Surak's Soul - J.M. Dillard [47]
Which of course led Mayweather to the thought that perhaps he should have gone down in Hoshi’s place—although that wouldn’t have made sense. Or perhaps he should have gone down in the captain’s place; why should the commander of the starship, the most vital member of the crew, be the one to take all the risks? Or he could have replaced Reed. Dr. Phlox, of course—well, they had needed a doctor because it was a medical emergency. But it still didn’t seem fair….
Al Saed’s companel let out another shrill blast.
“My God,” Mayweather said, but this time he wasn’t reacting to the noise; he half rose from his station, was knocked back down to a sitting position by the helm console itself, and remained there, gaping at the readout in front of him.
As he watched, the course heading began slowly to change, from seven-zero-four-zero to six-nine-five-two, to five-seven-five-zero, to four-eight-five-nine….
Mayweather began slamming controls. None had any effect on the course heading; in response, he tried to revert to manual, and began pressing controls even more frantically.
Borovsky moved beside him to stare down at the impossible sight. “What is it?”
“Our course is changing,” Mayweather gasped. “We’re turning around….” He batted at a few more switches, reverted from manual to computer and back. Nothing worked. “Helm is unresponsive.”
“That can’t be,” Borovsky said, yet as she watched Mayweather follow the book on every possible procedure, she was at a loss to come up with a suggestion. She peered down with him, watching as the heading continued to change: three-two-seven-four, two-nine-nine-eight…
Even al Saed left his repair attempt at communications to come over to the helm and stare with them.
“This is crazy!” Borovsky exclaimed in frustration. “What could cause this?”
“Nothing,” Mayweather said. Nothing except someone intentionally adjusting the course heading by overriding the helm controls—and why would anyone aboard Enterprise do that?
As he spoke, the bridge doors opened behind them; the trio turned.
“Captain Archer!”
All three officers called out his name almost simultaneously; Mayweather’s grin was huge. “Sir, we were so worried something had—”
“There’s no time to explain right now,” Archer said. “We’re in great danger from Wanderer. The only safe place on this ship is engineering; I need you three to head there right now.” When they hesitated, the captain added, “That’s an order!”
“Sir.” Mayweather remained at his post, and gestured down at the aberrant console readings. “I’d leave, but the helm is malfunctioning wildly. We’re off course by almost…” He glanced down swiftly. “One-eighty degrees, sir.”
Archer wasted no time; he literally ran to the console and looked down—just as the course heading adjusted to zero-zero-zero-zero, then stayed there.
“Earth,” Mayweather said at last, his tone hushed. “We’re headed back to Earth.”
“Wanderer,” Archer said, with a darkness in his tone the ensign did not understand. “Leave it, Ensign. The three of you report down to engineering. Stay in there until I advise you otherwise. Now!”
Mayweather had no choice but to comply, leaving behind him on the bridge viewscreen a dizzying sweep of stars.
“Lieutenant Meir?” Archer called.
He’d been going through the senior and junior officers’ cabins, routing people to engineering, while T’Pol had agreed to take the noncom personnel, as well as the science department and kitchen. One of the officers had agreed to stop by the captain’s quarters and pick up Porthos. So far, everything had been going a little faster than Archer had hoped—although he had been infuriated by the realization that Wanderer now had control of the helm, and was sending Enterprise back to Earth.
We’re not the Oanis, Archer told himself firmly. We’re not like any other humanoids Wanderer has encountered—we’re going to fight back, and we’re going to win.
Those officers who were off-duty had answered their buzzers almost at once, even those who had