Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [8]
Bush moved to Dayton’s side. Eduardo Perry rolled around from the portside engineering station and met him there, squeezing his bulky form between Dayton and Bush.
“Plenty of those systems are jerry-rigged right now,” Perry said tentatively. “But … hmm …”
“Jury-rigged,” the captain corrected. “Comes from the French word ‘jour.’ For the day. What do you think it is, Ed?”
“Looking for it, sir. I’ll figure it out any jour now … Wiz, run power through system BZ-9 and circuit … six-J-Z-H.”
“J-Z … H … six, powering up …”
As the captain waited behind them, Bush was aware of Bateson’s gray eyes drilling up from the center deck. Under that surveillance the three men plucked at the boards, but weren’t able to coax the right lights into coming back on.
Then Perry said, “This is blanket interference here.”
“Internal?” Bush asked.
“No, sir, from space.”
“Pinpoint it,” Bateson said. “Could be that bilge wad Luke Oates coming back with his hold full of contraband.”
“Luke doesn’t have anything like this, sir,” Perry pointed out as he scanned the board.
The captain turned to the forward screen and said, “Let’s have a wide scan. You—Mr. Wolfe. You come over here and be a science officer. Right over there. No, not far enough. One more step—that’s it.”
When John Wolfe hurried back onto the bridge and tried for an instant lesson in border design, Mike Dennis also stepped out of the turbolift, but had nothing to do yet. Technically, as second lieutenant, he was the command officer on third watch. Captain, then Bush, then Dennis.
What was happening? What could make that blue light go off? And why were the six main dynoscanners down? And that yellow indicator stripe was supposed to be all the way over. What could do this to the communications, but not disturb any other system aboard? Comet, maybe?
Bush went comet hunting for six or eight seconds, but found none, nor a thing like it. In fact, no energy surges of any kind—
“Got something,” he blurted. “On the approach.”
“Don’t just stand there smoldering, Gabe, find out if it’s natural. We might have to move out of the path.”
“I already checked the—”
“Gabe!” Wizz sprung backward a few inches in his chair and pointed at one of his subscanners.
“Holy Jerusalem!” Bush twisted halfway around. “Morgan, we got emission signature. Sixty-four point nine enrichment!”
Clapping his hands together in a gesture Bush had come to realize was much less happy than it appeared, Bateson faced the main screen as it plumed bright with a new picture. The sensors had focused. They’d found it.
There it was.
Morgan Bateson drew a breath. His eyes drew tight and the pouches beneath them became pencil-sketch crisp. He looked like an opera singer about to belt the audience.
“Now, what do you think those upstanding citizens are doing all the way over here?”
Chapter 3
“Comm is totally blanketed. Nothing’s getting out of the Expanse. We can’t even call the Enterprise back.”
“Red alert. Battlestations.”
Turning to Wizz, Bush said, “Wake up the off watches and tell them to man emergency posts.”
The captain reached toward him. “And make sure—oh, George Hill, let go of my ankle! This isn’t the time!”
Bush twisted around. “Turn loose of him, George! Red alert, George, red alert!”
On the upper deck, the strange mascot of a ship remote enough to have a mascot uncoiled its tentacle from Captain Bateson’s leg and wrapped another one around a strut of the bridge rail. He had to have hold of something.
Bateson climbed up to the command deck, but didn’t sit. “Mike, find a post and man it.”
Dennis bolted out of the turbolift. “Aye, sir!”
“John, maintain that position.”
“Aye, sir,” Wolfe said as he followed Dennis back onto the bridge.
“Wizz, keep trying to break the comm blanket.”
“Will, sir.”
“Engineering, bridge—Ham, you read me?”
“Hamilton here. I see ‘em, sir.”