Ship of the Line - Diane Carey [9]
“Some are. I put the TT and TA systems at priority, but gotta tell ya two of the Prac-J nozzle heads are still clogged, DC’s and one reaction chamber are inhibited, ARI’s are acting up and the MIE’s still iffy. DCA’s under repair, but there’s no juice right now, and the CC fractionators, well—”
“Ham, just flush some energy through those systems. Even if you can’t get them working, I want them to read as if they’re working.”
“I get it. Ten-four.”
Eduardo Perry pivoted with some effort until his wide form was generally facing the captain. “Tell him to flood the power transfer conduits.”
Bateson nodded. “Ed says to FB the PTC’s.”
“Copy that.”
“And how’s the deuterium supply?”
“Oh, we got lotsa fuel.”
“Copy, bridge out. Lucky thing I speak his dialect.” Bateson stepped away from the command chair and stalked that Klingon ship again. “Can’t hold that thing off alone … they’re blocking communications … must mean they don’t want anyone to know they’re here. Not a good way to start the day … what do they want? Something … somehow we have to get a flash-SOS out and keep them from killing us long enough for backup to get here.”
Attentive to the captain’s words yet preoccupied with the approaching monster, Gabe Bush dotted the bridge with his attention, moving from position to position, but found himself a useless cog at the moment. Mike Dennis was manning the mates’ console, so he couldn’t even go over there and pretend. When that sunk in, he allowed himself twenty seconds to look at the approaching vessel on the forward screen.
Five times the size of the Bozeman, Goliath pulled out from behind a drifting cloud of space dust. The bulbous forward hull was linked to a pair of backswept wings by a long, thin, funnellike neck. The bridge bulb stuck out in front, as if to threaten whatever it pointed toward.
Mission accomplished …
Like most Klingon ships, this one’s hull plates were drizzle-green, like icebergs reflecting the cold ocean. He’d seen it himself, off Newfoundland.
“The color of envy,” Bush murmured. Quite involuntarily then, he turned to see who had spoken.
Was he so startled? They’d fought Klingons many times before, yet until now he never added up the simple fact that they’d never faced down a full-sized warship. Birds-of-prey, scoutships, recon cruisers, yes, and many daring smugglers, pirates, wild-souled individuals with a personal goal. Those were the most entertaining and challenging, because all rules were suspended, treaties ignored.
Shaken from his thoughts by the movement of Captain Bateson beside him, Bush stepped sideways with a twitch of nerves in his legs. His right hip bumped the ship’s rail. For a moment he was off balance. He braced up against the rail long enough to regain composure and hoped nobody saw.
Morgan Bateson had done all but grow horns. His shoulders were hunched like a cat’s, his hand clutching the arm of the command chair with fingernails turned tightly inward. His eyes were bright and sparkling with anticipation.
Despite the cold pit in the bottom of his stomach, Bush felt the same sizzle. They had to feel it, to tell themselves only their enemies were vulnerable, that they themselves were the predestined winners and God was on their side, nobody else’s.
Bush got an involuntary flash of all the different humanoid beings in known space, and how many more there must be, and wondered which were made in the image of God. Wouldn’t make the folks at home feel very secure to think Saint Peter had a skull ridge.
At moments like this Bush thought he was out of place, out of time. He’d come from a small port town, not even big enough to be called a harbor, still a bit of old America, scarcely altered in the past three or so centuries. And here he was, remembering home, seeing Newfoundland ice in the Klingon warship, having theological discussions in the back of his mind. The warship was getting closer.
“Forward impulse,” Bateson said, not sitting down. He rarely sat down.
The order seemed ludicrous, advancing