Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [50]
O’Brien consulted his control board. “Only by thirty seconds or so,” he judged. “That would make the rest of the away team-“
“Right on time,” said Scott, as he walked in through the transporter room doors. His skin had a pale, almost greenish tinge to it, which made the bags under his eyes look even darker by contrast.
“Are you feeling all right?” Geordi asked him.
A little irritably, Scott responded “Never get drunk unless ye’re willing to pay for it the next day. I’ll manage, thanks.”
“Okay,” said Geordi. Under the circumstances, he wasn’t going to pry.
With only a small effort, the older man negotiated the ascent to the platform. Turning to O’Brien, he nodded to signify his readiness.
Geordi picked up his equipment case and moved to stand beside Scott. “All right,” he said. “Energize.”
Picard regarded the main viewscreen, which showed a close shot of the surface of the sphere. There was a large, round outline on the metallic exterior with several small dish antennae around the perimeter of it.
“What is that circular shape?” he asked.
Data, who was seated in front of him at his Ops controls, turned to look up at him. “Sensor readings indicate that it is a hatch or airlock, sir-possibly one that leads into the interior of the sphere.”
“I see,” said the captain. He exchanged glances with Riker, who was standing next to him. “And you said you found a communications antenna?”
“Aye, sir,” the android replied. “It is located on the periphery of the hatch at approximately seventeen degrees relative.”
Picard took a breath and slowly let it out. “Fascinating,” he remarked. “Absolutely fascinating.”
“This looks like the front door,” Riker noted. “Should we ring the bell?”
The captain thought about it for a moment-and came to a decision. “Let’s do just that, Number One. Mister Worf, try to open a channel to that comm antenna.”
“Aye, sir,” said the Klingon, setting to work at his Tactical console. After a few seconds, he reported “Nothing yet.”
“Keep at it,” said Riker. “It may take a-“
“Captain!” cried Rager. She looked up from her conn board, her face a mask of alarm. “Intense graviton emissions on the surface of the sphere! And they’re heading this-!”
Before the ensign could finish her warning, the ship was rocked-and rocked hard. Picard was flung across the deck like a rag doll, finally coming up against the base of a bulkhead with spine-jarring impact. For a moment, he flirted with unconsciousness. Then, with an almost physical effort, he pulled himself up out of it.
What he saw was a twilight version of his bridge. Illumination was down. Several consoles had gone out. And his officers, with the exception of Data, had been strewn from one end of the place to the other. Like him, they were dazed … just starting to pick themselves up.
“Red alert,” he called out, managing to be heard over the increasing murmurs of pain and surprise. Then he staggered over to Moreno, who had fallen facedown near one of the aft stations and still wasn’t moving.
Feeling her neck for her pulse, he found it-but it was slower than it should have been. And there was a deep, bloody gash in her forehead near the hairline-one that needed tending, and quickly.
“Dr. Crusher,” he barked, hoping that the intercom system hadn’t been damaged.
The doctor’s response was nearly immediate. “I know,” she said. “You’ve got casualties on the bridge. We’ve got them all over the ship.” A pause. “I’m sending up a trauma team. Crusher out.”
“Captain Picard?” It was Data, still sitting at his station as if he’d been nailed down. “We have been caught in some type of tractor beam, sir. It is drawing us down to the sphere’s outer surface.”
The android said it so matter-of-factly, his voice so devoid of emotion, that the danger almost didn’t seem real. But it was real, all right. As real as the blood running down the side of Moreno’s face.
By then, Riker had pulled himself back into his seat in the command center. “Helm!” he cried. “Get us out of here! Impulse engines, back full!”
“We’ve lost main power,” reported Rager. Sh e too