Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [123]
Asmund appraised him, her dark blue eyes as hard as stone. “No,” she decided. “Gerda was too honorable to kill a madman.”
Without another word, she walked over to Picard and took his other arm. “Let’s go,” she said, “Captain.”
Picard looked at her and squeezed the hand that held his. “Yes,” he responded. “By all means. We have some Romulans to deal with.”
And as Worf and his security people surrounded Carter Greyhorse, the captain let his two former officers escort him out of the room.
“You are not Captain Picard,” the Romulan commander observed.
Riker stood before the command center, where Beverly Crusher sat on the edge of her seat and sized up his adversary. He still had no idea of how he was going to get them out of this one.
Clearing his throat, he said: “I am Commander William T. Riker, first officer. The captain has been called away to deal with an emergency.”
That elicited a certain degree of interest from the Romulan. “An emergency,” he repeated. He made a derisive sound—loud enough to be heard over the communications link. “Something more pressing than a Romulan warbird with its talons around your throat?” He shook his head. “You take me too lightly, Commander. Perhaps I need to remind you where the true emergency lies.”
Looking back at one of his officers, the Romulan barked an order. As the officer complied, his fingers dancing over his console, Riker had a feeling about the kind of reminder the commander had in mind.
And there was no way they could escape it. Not at impulse speed.
A moment later the bridge of the Enterprise shuddered. The first officer’s teeth ground together; he hated being so helpless.
“Shields at eighteen percent,” Data reported. He turned to face Riker. “One more such assault will result in extensive damage to the ship.”
Riker nodded, still staring at the screen—and the Romulan. He cursed softly. Come on, Will—think! Do something—before it’s too damned late!
The Romulan raised an eyebrow. “Now,” he said, “will you surrender—or must I incapacitate you first?”
The first officer’s mind raced, but to no avail. He was drawing a blank at the worst possible time.
Ironic, wasn’t it? They couldn’t move fast enough to even give these Romulans a run for their money, when not too long ago they were breaking every speed record in the—
Blazes! That was it!
Frowning at his adversary, he said: “I can’t hear you, Commander. Your transmission is jumbled.”
Of course, that wasn’t the case at all—Riker could both see and hear the Romulan much better than he cared to. But he needed a minute to work on his idea.
The commander’s head tilted ever so slightly. He was trying to decide whether to believe the human or not—particularly in light of the apparent glitch that had occurred earlier.
Riker didn’t have the luxury of waiting to see the outcome. Turning toward tactical as if he wanted to know what had happened to communications, the first officer subtly drew a forefinger across his throat—a signal that Picard had used in the past. It meant cut transmission.
Recognizing the gesture, the tactical officer complied. Nodding to Riker, he said: “Done, sir.”
“Good,” the first officer told him. He glanced at the viewscreen, where the Romulan was consulting with another of his officers. He looked skeptical—but at least he wasn’t firing on them. Not yet.
Lifting his eyes to the intercom grid, Riker called on Geordi La Forge.
“Aye, sir,” came the chief engineer’s response.
“We’ve got trouble,” Riker advised. “Romulans. I need warp one—and I need it now.”
For a moment Geordi hesitated. The first officer’s heart sank. If they couldn’t rouse the warp engines even that much, his plan was useless.
“All right,” La Forge said finally. “We can give it a shot. But I’ve got to warn you—we’re probably not far enough from the slipstream yet. Even if we can get the warp drive to respond, it’s probably only going to get us stuck in subspace again.”
Riker smiled. “I’m counting on it.” He turned to Wesley. “Heading one four five mark nine oh, Mr. Crusher.