Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [10]
“Helm, comply,” Bush reinforced, just in case anybody doubted the captain’s intent.
“Complying.”
Who was even at the helm? They’d been in the middle of repairs. Oh—Ensign Welch. Not the best. Wanted to do it, tried hard to learn, basic maneuvers okay, but not very creative. A light touch, not much experience.
Bush contemplated a change of postings, but he wasn’t in command anymore. Ten minutes ago he had turned the bridge over to the captain.
The tiny brass cup, still half-filled with golden spiced rum, was still warm in Bush’s hand. He looked down at it. A flake of cinnamon floated on top. He placed the cup on the deck beside the helm trunk, intending to return to it later.
“Confirm shields up.” Bateson’s voice startled Bush, though it shouldn’t have.
Instantly the anchor of protocol took a bite on Bush’s nerves. The initial fear melted away, replaced by step-by-step processes forged over two thousand years ago in the military tradition. One thing at a time, each thing in order. Process, process.
He stepped forward to look at what Andy Welch was doing at the helm. So far, so good. Bozeman was pulling forward, angling “up” and port, into the path of the oncoming Klingon.
“Hailing frequency,” Bateson said.
Dayton turned. “Sir, it’s not working.”
“Do it anyway. We might be able to break through on short-range. Send every signal you know how to send.”
“All right,” Dayton sighed with a shrug of one shoulder. “Beating a drum in a vacuum …”
Bateson didn’t look back. “Beat proudly. Let’s go by the book, Gabe.”
“Good choice, sir,” Bush said, raising his voice for the crew. “After all, you wrote it. Mr. Dennis, hoist the yellow jack.”
Looking spic-and-span in his crisp new uniform, Dennis blinked briefly, startled, then dredged up the bit of knowledge he’d probably never used in any other duty.
“Uh—oh, yellow jack, aye,” he said then, and found his way to the mates’ console, a place on the bridge between engineering and sensors that presented overrides on all sections and a series of special authorization grids for use by senior officers only. Security ships were the only vessels still rigged this way, the only ship so single-minded, so basic, so clean of purpose that the mates could actually run such confrontations. The link at times like these between captain and mates was drumhead tight.
Klingons or not, they’d understand the universal sign of flashing yellow and red hull strobes. Since the first flashing lights on police cruisers, keepers of the law had carried submission lights.
Two yellow lights and two red ones on the sides of the main viewscreen came on, to confirm that the yellow jack had been lit, corresponding yellows and reds were flashing on the cutter’s outer hull, and any vessel in the area was expected to heave to.
“Mr. Wolfe,” Bush went on, “give us a profile of that big hammerhead, will you, when you can?”
So far, John Wolfe seemed more at home with his science board than Mike Dennis did with his mates’ console. The science console was like any in Starfleet. If the rest of the ship fell apart with obsolescence, the science station would still be made state-of-the-art. It was the only station on every ship that was constantly upgraded. They might be using slingshots, but their aim would be pinpoint perfect.
The science board made no sounds except for two soft bleeps and one click. Wolfe looked up. “Klingon ship is standard full-bore design, except I’m reading thirty-two percent more raw tonnage and roughly fifty percent fewer crew on board than usual.” He turned. “She’s fully armed, and I’m reading some strange configurations in the cargo bay that read empty, but if they were really empty I’d only pick up the container and the air inside. Instead, I’m getting some kind of coloration on my screen.”
“What do you think they are?” Bush asked.
“If this were a simulation, I’d say they were jettison salvos. On the other hand, I’ve never scanned real ones.”
“Thanks for admitting that, John,” Captain Bateson broke in. “Do you think that’s what they are?”
Wolfe looked briefly at