Gauntlet - Michael Jan Friedman [80]
Could the light have gone on due to a circuitry malfunction? It was certainly possible, with all the punishment the ship was taking.
Or, Obal asked himself, a chill running down his spine, might it be that the light was working perfectly? In that case, the problem would be in the mechanism that maintained the force field.
“Lands of fire,” he breathed, invoking an image from his people’s most primitive belief system.
He couldn’t take the chance that it was a simple short circuit. He had to do something, and do it quickly.
Easing Chiang to the smooth, hard surface of the deck, Obal darted in the direction of the console. But even as he did this, he saw the barrier begin to buckle and spark, and felt the tug of something hideously powerful.
Was he too late? he wondered. Would everyone in the bay, rescued as well as rescuers, be sucked out of the ship?
No, he vowed. I won’t let it happen.
Gritting his teeth, Obal hunkered down and drove his slender legs as hard as he could. Little by little, he made his way across the bay to the freestanding control console.
He ignored the cries of his fellow security officers as they realized what was happening. He even managed to ignore the sight of Lieutenant Chiang sliding toward the failing barrier.
Slowly but insistently, Obal plied the last couple of meters of his journey and reached the console. Then he hung on to it against the pull of space as he surveyed its colored studs and touch-sensitive pads.
In his Academy class he had had no trouble remembering which stud did what. Now, with so much riding on his actions, he found the task a bit more difficult.
That one, he decided at last, singling out a square blue stud. And he pushed it down as hard as he could.
For a moment, Obal feared he had made the wrong decision. Then he felt a let-up in the force that had been tugging at him. Looking up in the direction of the force field, he saw by the silver gleam along its perimeter that the back-up emitters had been activated.
There was a second force field in place, stopping the air from leaving the bay—along with everyone and everything in it. Obal drew a deep breath and expelled it. He was just glad he had noticed the red light in time.
Releasing the console with an understandable reluctance, he returned to Lieutenant Chiang’s still-unconscious form. Then he began dragging the man toward the exit again.
Jean-Luc Picard looked around his bridge at the devastation he and his officers had endured—the flaming control panels and the clouds of black smoke and the persistent blasts of white plasma—and hoped it had all been worth it.
He turned to Vigo. “Did you get it—the signal emitter?”
The Pandrilite shrugged his massive shoulders. “I don’t know, sir. I think . . .” But he couldn’t finish his sentence. All he could do was shrug a second time.
Picard turned to Gerda’s control console, which had survived the battle to this point. Her radar monitor still showed the movements of the Cochise as a green blip.
But unless the captain was mistaken, the Cochise wasn’t coming around for another pass at its finally defenseless adversary. In fact, Greenbriar’s ship wasn’t going anywhere at all.
Picard looked to Gerda for confirmation. Looking up at him, she said, “They’re dead in the water, sir.”
And there could be only one reason for that. The Stargazer’s phaser assault had disabled the Cochise’s signal emitter. Greenbriar’s ship, though still well shielded and well powered, was completely and utterly blind.
Instinct, he thought. Either you’ve got it or you don’t.
The captain nodded in recognition of Gerda’s remark, then turned to Vigo. “Well done, Lieutenant.”
The weapons officer smiled at him. “Thank you, sir.”
Picard took in his other officers at a glance, settling on Idun last of all. “Well done, all of you.”
His helm officer nodded, a glint of satisfaction in her eyes. This was the sort of thing she lived for