Resistance - J.M. Dillard [62]
She let go a hitching cough, so painful it brought tears, then sucked in air in a rush.
It smelled of smoke and scorched circuits, and left her dizzied. “Counselor!” she shouted. “Commander La Forge!” The blast had affected her hearing as well; her voice sounded muffled, distant. She stood an instant and listened carefully for a reply—and realized that the life-support alarm had been buzzing, low and harsh, all the while.
“Commander La Forge! Counselor!” The acrid air made her cough again. As her vision began slowly to clear, she saw the bridge through a film of smoke. It was dark except for the blinking consoles and the low-level emergency lights on the deck, which served as her guide. Eyes streaming, she staggered the few steps back to the conn and leaned heavily against it.
Weapons were off-line. The conn had gone off-line as well, but she doggedly kept punching controls until she managed to bring it up on manual. The ship had just started to drift; she set it back on its random course. At the instant she finished, the klaxon fell blessedly silent.
She heard a sudden spasm of coughing to her right. “Allen?” she called. Ensign John Allen was stationed at security communications. She glanced in his direction and saw his shadowy form bent over in his chair.
“I’m all right,” Allen gasped, though he protectively cradled one arm. “My board is down.” And then he let go a sound of pure amazement. “Good lord. Look…”
He was staring overhead. Nave followed his gaze and saw it: the narrow crack in the hull that revealed, beyond the mists of smoke and the faint glimmer of a force field, blackness and stars. It was, Nave thought absurdly, like staring up at a sliver of night sky.
“Hull breach requiring repair. Oxygen levels have dropped to substandard levels,” the computer reported calmly. “Toxic particulate matter detected. Filtration systems off-line and in need of repair. Temporary evacuation required.”
Someone behind her shifted and groaned. “Commander?” she called.
“I’m okay,” Commander La Forge mumbled, but his tone—and the fact that he was still huddled on the deck beneath the engineering station—said otherwise. A waft of smoke rose from his console, which spewed red sparks and sizzled ominously.
“Take care of him,” Nave said to the ensign.
“Aye, sir, I’ve got him,” Allen said and rose stiffly.
But T’Lana was still unaccounted for. Nave scanned the area around the counselor’s chair and saw, behind it and to its left, the Vulcan’s still form, supine on the deck.
“Counselor.” She knelt down at once. T’Lana was pale, motionless; her eyes were closed. There was a gash at her throat, just beneath her left jaw, and dark green liquid had spilled down her neck and soaked the shoulder of her uniform.
Nave reached out with an unsteady hand to feel for a pulse. At her touch, T’Lana’s eyes snapped open.
“Counselor. You’ve been wounded.” Instinctively, Nave pressed her combadge and said, “Sickbay.”
T’Lana’s lips parted; she struggled to speak.
“It’s okay,” Nave soothed, even as a voice filtered over the comm channel.
“Sickbay. Nurse Ojibwa here.”
“This is the bridge. We need medics up here stat. I’ve got a Vulcan who’s losing blood, and I think Commander La Forge is injured—”
“Sending them up now…”
Commander Worf’s voice overrode Ojibwa’s. “Worf to Nave. Lieutenant, what’s happening on the bridge?”
“Hull breach, sir, conn is online, but we have wounded…” Nave looked down at the growing stain on T’Lana’s uniform. The Vulcan’s eyes were wide, her gaze distant. “Counselor!”
Nave reached for the wound and gently fingered it until she felt the small puncture, probably caused by a piece of shrapnel, she decided. She pressed her hand firmly against it until she felt certain she had stanched the flow. T’Lana’s blood was feverishly warm.
“We’re sending medics. Transfer control to auxiliary bridge. Evacuate as soon as you can. Worf out.”
Nave absently touched her combadge, cutting off the channel.