Relics - Michael Jan Friedman [9]
Armstrong nodded. “Standing by,” he replied.
Scott took a deep breath and let it out. “No doubt,” he went on, “ye’re all curious as to what I’ll be doing.”
“Building up our power reserves?” ventured Franklin.
“Begging, borrowing and stealing from peripheral systems,” Sachs expanded. “Cleaning out every last nook and cranny.”
The older man glanced at them, deadpan. “It was sort of a rhetorical question, gentlemen. But thank ye for your help nonetheless.”
Over the next few minutes, they all applied themselves to their respective tasks. Sachs found his mind remarkably clear, remarkably facile, as he first plotted and then began to execute the impulse thrust curve Scott had asked for.
When he had occasion to look up, he saw that the others were similarly absorbed in what they were doing. There were no signs of panic. The engineer smiled, glad that what were probably his last moments would be in the company of professionals.
Abruptly, the ship began to slip its axis. Franklin muttered a curse.
“Ease her back, Ensign,” said Scott, his voice calm as a tree-shrouded pond. “We’re in no hurry.”
Responding to the older man’s demeanor as much as his advice, Franklin made the necessary corrections. On Sachs’s screen, the Jenolen righted herself.
“Well done,” Scott observed. “Now steady as she goes.”
Two and a half minutes. Two. One and a half.
Sixty seconds.
As Franklin held the ship upright, Sachs applied thrust in ever-increasing amounts. Nonetheless, they were accelerating, drawn to the sphere by its uncommonly strong gravitational field.
“All right,” said Scott. They were approaching the thirty-second mark. “Bring those shields around, Captain.”
Armstrong did as he was told. “Shields in place,” he confirmed. “We’re as protected as we’ll ever be.”
They’d done all they could, Sachs mused. The rest was in the lap of the gods. He held onto his console.
Twenty seconds. Fifteen. Ten.
Sachs found it hard to swallow. Good-bye, Jenolen.
Five. Four. Three. Two …
One.
For a second or two, Scott didn’t know what had hit him, or even where he was. Then consciousness came swarming back like a thundering river in flood.
The Ops center was a flaming, sparking inferno. Smoke was everywhere, making it almost impossible to see. He coughed painfully.
But he was alive. He was bruised and battered and there was an aching tenderness in his left arm, but despite the odds he’d come through. And if a man his age could survive, there were probably others who’d survived as well.
Scott winced. There was something in his eye. Dabbing at it gingerly, his fingers came away with a sticky film of blood on them.
Bloody, he remarked inwardly, but unbowed-just like the poem. His mind started to drift back to the highlands, and a lass who liked nothing better than poetry… except him…
No, he told himself firmly, shaking himself out of his reverie. None o’ that. I may have suffered a concussion, but I cannae let that stop me. I’ve got to focus on the task ahead-that being to see who else might be alive and then assess the damage to the ship.
Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something. A man’s hand, not more than a meter away… moving ever so slightly? Or was it just his imagination? He pulled himself over to it as best he could.
“Laddie?” he said tentatively. He could barely hear himself over the popping sound coming from a ruined console.
No answer. He crept a little closer-past the hand to the shoulder. He shook it. Nothing. No response.
And the man’s head was turned away from him, so he couldn’t tell how badly he’d been hurt. Scott shook a little harder.
Still nothing. “Come on, laddie,” he said hopefully. “Wake up. I dinnae have all day.”
Finally, his shaking finally had an effect it made the man’s head loll around to face him. And suddenly there was no doubt in Scott’s mind who this was, or why he didn’t answer.
It was Chief Engineer Sachs. And half his face had been shorn away in the crash.
“My god,” whispered Scotty. “My dear god.”
Turning away from the spectre of death, he crept toward the base of an