Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [119]
“Commander Riker—please respond.” It was Data. And though Riker knew it was an impossibility, the android sounded…agitated.
He tapped his communicator. “Riker here.”
“We have encountered a problem,” Data informed him.
“What sort of problem? Not the Romulans?”
“Aye, sir—the Romulans.”
The first officer cursed inwardly.
“But that is not all, Commander. The captain has disappeared.”
Worf looked at Riker. “Disappeared?” he echoed.
“That is correct,” the android said. “Shortly after he established communications with the Romulan commander, he vanished—in what seemed to be a transporter effect.”
The first officer’s mouth went dry. “Speculation, Data.”
“We cannot rule out the possibility that the Romulans have captured him,” the android explained. “But with our shields up, even at partial strength, it seems highly unlikely.”
True. The Romulans didn’t have the technology to transport through shields. Hell—neither did the Federation.
Then, what—?
Like sequenced grippers in a perfect docking maneuver, everything seemed to fall into place. Riker’s conclusion hit him even harder than Greyhorse had.
“All hands!” the first officer called suddenly—thereby opening the entire intercom system to his message. “Remove your communicators immediately! I repeat—remove your communicators!”
It took those around him a couple of seconds to follow his line of reasoning—but follow they did.
“Greyhorse,” Worf spat out, complying with Riker’s order.
“He’s gotten hold of a transporter,” Joseph expanded, complying also.
“That’s right,” Riker said, taking off his communicator and tossing it onto the deck with everyone else’s. Before his eyes, one of the badges—it was hard to know whose—shimmered with an unholy radiance and vanished. The sight sent a shiver through him.
Not a moment too soon, he reflected. If they’d waited any longer, one of them would have been Greyhorse’s prisoner. Or worse—transporter soup.
“Data,” he called, opening up a channel through the intercom grid. “I’m coming up to the bridge. Just stay where you are—don’t do or say anything.” He turned to Worf. “Find out what transporter room Greyhorse has occupied. Cut off his power, jam his annular confinement beam—whatever. Just stop him before he starts transporting away pieces of the hull.”
The Klingon looked at him. “What about the captain?”
Riker frowned. What he was about to say went directly against his grain as first officer. “If he’s still alive, try to keep him that way. But as long as Greyhorse has an operative transporter in his possession, Captain Picard is not the priority.”
Worf looked as if he’d swallowed something rancid. But he obeyed, turning and leading his officers back through the crowd. Riker needed the nearby turbolift; the Klingon would find another one.
“I’m coming along,” Joseph insisted, falling in behind the security team. He sounded determined.
Nor did Worf protest. Apparently, he was willing to accept all the experienced help he could get.
Riker turned to the lift and freed it with his own clearance code. As the doors opened, he got inside. “Bridge,” he commanded.
And tried to figure out what in blazes he was going to say to the Romulans.
One moment, Picard was on the bridge; the next, he was somewhere else. And before he could determine exactly where, he felt something hard smash into his chin. Staggering under the impact, he was hit a second time, even harder. And a third. Finally, he fell, his legs refusing to hold him up any longer. As he lay there fighting off the lurching blackness that was threatening to engulf him, he felt the floor start to slide by.
His head felt like a block of stone, but he managed to lift it—to look around. He saw that he was in the transporter room, being dragged by someone—someone massive, who had a handful of the captain’s tunic in his fist. After a second or two, he realized that it was Carter Greyhorse.
They were headed for the transporter controls. Why? Picard