chair, hands clasped behind his back as he watched the stars shoot by on his viewscreen. Not much longer now, he thought.
“Sir,” said Gerda, “I’ve got them on sensors.”
Picard didn’t turn around to face her. He didn’t have to, already knowing what she was talking about. “On screen,” he said.
The steady stream of stars vanished. And in their place, there were starships—a great many starships. Most of them resembled the Stargazer. A handful had the sleek, dynamic look of the Excelsior-class. And a few others were modeled after the larger, more powerful Ambassador prototype, still being perfected in the fleet yards at Utopia Planitia.
Picard had seen many of them at one time or another, in orbit around a starbase or at some rendezvous point. However, he had never seen them all in one place, amassed side by side against the backdrop of space.
He glanced at the monitor and read the list to himself. The Jor’fasi, named after the great liberator of the Vobilites. The Victory. The Magellan. The Hathaway. And a couple dozen others, with additional reinforcements still on the way.
They had gathered at these coordinates for one reason, one very important purpose—to defend the Federation. And in most cases, Picard would have felt confident in such impressive company. But not in this case. Not when the aliens had demonstrated an ability to plow through a starship’s defenses as if they were no more durable than spiders’ webs.
En route, Picard had received a message from Admiral Mehdi. Captain Sesballa, the Rigelian who commanded the Ambassador-class Exeter, would be giving the orders when they joined battle with the invaders.
Sesballa had distinguished himself in one of the Federation’s last clashes with the Romulans, more than two decades earlier. He had achieved success several times since then, even earning a medal or two, but it was his performance against the Romulans for which he was still remembered.
Picard had never met the fellow, but he had studied Sesballa’s tactical philosophy back at the Academy. It was conservative, methodical, an approach the young Picard had found distinctly unappealing. However, he couldn’t argue with Sesballa’s track record—not then and not now.
It came as no surprise that Starfleet Command had placed Sesballa in charge of the defense formation. He had more experience than anyone else there, and he commanded more respect from his peers. Had Greenbriar been present, the job might have fallen to him instead. But with the Cochise crippled and far away, Sesballa had to be considered the next best option.
“Hail the Exeter,” Picard said.
A moment later, a ruby-eyed Rigelian appeared on the viewscreen. The corners of his mouth were lifted in something like a grin, though his tone was anything but merry. “Sesballa