Pantheon - Michael Jan Friedman [92]
“It would appear so,” Data replied.
“Fine. That leaves us only one other option—to change the shape of the rock. Or, rather, in this case, the Enterprise.”
The android looked more puzzled than ever. “Professor, are you suggesting we separate the saucer from the battle section—as was suggested earlier?”
Simenon shook his head. “Not at all. Because it’s not really the ship that presents a surface to the slipstream.”
Geordi snapped his fingers. “That’s right. It’s the shields!”
“Exactly.” The Gnalish punched some additional information into the situation monitor, and the schematic began to move. “All we need to do is change the shape of our force shields—”
Finally, Wesley couldn’t stand it any longer. “And in effect,” he continued, “we’ll be changing the shape of the rock. Instead of a streamlined object designed for maximum efficiency in flight, the slipstream will be confronted with an angled surface front and back.”
“Which,” Simenon resumed, seemingly without breaking stride, “should skim us out of the slipstream. No muss, no fuss. All we have to do is present opposition to the flow—at precisely the right angle. One that’s obtuse enough to substantially change the force vector situation, but not so obtuse as to place intolerable stresses on the Enterprise.” He looked around, with particular attention to Geordi. “So? What do you think?”
The engineering chief frowned as he considered the idea. “It might work,” he said, “and it might not. Even if the theory is sound, we’re going to have to find the correct angle at which to pitch the shields—or we could be so much subspace debris.”
“Isn’t that what computer models are for?” Wesley asked.
For a moment Geordi thought about it some more. Then his frown dissipated. “All right,” he decided, starting to input instructions to the situation monitor. “Let’s see what we can come up with.”
Picard frowned as he stood in Beverly Crusher’s office, staring at the opaque barrier that separated critical care from the rest of the medical facility. The doctor sat across her desk from him, holding a cup of coffee in both hands. She looked terrible—worn out.
“Jean-Luc?”
He turned to face her.
“Are you all right?” she asked.
He nodded. “I am fine.” Then: “What are his chances?”
Crusher took a deep breath, let it out. “Hard to say. We’ve transfused him, stabilized him—done everything we could. But…” She shook her head. “He suffered massive trauma. Lost a lot of blood.” She looked down at her coffee. “He was in excellent health when it happened—that’s a mark in his favor. But I can’t tell you what the outcome will be.”
He had never felt so helpless—so frustrated. He is one of my oldest friends. And all I can do is wait. And hope.
But not here. He had other business to attend to.
“Excuse me,” he told Beverly.
“Of course,” she said, managing a smile. “Don’t worry. I’ll hold down the fort.”
As the captain left her and made his way through sickbay, he could see Riker waiting for him at the entrance—just as he had requested. The first officer straightened as he noted Picard’s approach.
His eyes searched the captain’s face as he wheeled out into the corridor. A moment later Riker used his long strides to fall into step beside him. “Not good,” he concluded without even having to ask.
“Not good,” Picard confirmed. Then, since there was nothing more that could really be said on that subject, he turned to another. “It appears we were mistaken, Number One—about Morgen being the only target, I mean. Gilaad Ben Zoma was alone when he was attacked. And in retrospect, one must wonder if Cadwallader’s shooting was as unintentional as we first believed.”
As the turbolift came up on their right, they turned and headed in. The doors opened as soon as the mechanism’s sensor recorded their presence and closed after they were inside.
“Bridge,” Picard instructed. Silently and without even a hint of motion, the lift began to carry