Marooned - Christie Golden [50]
If she returned.
He frowned and banished the negative thought from his mind.
"Commander," said Henley from her station at ops, "The three away teams are assembled as you requested, we have four people in transporter room one and two in transporter room two."
Her crisp tone made him smile a little. "Henley, do you have faith?"
"Sir?" she asked, clearly puzzled. "Faith. Do you have religion?"
"Well," Henley replied, still confused as to what he was getting at, "I was raised Catholic, if that's what you mean."
"We've never tried this before and it's one of the riskiest ventures we've ever undertaken. I think any prayers to any deity couldn't hurt." He moved to catch her gaze, give her a reassuring smile. Ops was not her primary station, and right now, he knew she was nervous about pulling all these differing things together. Henley smiled back, relaxing just a bit. "Understood, sir."
"Mr. Chell, bring us up to half impulse. Distance to the ships?"
"Fifty thousand kilometers and closing."
"Get those shields up, Henley."
"Shields up, sir."
They moved closer, maneuvering around the planet until the three vessels came into view. Chakotay shook his head. That anything that derelict could be at all operative, let alone as efficient as the three ships had proy ' ed they were, was a marvel. Someone, long ago, had been possessed of some very good technology.
"Range is forty thousand kilometers and closing," reported Chell.
"Take it to full impulse, Mr. Chell. Approximate time until we reach ten thousand kilometers?"
Chell's stubby fingers moved over the console. "At full impulse, we'll be there in thirty seconds."
"Red alert." The lights dimmed and a crimson glow pulsed through the bridge. "Bridge to transporter rooms one and two. Prepare to energize on my command." His whole body was tense, his eyes fastened, unblinking, on the viewscreen as the three ships moved closer. They were going to have to perform a near-warp transport, something tricky even under normal situations. With this reconfiguration of the transporter, factoring in the manual targeting of the controls, why, it really was like commanding his old ship again, complete with an utter reliance on miracles. "Thirty thousand kilometers," intoned Chell.
"Shields down," snapped Chakotay. "Stand by, transporter rooms-"
"Twenty thousand... fifteen thousand... ten-"
"Energize!" cried Chakotay. "Chell, hard to port!
Keep us at least ten thousand kilometers distant!"
The ship veered off to port, maintaining the distance, but not without cost. Cries of pain rang throughout the bridge, and Chakotay himself nearly lost his seat. He dug his fingers in tightly, willing himself to stay in the chair. He heard Henley swear, and Chell flailed wildly before regaining his balance.
"Shields up! Retreat, Mr.-"
But the command came almost too late. When Chell had lost his balance, he had lost contact with the controls. Voyager had gone too close, and the sicken ing sight of the ships lighting up and firing their weapons filled the viewscreen. Even as the words left Chakotay's lips, the ship was hit and hit hard.
It tumbled wildly. This time, Chakotay was flung out of his chair. He hit the deck hard, his chin slamming into the floor and burning as it scraped the carpet. He couldn't breathe, couldn't form orders. His lungs refused to obey him. Chakotay mouthed words that had no breath behind them, stumbled up into his chair. He locked gazes with Henley, his eyes asking what his throat could not.
"We didn't get the shields up in time," she replied. She held her left arm in an odd position, and blood darkened the black on her uniform. "Damage reports coming in from decks