Enigma - Michael Jan Friedman [71]
Worse, their borrowed ship’s shields and weapons were humming along at full power, an unavoidable consequence of the way the vessel was designed. So it would not only look hostile, it would prevent anyone from scanning it to see who was inside.
On top of that, the scout ship had a remote self-destruct device—which Otholannin had said he would use in a heartbeat, if he even began to suspect that Ben Zoma might betray him. After all, the First One didn’t want his people’s tech secrets delivered to the Federation—not any more than the Federation had wanted its secrets delivered to the D’prayl.
Of course, the odds were that Ben Zoma and Paris would be reduced to space dust by their colleagues long before Otholannin might be tempted to use his self-destruct option. However, the stakes were high enough that both Starfleet officers had been willing to take the risk.
Besides, Ben Zoma had an idea.
“We’re almost in weapons range,” said Paris.
That was the first officer’s cue. Getting out of his seat, he made his way aft, where their cargo was waiting in the scout ship’s cramped little hold.
It was a roll of the same flat, pale foodstuff that he and his team had discovered in the D’prayl supply vessel. As he wrestled it over to the scout’s hatch, which was about two meters tall and a bit more than two meters wide, he was forcefully reminded of how badly the stuff smelled.
However, he had put up with it in the supply ship, knowing what it meant to the future of the Federation. And for the same reason, he would put up with it now.
Carefully, Ben Zoma eased the roll to the floor. Then he swiveled it around a bit, lining it up until its long dimension was parallel with the hatch in the side of the vessel.
Only when he was satisfied with its positioning did he stand up and press a bulkhead control, opening the hatch. Then he returned to his cargo and sent it rolling out into space.
But he didn’t let it go all at once. He held onto one end, anchoring it as it began to unravel. Slowly, propelled by nothing except the momentum Ben Zoma had lent it, the length of foodstuff extended itself into the void.
Unfortunately, there was nothing to stop the air in the ship from whistling out as well—a fact that was hardly conducive to the survival of the craft’s human occupants.
Ben Zoma would have loved to be wearing his containment suit at a time like this. However, the D’prayl had destroyed all the stowaways’ suits in an expression of disdain, long before Ben Zoma and McAteer got a chance to speak with Otholannin.
It was getting impossible to breathe, and cold too. But the first officer didn’t dare close the hatch for fear that the ribbon wouldn’t unravel all the way.
Only when it had unfurled completely did he toss the rest of it away. It continued to move away from him, vaguely snakelike in appearance, an unexpected ripple against the stars. And as it undulated out there, it displayed something that he had written on it with a dark dye made of fruit juice. It wasn’t much, but he believed it would do the trick.
If it was seen by the right person.
Getting to his feet, Ben Zoma lurched for the hatch control and pushed it again. But there was hardly any air left in the cabin, and it was colder than any place he could remember.
Groaning with the attempt to draw oxygen into his lungs, he dragged himself to the tiny port in the hatch and peered through it. The roll was still undulating, slowly and awkwardly, making its way through space.
Ben Zoma bit his lip. A lot was riding on this stunt. He could only hope that his friend got the message in time.
Picard was regarding the enemy, waiting for them to make a move, when he saw a single vessel break ranks and start to cover the distance between the fleets.
“Scan her,” he told Gerda.
The navigator shook her head. “I can’t, sir. Not without disabling her emitters.”
Picard frowned. It wouldn’t take long, but they didn’t have the time. “Ready phasers.”
“Phasers ready,” said Vigo.
The vessel wasn’t very