Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [107]
That’s when the third jolt came. Actually, it was more of an upheaval.
The floor of her cell came crashing up at her, and the world went black.
Lifting himself off the deck, Geordi straightened his VISOR. In the grinding, shifting moment of chaos that followed his implementation of the last shield-shape alteration, it had fallen askew. Along with half my vertebrae, the engineering chief remarked inwardly, noting the pain that was only now emerging in his lower back. And both his knees. And his left wrist.
He winced as the VISOR clicked softly into place. Must have hit my head too, he decided. Damn. What a mess.
Then, as his unique variety of vision was restored to him, he realized just why he was so sore. He was no longer at the engineering console—he was no longer anywhere near the engineering console. Their effort to escape the slipstream had flung him clear over to the food dispenser—a good thirty feet!
As he looked around he saw that other members of the bridge contingent had been similarly strewn about. The captain, Riker, and Troi, for instance, had all been pitched forward and to the right, so that they were now dusting themselves off near the emergency turbolift. Worf was in front of the command area instead of in back of it, and Wesley had been plastered against the forward viewscreen—which had gone blank somewhere along the line.
Neither Morgen nor Simenon was immediately visible—not until they poked their heads up from behind the tactical station. The Gnalish muttered a curse.
Only Data had somehow managed to remain in his seat—though now that Geordi looked more closely, he could see that it had been at the expense of his control board. The thing was flipped up and mangled at one end—no doubt, where the android had gripped it to anchor himself.
This kind of stuff wasn’t supposed to happen on a ship like the Enterprise, Geordi noted. Not with all the damping and stabilizing features built into her. But then, no spacegoing vessel was designed to do what they had done.
“Is everyone all right?” Picard asked.
There were some groans, but no seriously negative replies. The captain nodded. “Good. Now let’s see where we stand.”
By then La Forge was already making his way back to the aft stations. He was pleasantly surprised to see that his monitor had fared better than the viewscreen: it still showed the blue-lined diagram that he’d been using to set up each maneuver. Unfortunately, most of the blue lines were gone.
“Damage?” Picard demanded, having resumed his place in the command center.
By then Worf too had returned to his original position. “Reports coming in from all decks, sir. Damage to ship and systems is considerable.” He looked up. “Nothing, however, that cannot be corrected by repair teams.”
“Warp drive is disabled again,” Geordi chimed in. “But we pretty much expected that. What shields we’ve got left are running on impulse power.”
“Injuries?” the captain asked.
The Klingon consulted his board again. “Widespread. But so far, none appears to be life-threatening.”
Picard’s forehead wrinkled. “I would say we were lucky, under the circumstances.” He turned to Wesley. “The question is how lucky. Mister Crusher?”
The ensign hunched over his monitor and frowned. He shook his head. “I wish I could tell you, sir. But astrogation is down.” He swiveled in his chair to face the captain. “I don’t know if the maneuver worked or not.”
Picard grunted, unable to quite conceal his disappointment. “I see.”
“There’s a way to find out, though,” Geordi reminded them. “All we have to do is find an observation port.”
“Good idea,” Simenon said. And without waiting for anyone else to agree, he headed for the observation lounge.
A half-dozen others moved to follow him—Morgen, Picard, Riker and Troi. And finally, Geordi himself.
The lounge doors parted, revealing the cabin and its conference table. And beyond it, a generous helping of starlit space.
La Forge smiled. Past those who had entered before him, he could see that the stars were standing still—no longer streaks of light, but mere points.