Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [77]
The White Wolf swept away some of the smoke issuing from his helmsman’s flaming control console, situated just ahead of his captain’s chair. Then he peered at the still-functioning radar screen attached to his armrest.
Their pursuer, represented by a blue icon on a white grid, was creeping closer to them by the moment.
“Damn them,” growled Turgis, who had been injured and was using the back of the center seat to hold himself up.
“Yes,” said the pirate. “Damn them indeed.”
His vessel was absolutely helpless, rendered so by their Starfleet enemy’s surprise tactics. There was nothing he could do to keep his hold from being emptied of its stolen cargo, or his crew from being tried at the nearest starbase.
The prospect left a bitter taste in his mouth—even more bitter than the acrid taste of burning plastic.
But he had still had his hidden ace. As long as that individual hadn’t come into play yet, there was still a chance that the White Wolf would come out on top.
Picard was tempted to smile as he savored his victory.
But he couldn’t, of course. There was still work to be done and lots of it. For one thing, he doubted that he could tractor the pirate’s ship back through the obstacles Beta Barritus had thrown at them, so he would have to board the pale, slim vessel in order to remove her crew and cargo.
And the captain couldn’t depend on his transporters. The gas clouds and free-floating ions in the vicinity were creating too much interference for that. So the only way to remove anybody or anything—
“Captain?” said Gerda, interrupting his thoughts.
He looked at her. “What is it, Lieutenant?”
The navigator pointed to her radar screen, which now showed not one blip but two. “Sir,” she said, her voice low and grim, “radar shows a second ship in the area.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
PICARD TURNED TO BEN ZOMA. “A second ship?”
They had been expecting only one ship when they went after the White Wolf. If there were two or three of the pirates or perhaps even more, it would mean trouble.
Ben Zoma frowned. “Doesn’t sound good.”
“Evasive maneuvers,” the captain told Idun.
But as the Stargazer began to swing around the White Wolf, Paxton spoke up from his comm console.
“They’re hailing us,” he informed Picard.
The captain felt a muscle spasm in his jaw as he considered the situation. “Discontinue maneuvers,” he told Idun. “But be ready to resume them on my command.”
“Aye, sir,” came the helm officer’s response.
Picard glanced at Paxton. “Return their hail, Lieutenant.”
Paxton turned to his console and did as he was told. A moment later, he turned around again, an unmistakable look of disbelief on his face. “Sir,” he said, “it’s the Cochise.”
Picard wasn’t ready to believe it. “Are you certain?” he asked his comm officer.
Paxton shrugged. “That’s what they claim, sir.”
“Then they should be able to show me Captain Greenbriar,” the captain concluded. “Tell them I want to see him. Now.”
Paxton went to work again at his console, and before Picard could draw another breath, the craggy visage of a Starfleet captain filled his viewscreen. It was static-riddled and it wavered occasionally, but there was no question that it was Greenbriar.
“Picard,” he said, “are you all right?”
“I am,” the captain told him. He looked around his bridge at the damage it had taken. “Though somewhat the worse for wear.”
“And the White Wolf?”
“Disabled, apparently. We were about to put together a boarding party when you arrived.”
“That’s good news,” said Greenbriar.
Picard should have been happy to see his colleague, happy to have a little support in such a perilous setting. But something about the Cochise’s presence here felt wrong to him.
Before the Stargazer, no one had ever managed to get this far. Not in dozens of previous attempts. No one.
Yet here was the Cochise, basking in the proximate, ruddy light of Beta Barritus. It seemed like an awfully big coincidence—a little