Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [52]
Silence swarmed in on the small garage. Only as an afterthought did they realize the bombardment outside had stopped. That would mean a recon pass by the Cardassians pretty soon. The teams here would have to stay undercover and as still as possible. Underground, if possible. The mall was a shattered mess, the water tower was down, not that the water was much good to anyone.
“First we’ve got to help ourselves,” Steve said, ultimately. He lowered his voice. “Besides, there’s another reason to stay alive. This is backfiring on them. We’re learning to think like Cardassians. We’re getting an idea of what they’d do in this or that situation. We’re staying alive so we can take that information back to Starfleet.”
“Like what?”
“Like they underestimate humans.”
“So what? Everybody does.”
Steve shrugged his good shoulder. “Well, that’s not the only thing.”
“Is the captain here?” Mark asked. The courage to ask that question drove a visible shudder through him. “What about Mr. Court? Who’s in charge?”
Dan looked at Steve as if there were some way to get out of this, but the terrible conversation was a replay of a dozen others, strung out over these months. Just when the sorrow started to blunt, they’d have to say it all over again to somebody new.
Steve parted his lips, but Dan quickly placed a hand on his injured shoulder, rescuing Steve from having to tell his own brother the ugly news.
“Captain’s gone,” Dan said. “The Cardies got him the first week, before we figured out what we were supposed to be doing here. Mr. Court took command for another three months. Then they got him too.”
Swallowing the news with a shiver and a brave smothering of reaction, Mark asked, “Who’s in command now?”
A shuffle of movement and noise broke through the terrible moment—movement on the other side of the pretend runabout in the middle of the garage. Steve came out of his mournful daze and pulled the phaser from his belt, swinging the weapon in the direction of the noise, just as Dan did the same with the phaser that had been tucked in his jacket. Their weapons were leveled exactly the same, aimed at the same spot, and for a silly instant the beauty of coordination made Steve proud of how they’d learned to move together.
“It’s me—Atherton!” a voice called. “Steve, did you hear a transporter?”
“Over here, Brent,” Steve responded. He lowered his phaser. Only then did Dan also lower his.
By now pretty spooked, Mark McClellan froze and watched. A form in a civilian’s jacket with leather belts, the typical calf-high boots preferred by merchant spacefarers, shaggy black hair and a happy amalgam of Asian and European Earth-features vaulted right over the wreckage of the fake runabout and came toward them.
“This is my brother,” Steve said as the new man crouched between him and Dan. “Ensign Mark McClellan … Captain Brent Atherton. I guess you’ve seen each other before.”
“Mark,” Atherton said. “I remember. Cell Block Four. Glad you’re still alive.”
Mark accepted Atherton’s hand. “I wondered what happened to you. Is your crew here too?”
“Some.” Atherton’s right cheekbone was bruised, and the shoulder of his dark blue jacket had an oily rip. He surveyed Dan and Steve, noticing Steve’s pain-tightened posture.
“You hurt?” he asked.
Steve nodded. “I had a close encounter with this cabinet. My shoulder’s numb. Can’t move my hand …”
Atherton took Steve’s hand and pressed his thumb in the middle of the palm until the fingers curled. “Feel that?”
“Yes, I sure as hell feel that.”
“Then it’s not a total wreck. Put a sling on it. The Cardies blew away our no-go wall between Cafe Bilge and the paint factory. What do you want to do about it?”
Steve winced. “Damn! It’ll take us another week to build that up again.”
“Longer. The metal’s shredded. We have to find new panels. Maybe cannibalize this garage.”
“I don’t want to give up this garage. It’s our mid-way cover.”
“Well, I hope you can think of something portable, then. Might have to start using wood