Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [53]
“What’s ‘Cafe Bilge’?” Mark asked.
“Our produce warehouse,” Steve said. “We can use some of the plating off that runabout shell.”
“Only about twelve feet,” Atherton said. “We need thirty-five feet or so. Twenty feet on either end are still intact. The middle’s blown out.”
“Gotta protect our food. We’ll have to find something sturdy enough.”
“We’ll wait till dark,” Atherton offered. “Then Saul, Peggy, and I can gut the grain elevator and use the accordion-sheets inside.”
“Not until at least midnight,” Steve ordered, “when the satellites are past us. Take Rankin and Seneca with you. Peggy’s not strong enough to carry those metal sheets.”
Atherton smiled. “No, but she’s a witch with a crowbar.”
Steve shifted against the pain again, rubbed his throbbing arm, and complained, “I was holding those sheets back for something better than a no-go wall …”
“If you got another idea, I’m listening.”
“I don’t have any other ideas right now. Go ahead with yours, Brent.”
“Aye aye, guy.” Atherton gave Steve a squeeze on the good shoulder, tossed to Mark, “Glad to see you—sorry it’s here,” and ducked through a rupture in the garage’s back wall.
They heard his footsteps crunch through the glass and rubble, then gradually fade away toward the gymnasium, where he had his crew holed up.
“Rebuild that stupid wall,” Steve sighed. “We’ve got to find a better way to safeguard the food supplies. Maybe move them.”
He looked up, his thoughts clearing his head somewhat.
Mark was gazing at him in new realization. “You’re in command?”
Well, that tidbit was out now. Steve managed a nod. “Mmm-hmm.”
“But Atherton’s a captain! You’re a lieutenant! You shouldn’t have to do this!”
“Atherton’s a merchant captain,” Dan corrected. “He runs his own crew, but he knows somebody has to be in charge of the combined operation. Since the Cardies are training to fight Starfleet, he agreed to let Starfleet run the show as long as there was still an officer alive ranking at least lieutenant. If something happens to Steve, then Atherton takes over.”
Suddenly angry, Mark demanded, “Do the Cardassians know that?”
Dan shrugged. “Probably.”
Mark looked at his brother. “That makes you a target!”
“Oh, I know it,” Steve said calmly.
“Well, you two argue about it real loud, now, eh?” Dan stood up, picked a shard of broken glass out of his trouser leg, and said, “I’ll go check on the crew and make sure the way’s clear for you, Steve. Don’t hurry on that bruised hip, my man, or you’ll hurt yourself, eh?”
“Thanks, Dan. Keep low. Can’t have that pretty head blown off.”
“I’m not ‘pretty.’ I’m ‘dashing.’ “
“Yeah, well, dash then.”
A moment later, the brothers were alone in the smoky garage. The only sounds now were the chitter of ceiling materials and roofing as they broke and fell in bits and pieces.
The brothers sat together in that heavy silence, their heads throbbing from the fresh memory of those kettledrum salvos.
“Aw, Steve,” Mark groaned spontaneously, then stopped.
Wisely for both of them, Mark cut off his own groan and didn’t try to express in words the sadness that showed in his eyes. Steve McClellan was the Durant’s fifth ranking officer, and that meant the deaths of four senior officers before command had fallen on him. He hadn’t expected command, hadn’t wanted it, at least not so early in his career. He had presided over the suffering, the loss of all those carrying the burden before him. The captain and three senior lieutenants, all gone.
He’d managed to keep from most of the other crew how he felt about this. Dan had figured it out gradually, but now Mark understood right away. His brother knew him too well. Mark had already distilled the misery Steve had endured in the past few months, saddled with unwanted responsibility. Starfleet officers trained for this, but usually it came with the right number of years. Not so for Steve McClellan.
Bitterly Steve found himself saying, “I wish we hadn’t pushed so hard to get assigned to the same ship. We pulled every damned string we could find, and now this.”
“What ‘now’?” Mark