Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [11]
“It doesn’t look promising,” observed the ensign, “does it?”
Scott shook his head. “No, laddie, it does nae. Even if the auxiliary power batteries keep it livable in here, we’ve got nothing to eat or drink. We can still call for help, but it may be a long time in coming.”
He could see Franklin’s Adam’s apple crawl the length of his throat. Nor could he blame the man. They were doomed-just as surely as if they’d perished in the collision with the sphere along with the others.
Unless …
Scott peered through the smoke in the direction of the transporter platform. “On the other hand,” he told Franklin, “we may still have a card or two to play before we’re done.”
“Captain Scott… ?” said the ensign.
“Send a distress signal,” the older man instructed. “Code one alpha zero.”
Before Franklin could reply, Scott was on his way to the transporter station, feeling his way through the smoke from console to console. With each halting step, he worked out another detail of what had started out as only a kernel of an idea.
“Let’s see,” he muttered. “I’ll need a way to keep the signal from degrading. And a power source…”
A moment later, he found the transporter station. Fortunately, it hadn’t suffered so much as a scratch. It was as if someone was looking out for them, seeing to it that they had at least a fighting chance to buck the odds.
After all, neither he nor Franklin should have been in the Ops center when the Dyson Sphere was discovered. They should have been in the passenger section, Scott perusing The Laws of Physics for the umpteenth time, Franklin doing whatever it was he did when he was off-duty.
But Scott hadn’t been able to resist looking at the problem with the warp drive. And when it became apparent that the Jenolen was going to crash, he’d stubbornly decided to stick it out in the Ops center. If he hadn’t been first curious and then foolish, he and his young friend would have perished by now-suffocating along with the others when the air rushed out of the passenger deck.
Luck? Kismet? Blind Fortune? Scott cursed softly. Men make their own luck, his grandfather Clifford had once told him. And his grandfather was right, he mused, as he set to work prying the circuit panel off the back of the transporter station with his good arm.
“I’ve sent the signal,” the ensign announced from the other end of the Ops center. “Maximum range, continuous loop.”
“Good man,” answered Scott. “Now get yourself over to the transporter controls. I can use some help.”
He’d no sooner said that than the panel came free of its berth, exposing the innards of the console. Though the only light he had available was that of a flaming control panel somewhere behind him, Scott popped out the tiny tool on the inside of the panel and set to work on the diagnostic circuitry.
Fortunately, things hadn’t changed much. In fact, in some ways, the Jenolen’s transporter technology was inferior to that of the Enterprise. But then the Jenolen was only a transport vessel and the Enterprise had been the flagship of the fleet.
“Captain Scott?” said a voice.
He jumped at the nearness of it, then realized it was only Franklin. “Dinnae sneak up on me that way, lad. There’s enough here to make me jumpy without you spookin’ me into the bargain!”
The ensign looked contrite. “Sorry, sir.” He held up what looked like a long piece of velour. A somehow familiar-looking piece of velour. “Judging from the way you’re holding your arm, I thought you might be more comfortable in this.”
Abruptly, Scott understood. “A sling,” he said out loud. Not a bad idea, either. If his arm was hurt half as badly as it felt, it would be good to keep it immobile. “Where did ye get it?” he asked.
Franklin held up his right forearm, showing the older man a ragged sleeve that now ended at the elbow. “I figured you needed it more than I did,” he said, draping the strip of material around Scott’s neck and tying the ends together underneath