Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [80]
Damn them both, Riker thought. This is making my teeth hurt. I’ve indulged in negotiations with sworn enemies that were more fun than this.
“Mr. Scott,” he asked, “do you concur with this line of thinking?”
“I do,” the famous veteran said. “And so do your admirals, who commissioned this ship.”
“If the Federation knows what’s good for it,” Captain Bateson took over, “it’ll get ready to fight Klingons the old-fashioned way. You’d better start training your field operatives because there are things they have to know.”
Irritated beyond temper now, Riker grumbled, “Sir, we do know how Klingons fight.”
“No, you don’t. You’re only—what are you, thirty-five? The oldest active-duty admiral in Starfleet is only seventy-nine. You guys know how they wage a cold war, not a real war. But, believe me, the Klingons are always thinking about the real thing.”
Again Riker scowled and raised his voice. “Respectfully submit, sir, the captain is obsessed with Klingons.”
Bateson shrugged. “Maybe. What difference does that make? It doesn’t matter how we hone our skills as long as we hone them. If it’s not the Klingons, you can be sure it’ll be somebody else. Maybe somebody worse.”
Troi by now was standing with her arms tightly folded, no longer pretending to work as the others were. There was a certain political decorum on the bridge when officers were having a dispute—keep to your work, keep your eyes on your board, and unless you’re invited into the conversation don’t even look in that direction. Almost everyone was managing to do that, except Mr. Scott, who didn’t care what anybody thought of him, and Deanna Troi. Her gaze reminded Riker sadly that Bateson could very well be right—the NCC 1701-D crew members had already wrangled with worse than the Klingons, and they probably would again.
“Well, Mr. Riker?” Bateson asked directly. “Either comply, or lead a mutiny, or get off the ship. Now’s the time. You can think what you want about me. We don’t ignore Klingons where I come from.”
Wishing he had never accepted this post, Riker thought bitterly of Captain Picard and endured a keen stab of loss. Perhaps it was only nostalgia. Perhaps it was something else.
Haunted by actions he hadn’t even taken yet, he wondered—did he want to gain command by becoming this ship’s Fletcher Christian?
And he had accepted the post.
“I won’t be leaving until this shakedown cruise is completed,” he said, making the condition clear. “And you are the captain of the ship. I won’t be the one to change that, sir.”
“Does that mean you’re complying with the plans as they stand?”
“It does.”
“Very well. Then carry on, Mr. Riker.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Entering the lateral quadrant of the Typhon Expanse, sir.”
“Acknowledged. Sound general quarters. Yellow alert.”
At the comm station, Wizz Dayton responded to Bateson’s order in that clean, crisp way that had rumbled down through history, a series of relays and repeats that greatly reduced the chances of error.
“General quarters, aye. All hands, battlestations. Go to yellow alert. Repeat, battlestations, yellow alert. Engineering, secure from warp speed. Go to full impulse.”
Scott gave a satisfied nod. “Full impulse, aye, sir.”
“Somebody take George Hill below.”
An ensign rolled out of his seat at the secondary science console. “Take George Hill below, aye.”
As acting science officer, Lieutenant Wolfe instantly transferred the controls of that console over to his primary console. Riker watched with undeniable satisfaction at the efficiency of the crew. Everything, so far, seemed to be fine. Data at ops, Andy Welch at the helm, Gabe Bush in his second officer’s chair, Mike Dennis taking the position at tactical, Deanna Troi on her way