Reunion - Michael Jan Friedman [104]
The commander’s eyes narrowed. “Do not taunt me, human. I still have my weapons trained on you. And your shields are at low power.” “True,” the first officer conceded. “But we’re your only hope of escape. If you destroy us, you’ll never see your homes again.” He smiled affably. “Sometime prior to our departure from subspace, we’ll give you the data you need to follow us.”
The Romulan looked incredulous. “What kind of fool do you take me for? If you truly know a way out, why would you-share it with us?”
“Because we have no reason to do otherwise. It will take you some time to decipher the information-and by the time you do, we’ll be safely out of Romulan territory.”
The commander mulled the matter over. “There is a way to insure that you do not leave us here. We could take hostages.”
Riker shook his head. “I’m afraid not. Any attempt to board us will force us to try to escape prematurely. If we succeed or fail, you will be left here alone-without the information you need. And if we fail-we will be destroyed,” he lied. “Again, leaving you here alone, with no inkling of how to extricate yourself.”
The commander’s mouth became a hard, taut line. How much did he know about the Federation? About human attention to such things as honor? About a poker-faced bluff?
At last, he uttered a curse—comone the computer had trouble translating-and relented. “We will allow you to prepare whatever maneuver you have in mind. At the slightest hint of treachery, however, I will not hesitate to destroy you.”
That was fine with Riker. He had no intention of being treacherous. Or, for that matter, even giving the appearance of treachery. In the next moment, the Romulan’s image blinked out again, to be replaced by the streaking stars of the slipstream. The first officer took a sobering look at them, then remembered that the Romulans were only half his problem.
“Lieutenant Worf,” he called. “What’s going on down there?” The Klingon’s answer wasn’t long in coming. “Dr. Greyhorse has been taken into custody.”
Riker swallowed. “And the captain?”
The words were hardly out of his mouth when the turbolift doors opened and Picard emerged. His face was swollen and bruised, his uniform was torn in a number of places, and there was a decided limp in his gait. But he was alive, damn it—he was alive! A moment later, Asmund and Joseph mapped out of the lift as well. The blond woman had the look of one who’d just been exonerated. “The captain is on his way up to the bridge now,” replied the security chief.
“Actually,” the first officer responded, “he’s just arrived. Thank you, Mr. Worf.”
Out of reflex, Crusher had started out of her seat-but Picard waved her away. “It’s all right,” he said dryly. “I’m much better than I look.”
Riker smiled. As Picard made his way to the command center, he said: “It’s good to see you, sir.”
The captain nodded stiffly. “Good to see you, Commander. He glanced at the viewscreen and saw the telltale effects of the slipstream. “Mon Dieu, was he muttered. And turning again to his next in command, he asked the question with his eyes. “It was the only way to escape the Romulans, Captain.”
“We left them behind?” Picard asked.
Riker straightened. “Not exactly, sir. They entered the slipstream behind us.”
And then the strangest thing happened. Slowly, gradually, a grin spread over the captain’s battered visage. He regarded his first officer.
“Clever move, Number One.” Riker smiled again. “I try, sir.”
Picard leaned back in his ready-room chair, trying to ignore the damage Greyhorse had inflicted on him. Unfortunately, as his mind cleared, he was becoming that much more aware of the pain. His former shipmates—Idun and Pug-apparently intended to wait with him until Dr. Seiar arrived. Beverly Crusher had wanted to stay as well, but Picard had assured