Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [61]
“Reg,” said the chief engineer, “make sure all our forcefields are still in operation. If Commander Data’s plan doesn’t work, I want to know that we’ve still got an escape route.”
“Aye, sir,” replied Barclay, heading out into the corridor to carry out his orders. His voice trembled just a little, Geordi noted. But after that, his attention was fixed on the android, whose fingers were flying over his console so quickly now that no biological imaging system could have kept up with them.
“Power surges still mounting in intensity,” reported O’Connor. “Also, they’re coming no more than fifteen seconds apart. Estimate systems overload in four and a half minutes.”
It would take at least a minute to leave the control room, return to the hatch, and get back into their shuttle. And another thirty seconds or so to remove themselves from the vicinity of the station, so that if something exploded, they would be well out of range.
So Data really had three minutes, maximum. And he must have known it, because his synthetic fingers seemed to weave and stitch their way over the controls even a little faster than before.
There was a sound of footfalls clattering along the corridor, and Barclay popped back into the control room. “All’s clear,” he informed them. “Everything’s working the … um, the way it’s supposed to.” Before he finished, he was staring at the android, too.
“Data?” prompted Geordi. “How are we doing?”
His friend answered without taking his eyes off his work. “The beam is operating at maximum output. I cannot increase it any further; I can only make certain that the output does not tend to diminish.”
“Three and a half minutes,” noted O’Connor. Which really meant two.
The chief engineer had never felt so helpless in his entire life. The captain’s life was hanging in the balance, and all he could do was watch. Each second seemed to drag on forever.
“Three minutes,” announced O’Connor. And then: “Two and a half.” Which meant one and a half, and finally one. One minute before they had to abandon the place—and Captain Picard along with it.
“Hang on,” said O’Connor. Her brow creased as she stared at her tricorder. “The surges have stopped accelerating.”
Geordi realized that his hands had curled into fists. He forced them to relax. “Stopped?” he repeated.
“Aye, sir,” replied O’Connor. “We’re still experiencing the surges, but they’re not getting any worse. In fact,” she went on, her eyes reflecting her readout, “they’re starting to cycle down.”
The chief engineer let out a sigh. They weren’t out of the woods yet, of course. But he would embrace any excuse for optimism he could find.
And he found another excuse in the corridor outside, as the corridor lighting dimmed and went out. The station was returning to normal, or at least as normal as it got here. Data’s idea seemed to be working just fine. It had just taken a while, is all.
“The surges are all but gone now,” the android told them. For the first time since the crisis had begun, he looked up at Geordi. “Power levels are stabilizing. Now would be a good time to resume our work, I think.”
La Forge nodded. But first, he’d have to call Commander Riker and tell him that the situation was getting worse. If they were going to retrieve the captain, it would have to be soon.
Chapter Seven
THE COLONY’S BRIG had an inhospitable feeling about it—as if it hadn’t been used for … what? Months? Years? Or, for that matter, ever?
As Picard paced the narrow limits of his cell, with its three solid walls and a transparent energy barrier across its front, he mused that ever was probably the correct answer. The plastic containers piled immediately outside the brig’s entrance were a clue, telling him that his place of confinement had been used as a storage area until shortly before his arrival.
The captain eyed the tall, dark-haired security officer who stood guard in the larger room outside. He doubted that the man would fall for a feigned attack of food poisoning or the like. Even in the twenty-third century, the Academy had warned their