Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [51]
And, of course, Picard himself.
The hour that he had given his command staff was about to elapse. Everyone was in place, every piece of equipment checked and rechecked. All he had to do was set things in motion.
But before Picard could open his mouth to do that, he heard someone say, “Captain?”
He turned to Ulelo, who was at the comm console. “Yes?”
“I have a message, sir. It’s from Admiral McAteer.”
From McAteer? “On screen,” Picard said, and leaned back in his chair to see what the man wanted.
A moment later, the admiral’s image stretched itself across the forward viewscreen. When he spoke, his tone was as unctuous as ever. “Greetings, Captain. I trust all is going well.”
Picard didn’t reply. It was just a message. At this distance from Starbase 32, two-way communication simply wasn’t a viable option.
“I’ll get right to the point,” McAteer promised. “After dicussing the matter with Doctor Ibwasa of Starfleet Medical, I’ve been convinced that the cargo stolen by the White Wolf deserves a higher priority than I first assigned it.”
“I don’t like the sound of this,” said Ben Zoma, who was standing alongside the captain.
“Nor do I,” Picard agreed.
“Due to the increased urgency of your mission,” said McAteer, “I’ve sent out three other captains and their crews to assist you.”
But Picard hadn’t heard the word “other.” To him, it sounded as if the admiral had said “real.” I’ve sent out three real captains and their crews to assist you.
Clearly, McAteer had decided that the Stargazer couldn’t handle this assignment anymore. The conclusion left a bad taste in Picard’s mouth.
A bad taste indeed.
“Help is on its way, Jean-Luc. In the meantime,” said the admiral, “do your best. McAteer out.”
And his image vanished from the viewscreen, giving way to the glory of Beta Barritus.
“Do your best,” Ben Zoma echoed mockingly, just loud enough for his friend to hear him.
Picard scowled. “We’ll do more than our best, Gilaad. We’ll snare the White Wolf—and we’ll do it without anyone’s help.”
His first officer glanced at him, a spreading smile on his face. “Now you’re talking.”
The captain took in his bridge crew with a glance. Everyone seemed intent on his or her console, unperturbed—at least on the surface—by the delicate nature of what they were about to attempt.
Satisfied, Picard turned to his helm officer. “Ready, Lieutenant?”
“Aye, sir,” came Idun’s reply.
The helm officer didn’t have much to do anymore. Her real work, and painstaking work it had been, was already done.
Idun had programmed the warp engines to accomplish a feat no flesh-and-blood helm officer could hope to duplicate. They were to operate for precisely 0.0035 seconds—not enough time to breathe or swallow or even blink, but ample time for a vessel proceeding at warp one to clear an obstacle a thousand kilometers deep.
Picard could feel the muscles clench in his jaw. Even the slightest miscalculation could mean their doom. But he trusted Idun not to have made that miscalculation.
Ignoring the trickle of cold sweat making its way down his spine to the small of his back, he turned to the viewscreen again and pointed to the spectacle of Beta Barritus. Then he spoke a single word, eloquent in its simplicity: “Engage.”
It was more than a command. It was a gesture of defiance, an announcement to himself, his crew, and the universe in general that he would accomplish his mission or die trying.
Because that was what Starfleet captains did, he reflected—the best of them, anyway. They did whatever it took to achieve their goals. They found a way.
And he would do the same.
At the helm controls, Idun tapped a single blue stud, and the Stargazer shot forward at the speed of light, her quartet of nacelles wildly spilling light as they carved a path through the mysterious realm known as subspace.
And then, with chilling suddenness, it was over. The warp engines were cycling down, their labors complete.
Picard released a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He felt his heart pumping blood through his