Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [108]
“Captain Fernando?” the man called.
Clipped accent. Deep voice. Speaking English.
Steve couldn’t manage an answer—his throat was twisted tight. He wondered whether they could see his dirty, torn, soot-caked Starfleet uniform. He hoped they could. Might as well go out proud.
All alone, he limped toward the landed ship, toward those who stood still now and waited for him to approach them in his own time.
The human was wearing plain black clothing, no uniform or insignia of any kind. The suit looked like Starfleet commando issue, but anybody could buy that surplus. Lots of merchant fleeters wore surplus. Atherton did. Didn’t mean anything.
Steve approached the unlikely pair, and stopped only ten feet back. If they decided to be aggressive, he couldn’t run on his bad hip anyway. Might as well make a good-looking stand of it.
“Lieutenant,” the human said, now that he could see Steve’s uniform. “I’m Captain Jean-Luc Picard. Starfleet.”
Steve’s first reaction was cold doubt. The man stood there, not offering a hand, not stepping closer, letting Steve absorb the words.
A sudden surge of hope drove Steve’s heart so far into his throat that he could scarcely respond. It took two tries.
“Lieu—Lieutenant … Stephen McClellan, sir …”
By now the story was telling itself. From half a dozen hiding places, a few nerve-wracked captive souls were appearing from the rubble in Steve’s peripheral vision. They were coming forward, slowly, doubtfully, hopefully.
As the others appeared one by one, the human who said he was Picard requested, “Lieutenant McClellan, make your report.”
Steve swallowed a ball of dust. “Yes, sir … I regret to report … Captain Fernando is dead, sir. So are all our senior officers, including our chief engineer.”
Jean-Luc Picard now moved forward, and the empathy upon his strong features was undisguised. “McClellan, I’m sorry. Are you in command?”
“Ah—affirmative, sir.”
“That’s most commendable, young man. By rising to this challenge, you’ve brilliantly demonstrated what rank protocol is all about. Go on.”
Steve parted his lips to say thanks, but nothing came out. He closed them quickly, pretty sure that the captain could hear his heart slamming against his breastbone. Around him, tentative after so many months, members of both crews came forward, the lights from the Cardassian ship showing off the clothing that hung on their thinned bodies.
McClellan’s Starfleeters and Atherton’s sailors … Steve waited until Atherton arrived at his side and they could stand together.
He tried to speak then, but had to wait. Throat still tight. His tongue felt twice its size.
“Captain Picard,” he struggled, “this is Captain Brent Atherton, of the satelliter Tuscany.”
Picard smiled in a mellow way and offered his hand to Atherton. “Captain, so glad to meet you. Are you all right?”
Pale, Atherton gaped at him. “Are we … going home?”
“Yes, you’ll be going home.”
Picard raised his voice now so all who were beginning to cluster around would hear. He seemed anxious to tell them what they all wanted to hear.
“You’ll all be going home! Your medical needs will be seen to immediately, and then right away you’re getting a three-course dinner.”
He smiled, let that sink in, then dropped the smile and turned to the nearest Cardassian, the only one not carrying a weapon.
“Come here, Madred.”
Steve McClellan flinched as Atherton grabbed his arm and squeezed it. They both stared.
“Madred,” Steve whispered.
Was this a trick?
The Cardassian, a man who had dominated their lives since capture, had been lingering in a shadow between the harsh streak of illumination from the ship’s scene lights. Now he came forward and Steve remembered his face from hours upon hours of torture and sorrow.
He knew Brent did too. Everyone did. Mark, Dan, Les, Peggy, everyone.
The gathering on the mall turned as cold and stony as the rubble upon which they stood. Fear crackled from man to man.
“Go ahead,” Picard said to the infamous Cardassian. “Apologize to these people.”
Madred came forward to Picard’s side,