Have Tech, Will Travel (SCE Books 1-4) - Keith R. A. DeCandido_. [et al.] [65]
A klaxon sounded. Yellow alert. The slight linguist sagged in his chair and groaned. Time for another adventure.
“Will the following crewmembers please report to the briefing room.” Bart listened, but his hopes of peacefully continuing with his correspondence were dashed when he heard his name among those listed. Carefully, he capped the pen and left the letter on the table.
He wasn’t usually summoned to briefings unless he was an actual participant in whatever mission they were about to embark upon. Still, he remained optimistic. With any luck he’d return to his letter in a few moments. After all, not every “adventure” on which the da Vinci embarked required a linguist.
“And we’ll need a linguist,” Captain David Gold was saying to Geordi La Forge as Faulwell entered the room. “And there’s one now,” Gold added, with a lift of his bushy eyebrows as he caught sight of Faulwell. The rest of the crew who had been asked to report were filling the small briefing room, gently pushing past Faulwell to take their seats.
Faulwell smiled weakly. His brief note would have to wait.
Something brushed past his leg; P8 Blue, scurrying toward her specially designed seat. She was muttering under her breath. Bart wondered what this mission was about, that it got the normally calm Pattie so agitated.
He sat between Commander Sonya Gomez and Carol Abramowitz. Carol leaned over and whispered, “Culture specialist and linguist, huh? Wonder if it’s a first-contact situation.”
Her dark eyes glowed with excitement. Abramowitz loved first-contact situations, but they always made the academic Faulwell nervous as hell. He, more than anyone, knew just how important choosing the right word in delicate negotiations could be. Sometimes, it was literally a matter of life or death. He figured each of the first-contact situations in which he’d participated had aged him at least a year. No wonder his hair was thinning and turning gray.
110, as always, was the last one to enter. Sometimes he was quite late in reporting to the briefings, but Gold had not reprimanded him. Everyone was sympathetic to 110’s situation. Bart had begun to worry about him, after their recent conversation. The little Bynar edged into the room as if fearing an attack, his eyes—so small in his round, pale face—darting about. Bart remembered how the unified pair used to move—each step in sync, quickly, but with grace. Now 110 moved jerkily, awkwardly, as if he were uncertain where to put hand or foot. There was no rhythm in his movements anymore. In many ways, he reminded Bart of nothing so much as a broken toy. He did not take a seat, but chose to stand next to the door.
Gold’s sharp eyes scanned his crew. He nodded, as if satisfied.
“We got the notification from Scotty about fifteen minutes ago. We’re going to have to move quickly, boys, girls, and others. We’ve got a delicate situation on our hands. Commander, if you will?”
La Forge touched a button. Bart felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach as he stared at the image that appeared. A large ship lay like a beached whale in the center of tons of debris. The pile of rubble had once been, if the graceful curves and arcs of the surviving buildings were any indication, a highly civilized city. The vessel was oval in shape, with four peculiar extensions jutting out of its fore and aft sections that looked like spikes. It seemed as if the impact had severely damaged the vessel, but the unfortunate city had gotten the worst of the deal.
Faulwell’s mind raced. High population area, doubtless.
“Casualties?” asked Gomez, alert and focused.
“None that we know of, fortunately,” said Gold. “It’s the capital city of Intar.”
“Not Intar!” gasped Abramowitz, her eyes wide with shock. “The Intarians are famous for their friendliness. I can’t imagine anyone attacking them.”
“They also have an extremely advanced warning system,” said Gold. “It was designed so that they could address approaching ships and send them a nice hello. The other, secondary,