Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [109]
There was nothing wrong with it. It was functioning perfectly. Swallowing, Wesley turned again toward the captain.
And drew Picard’s attention. Abruptly, the captain stopped smiling—and came striding down to the conn station.
“What is it, Mister Crusher? You look positively green.”
Then Picard looked past him and saw the coordinates. As Wesley watched, the muscles in the man’s jaw rippled.
“Commander La Forge,” the captain called, hardly raising his voice. His eyes remained fixed on the astrogation readout.
“Aye, sir?” Geordi came down the ramp from the aft stations. “Something wrong?”
Picard nodded. “Apparently.”
“What is it?” Simenon asked, rising from his seat in the command center.
“Come see for yourself, Phigus.”
By that time, Geordi had arrived and was beginning to appreciate the situation. He whistled soft and low.
Wesley knew that someone had to come out and say it. But he waited dutifully for the Gnalish to arrive and curse beneath his breath before he fit words to the problem.
“We’re in Romulan space,” he announced—a bit more loudly than he’d intended. It attracted some stares from around the bridge.
“Indeed,” Picard said. Then, a little more softly: “The question is, what are we going to do about it?”
As if sensing that the question was directed toward him, Geordi looked up. “Captain, the engines are in bad shape. And even if we had warp speed, I don’t think I’d want to risk using it.”
Picard’s eyes narrowed. “Because we might get ourselves stuck in the slipstream all over again?”
“That’s right, sir.” La Forge bit his lip. “To be safe, we’ve got to put some distance between ourselves and the phenomenon. And even at full impulse, that’s going to take some time. Hours, anyway.”
“At least,” Simenon chimed in.
Picard frowned at La Forge. “We don’t have time, Commander. There could be a Romulan ship on our tail at any moment.” His frown deepened. “How quickly do you think you can give me warp one?”
La Forge shrugged. “I don’t know. A day, a few hours—it’s hard to say, sir.”
“Three hours,” Picard told him. It wasn’t a request and it wasn’t an order. It was just a statement of what they needed.
Geordi sighed. “You’d better excuse me,” he said, and headed for the forward turbolift. Without waiting to be asked, Simenon fell in right behind him.
Picard turned to Wesley. “How far are we from the Neutral Zone at full impulse?”
Wesley quickly performed the necessary calculations. “Sixteen hours, thirty-two minutes,” he said, though the captain had moved close enough to the Conn to see the computations on-screen himself.
Picard nodded. “Lay in a course, Mister Crusher. When the use of our warp drive is restored to us, we’ll be that much closer to salvation.”
Sixteen hours, Wesley thought. There’s no way we can go unnoticed for that long.
Behind him, he heard Lieutenant Worf grunt—as if in agreement with the ensign’s unarticulated analysis. Then the Klingon spoke.
“We have another problem, sir,” he said evenly.
Picard turned away from the newly restored viewscreen to face his security chief. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
Worf’s expression was grim. “Commander Asmund has escaped.”
Seventeen
Picard’s eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information. “I see,” he said, his voice level and controlled. “And her guards?”
“Injured, but not badly.” The Klingon added: “The brig’s security systems were damaged in the escape from the slipstream.”
“Is she armed?”
“She has a phaser, sir.”
He nodded. “And potential victims all over the ship.” The captain frowned. “Go after her, Worf. Find her.” His tone was decisive, authoritative—but his eyes were full of regret. “And give her no quarter. Commander Asmund is a most resourceful individual.”
Worf nodded, already starting to move toward the turbolift. “On my way, sir.”
“Lieutenant…”
The Klingon stopped.
Picard opened his mouth to say something—but thought better of it. He shook his head. “Nothing. Just keep me posted.”
“Aye, sir,” said the security chief. But he knew