Enigma Ship - J. Steven York [6]
“Blue,” Gold interrupted, “see to it that Soloman is checked out on the simulator and ready to fly by the time we arrive. They’re so automated, I could train a Denebian mud-monkey to fly an EVA pod. I imagine the finest computer expert in Starfleet should have no trouble.”
Soloman blinked. “May I inquire—?”
“I doubt we’ll just be able to beam into this thing,” Gomez said. “We’ll need our team out there in suits, and I’ll want someone standing by just outside, to observe and provide assistance if necessary. In an EVA pod, you’ll be able to get up close and personal with it, and comfortably stay on station much longer than someone in a space suit.”
Soloman shifted uncomfortably in his seat. It was an uncharacteristically human gesture. “Commander, I do not know if—”
“You can do this, Soloman. You will do it.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“That covers the major assignments. The rest of you provide any support or resources you can. Teams should coordinate and share information. I’ll expect progress reports at least an hour before we drop out of warp.”
Gomez looked at Gold, who gave an approving nod. “Good,” he said, and glanced around the room. “Anything else?”
“Animal, vegetable, or mineral?” Carol Abramowitz, the team’s cultural specialist, asked.
Gold looked at her. “Excuse me?”
Abramowitz shrugged. “Sorry, Captain. Just thinking out loud. That seems to be the fundamental question, the one the Chinook couldn’t answer. Is the Enigma animal, vegetable, or mineral? Knowing which one would give us a better idea what approach to take in breaking it open. But without breaking it open, there’s no way to answer the question.”
* * *
Following the meeting, Captain David Gold returned to the bridge of the da Vinci, more as a matter of his own comfort than of any necessity. As the doors parted, he basked in the atmosphere of the place: the subdued lighting that reflected his own preferences, the chatter of com traffic, the cool, efficient voice of the computer issuing from several consoles simultaneously, and the focused energy of his bridge crew as they went about their job.
As usual, the tactical officer, Lieutenant McAllan, bellowed, “Captain on the bridge.” Gold had given up trying to break the by-the-book lieutenant of the habit.
He stepped up to the command chair, slid his fingertips across the cool metal of its arm, and settled into the cushions.
It was a comfortable chair, perhaps the most comfortable one he’d ever sat in, yielding where it needed to, and yet supporting his back firmly. When he sat in it, his body naturally fell into the correct posture, both comfortable and alert.
He wished he had a chair that felt this good in his cabin. If they ever had to abandon ship, he’d get the crew off first, then hope there was a spare escape pod for the chair.
“Status report, Ensign Wong.”
Wong swiveled in his chair to face the Captain. It was an annoying habit common to Academy graduates these days. Keep your eyes on the road, thought Gold, but he said nothing. I’m just being an old curmudgeon. The ship can fly itself for a minute.
“On course at warp nine point five, captain. All systems nominal. ETA, sixteen hours, thirty six minutes.”
“Steady as she goes.”
Wong nodded, and turned back to his console.
About time. He smiled at himself. You are turning into a curmudgeon, David Gold. Keep this up, and you’re going to start to frightening your great-grandchildren as much as your junior officers. Appreciate what you’ve got here. She was a good little ship, and this was a good chair. Not the most glamorous command in Starfleet, and there were probably those who would look at it with some scorn, but it suited David Gold, and he knew it.
S.C.E. ships didn’t go looking for battles, nor did they seek out strange new worlds.