Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [70]
“It may be too late for that,” said Otholannin. “At this very moment, we are preparing to attack a large cluster of your ships. Until now, we have attempted to avoid fatalities. But in a battle of this magnitude, there is certain to be blood shed.”
It wasn’t a boast, as far as Ben Zoma could tell. It was just the way Otholannin saw the situation.
“There must be a way to prevent it,” he said.
“We need to retrieve Rethuin,” the D’prayl replied.
“I can take care of that,” Ben Zoma told him. At least, he added silently, I think I can. “But if I do, I need you to stop your people from proceeding with their attack.”
The D’prayl frowned. “It is not my decision. It is for the First of Firsts to decide. But I warn you—he will only relent if he is absolutely certain that his kinsman will be placed in his hands.”
“He will be,” said Ben Zoma. “I’ll see to it myself. But I’ll need a vessel of some kind, and some instructions on how to pilot it. And a few…supplies.”
As Picard eyed the image on the viewscreen, he felt strangely compelled to sit back and laugh.
With more than thirty ships at Sesballa’s disposal, the Starfleet defense formation had hoped to enjoy at least a numbers advantage when the enemy appeared. But Picard could see now that even that would be denied them.
The invaders depicted on the screen were every bit as numerous as those lined up to oppose them. And of course, they hadn’t lost a single engagement yet.
Hence, the compulsion to laugh—which, of course, the captain resisted. He didn’t want to spoil what little chance he had of bringing his crew through the battle alive.
“Captain,” said Paxton, “Captain Sesballa would like to speak with you in your ready room.”
No doubt, thought Picard, to prepare me for what is ahead. He wondered if Sesballa was contacting all his colleagues, or just the youngest one.
“Inform him that I will be there in a moment,” he said, and made his way to his ready room.
Chapter Eighteen
PICARD STILL COULDN’T BELIEVE what Sesballa was telling him.
“We don’t know where it came from,” the Rigelian said, his ruby eyes twinkling as he stared out at Picard from the monitor screen in the captain’s quarters, “but if it’s what it appears to be, we may be able to meet the aliens on an equal footing.”
Picard understood his colleague’s excitement. The data gave them all kinds of insight into the aliens’ tactical systems—weapons, shields, thruster timing, all of it. It was impossible not to get excited about it.
Of course, they couldn’t trust it entirely, given the anonymity of its source. But Simenon had already decided that it had the ring of authenticity, and no one knew more about engineering theory than he did.
Besides, they didn’t have a great many other options.
“Rest assured,” said Picard, “we will make the necessary adjustments.”
“I’m sure you will,” said the Rigelian. “Sesballa out.”
Picard sat back in his chair. Suddenly, he was feeling better about facing the invaders. A lot better.
“Do you see her, sir?” asked Paris.
Ben Zoma studied the bright, eye-shaped monitor in front of him, embedded in a console covered with serpentine reliefs. “How could I miss her?” he asked ironically.
Unfortunately, the Stargazer was one of more than thirty starships amassed in front of them, more than the first officer had ever seen in one place. Under a different set of circumstances, he might have supposed that it was the enemy who was in for a beating.
But not now. Not with what the D’prayl knew about Starfleet’s tactical systems.
“No one’s fired yet,” said Paris. “Otherwise, there would be residue in the vacuum.”
Ben Zoma nodded. “Good.”
They were making their move in time. However, they still had a few small obstacles to overcome.
First off, they were in a D’prayl scout vessel, which—as it bore down on the Starfleet formation—had to have the look of a ship on a very determined suicide run. And they couldn’t send a message to their comrades to disabuse