Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [30]
The barrier was directly above, looming larger as it came down at her. At the last possible moment, she felt a jerk on her suit and saw herself shoot backward. When the sheet of metal hit the deck and locked into place, the bulky white feet of her suit were just inside it.
One.
She was safe, she realized. They were all safe.
Chiang and the others propped the ensign on her feet again. They were in the compartment that mediated between the shuttlebay and the corridor outside it, and one of Jiterica’s colleagues was checking conditions in the ship on a computer terminal built into the bulkhead.
“Everything seems to be normal,” the man said. “Power levels, hull integrity, air pressure . . .”
“Then why did we evacuate?” the Bolian asked.
That’s when they heard the voice fill their compartment. “That was a drill, folks. I’m happy to say you passed.”
It was difficult for Jiterica to discern one voice on the ship from another, but it seemed to her that it was Commander Ben Zoma speaking. One of the technicians alongside her, a Carpathian female, confirmed the speaker’s identity.
“Ben Zoma,” she said in an exasperated tone.
“Carry on,” the first officer told them.
Then the duranium barrier began to slide up again, retreating into its slot in the ceiling. In the process, it showed them an undamaged and uncompromised shuttlebay, as clean and orderly as they had left it.
Jiterica turned to Chiang. He was the officer in charge of this section, and yet it seemed to her that he hadn’t known about the drill. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have worked so hard to get her on the safe side of the barrier.
The ensign hadn’t had time to read much about drill protocol at Starfleet headquarters. She had been too busy learning more essential information, like how to walk and how to speak. However, now that she thought about it, it made sense that at least some drills would come as surprises even to the heads of the sections involved.
Perhaps there were drills that would even come as surprises to Commander Ben Zoma.
But it wasn’t the propriety of the drill that gave Jiterica cause for concern. It was her reaction to it. Or more accurately, her inability to react to it.
If they had faced a real emergency instead of a false one, she would have been a burden to her colleagues. They would have been forced to risk their own lives to save hers.
Chiang wiped his brow with the back of his hand. “All right, everyone,” he said, his voice echoing with something less than its usual resonance. He was still a little out of breath. “Let’s get back to work.”
As the others returned to their tasks, Jiterica approached him. “Excuse me, Lieutenant. I wish to speak with you.”
Chiang frowned as he turned and regarded her. “Funny, Ensign . . . I was just going to tell you the same thing.”
* * *
Greyhorse was sitting in his office, mulling what he had heard about Jiterica’s misadventure in the shuttlebay, when he saw Phigus Simenon crossing the sickbay and coming his way.
The engineer’s scaly tail switched back and forth as he walked, making him look even more driven than usual—and his “usual” was already enough to bowl most people over. Obviously, he had something on his mind.
“What can I do for you?” Greyhorse asked.
He and Simenon had gotten to know each other rather well over the last few weeks. They were alike in many ways. For one thing, neither of them was exactly steeped in the social graces.
“You can pronounce Urajel fit for duty,” the Gnalish told him, depositing himself in a chair opposite the doctor’s. His ruby eyes were narrowed and demanding.
Urajel was an Andorian engineer who had broken her arm in one of their encounters with the Nuyyad. The limb had healed perfectly, but Greyhorse had wanted to give it a few more days to make sure. Those extra days were now over.
“You want her?” he said. “You’ve got her.”
No doubt, Simenon had expected more of a fight. Little by little, the muscles around his eyes relaxed. But his tail didn’t stop switching. Apparently, Urajel’s situation wasn’t the only thing that had been bothering