Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [2]
He felt another jerk, even harder than the first. But a glance at Gardenhire told him that everything was still under control.
Behind the captain, the lift doors whispered open. He looked back and saw that his first officer had joined them. Commander Rashad was a wiry man with a neatly trimmed beard and a sarcastic wit.
“I hope I’m not too late,” Rashad said darkly.
“Not at all,” Tarasco told him. “The show’s just starting.”
“Good,” said his exec. “I hate to miss anything.”
The words had barely left his mouth when the lights on the bridge began to flicker. Everyone looked around, the captain included.
“What’s happening?” he asked his ops officer.
“I’m not sure, sir,” said Gardenhire, searching his control panel for a clue.
“Something’s interfering with our electroplasma flow.”
Abruptly, the deck lurched beneath them, as if they were riding the crest of a gigantic wave. Hollandsworth’s console exploded in a shower of sparks, sending him flying backward out of his seat.
Tarasco began to move to the science officer’s side. However, Rashad beat him to it.
“Shields down forty-five percent!” Gardenhire announced.
Another console exploded—this time, an empty one. It contributed to the miasma of smoke collecting above them. And again, the ship bucked like an angry horse.
“The helm’s not responding!” Sommers cried out.
Rashad depressed the comm pad at the corner of Hollandsworth’s console. “Sickbay, this is Rashad. We need someone up here on the double. Lieutenant Hollandsworth has been—”
Before he could finish his sentence, the first officer seemed to light up from within, his body suffused with a smoldering, red glow. Then he fell to his knees beside the unconscious Hollandsworth.
“Amir!” Tarasco bellowed.
For a gut-wrenching moment, he thought Rashad had been seriously hurt. Then the man turned in response to the captain’s cry and signaled with his hand that he was all right.
“Shields down eighty-six percent!” Gardenhire hollered. He turned to the captain, his eyes red from the smoke and full of dread. “Sir, we can’t take much more of this!”
As if to prove his point, the Valiant staggered sharply to port, throwing Tarasco into the side of his center seat. He glared at the viewscreen, hating the idea that his choices had narrowed to one.
“All right!” he thundered over the din of hissing consoles and shuddering deckplates. “Get us out of here!”
There was only one way the helm officer could accomplish that: retreat. Wrestling the ship hard to starboard, she aimed for a patch of open space.
Under Sommers’s expert hand, the Valiant climbed out of the scarlet abyss. At the last moment, the forces inside the phenomenon seemed to add to their momentum, spitting them out like a watermelon seed.
Tarasco had never been so glad to see the stars in his life. Trying not to breathe in the black fumes from Hollandsworth’s console, he made his way to the science officer and dropped down beside him.
Hollandsworth’s face and hands had been badly burned. He was making sounds of agony deep in his throat.
“Is he going to make it?” asked Rashad, who was sitting back on his haunches. He looked a little pale for his experience.
“I don’t know,” the captain told him.
Before he could try to help, the lift doors parted and a couple of medics emerged. One was a petite woman named Coquillette, the other a muscular man named Rudolph.
“We’ll take it from here, sir,” said Coquillette.
Tarasco backed off and let the medical personnel do their jobs. Then he did his. “Damage report!” he demanded of his ops officer.
“Shields down, sir,” Gardenhire told him ruefully. “Scanners, communications, lasers…all off-line.”
Beside him, Sommers pounded her fist on her console. “The main engines are shot. That last thrust burned out every last circuit.”
“Switch life support to emergency backup,” said the captain.
Without waiting for a response, he peered over Coquillette’s shoulder to see how Hollandsworth was doing. The science officer’s eyes were open, but he was trembling with pain.
“Easy now,” Coquillette told