Requiem - Michael Jan Friedman [83]
Then there was a subtle, soft whirring sound, and Barclay knew that he had been on the money. The controls came to life. Up above them, the image on the monitor transformed into a schematic that he had seen before.
“We’ve got liftoff,” he said, using an old Starfleet witticism. His voice sounded painfully flat and humorless, even to him.
“So we do,” La Forge confirmed. “Move over and I’ll give you a hand.”
It was necessary for the two of them to work side by side now, Barclay knew. Last time, it had been Data who’d activated the alien confinement beam and released the station’s energy buildup into space. But they were without the android’s quickness, so they had to make do with what they had.
What’s more, there was no O’Connor present to tell them how far the surges had gone or how much time they had left—though if it looked as if they were approaching the point of no return, she’d make them aware of that. Until then, she knew better than to distract them.
The commander swore softly as he worked to maximize the output of the confinement beam. “It’s not enough,” he insisted. And then, turning to Barclay: “Data boosted the gain by recycling power through the emitter array. Ours isn’t working, so we can’t do that.”
The hum was as bad as ever, and the lights in the bulkheads were racing around them just as quickly. The thin man bit his lip as he forced himself to think.
“What about … what about engaging the backup module? We can run them both at once.”
La Forge shook his head. “Too risky. We might trip the shutoff. Then we’d have to bypass it, and there’s not enough time for that.”
Barclay sighed. The commander was right. He scolded himself inwardly for even suggesting it.
Barely taking his hand off the controls, La Forge punched his comm badge. “O’Connor—how are we doing?”
The answer came so quickly, she must have been expecting the question. “It could be worse, sir. You seem to have achieved a kind of equilibrium. The surges aren’t accelerating anymore, but they’re still at a pretty high level. If something goes the wrong way, even just a little bit …”
She didn’t finish. But then, she didn’t have to.
“What about Commander Data?” asked La Forge, still keeping a close eye on the controls. “Has he made any progress finding the captain?”
“I’m afraid not, sir. We’re having trouble establishing a—” For a moment, the chief engineer’s communicator went silent. Then, with an unconcealed excitement: “We’ve got him, Commander. We’ve got a lock on Captain Picard.”
It was the best thing Barclay could have hoped to hear. Apparently, La Forge thought so as well, because one of his hands closed into a fist—a symbol of triumph.
“Bring him back,” the chief engineer told O’Connor. “We’ll meet you at the airlock.”
“Aye, sir,” she replied. And then the comm link went dead.
La Forge’s hand closed on Barclay’s shoulder. “Let’s get out of here, Reg.”
The thin man looked at him. “But, sir … shouldn’t we keep trying to maximize the siphon effect?”
“We’ve done all we can,” the chief engineer explained. “With any luck, the current output will keep things stable a couple of minutes longer. And after that, we’ll be gone.”
Barclay hesitated. He couldn’t help it. He felt as if the job was incomplete.
La Forge must have noticed that something was bothering him. “Listen, Reg, once Commander Data brings back the captain, he can discharge some energy, too. Now, we’ve got to get going, before—”
Without warning, the control panel in front of them erupted in a geyser of blinding white energy. The commander, who had been touching it with one of his hands, seemed to leap backward with a cry of pain and shock. Then he hit the bulkhead, slipped to the deck, and was still.
Barclay just stood there, aghast, as the console sputtered and sparked. He forced himself to accept that something had happened—and that he needed to do something about it. Kneeling, he took a look at his superior.
La Forge was breathing, but not deeply. And he still had a pulse. Maybe he hadn’t been hurt so badly after all.