The Brave and the Bold Book Two - Keith R. A. DeCandido [69]
“Of course. I’ll—I’ll help.”
B’Oraq had expected some kind of objection, but the ambassador simply nodded, and they both exited the aft chamber of Klag’s personal craft and went to the fore. She found herself admiring the ambassador. She had only met him once before, when the Gorkon brought him to his mission on taD, but she had had very little interaction with him then. He’s quite attractive, she thought. And if memory serves, his mate died during the war. Perhaps when this is over…
She cut the thought off, filing it away for later use, assuming they got out of whatever mess McCoy had put her into.
She saw her two pilots—Davok and G’joth—and two humans in Starfleet uniforms all bent over a console.
Upon Worf and B’Oraq’s entrance, the human male stood up. “The forcefield’s definitely being powered from the outside, sir. And all this ship’s systems are completely dead.”
B’Oraq looked over at the viewport. She hadn’t even realized that the only light source in the aft compartment had come from the viewport in there, and now she realized the same was true of the flight compartment up front. When night fell on Narendra III, they’d be plunged into darkness. Although, she thought, there was light in the corridor, too. She then inhaled; the air didn’t seem to be stale. “Is life-support also cut off?”
G’joth said, “Yes, ma’am. However, the forcefield is air-permeable, and the rear hatch is still open.”
That explained the light in the corridor—she had only to have looked behind her to have seen that.
“How soon until sunset?” Worf asked.
Davok answered. “Five hours.”
Nodding, Worf said, “Then we have that long to come up with a way to overload the forcefield. I will need all the weapons on board this ship, and any handheld devices—scanners, communicators, anything with an independent power source.”
“What are you planning?” B’Oraq asked.
Before Worf could answer, the human female said, “You want to try to create a pulse to knock out the forcefield?”
“That is my intention, Ensign McKenna.”
Making a snorting noise, Davok said, “That may work on Starfleet forcefields, but these are Klingon fields. They are made of sterner stuff.”
“I would suggest, bekk, that you hope your assumption is incorrect if you wish to get out of here.”
Davok snarled, but said nothing.
The five of them worked, cannibalizing anything they could lay their hands on—even some of the dead equipment from the shuttle itself. B’Oraq’s medical equipment had been removed—along with the shuttle’s armory stores, though Davok, G’joth, and Worf all carried weapons on their persons that had not been taken—so she felt particularly helpless. Her technical skills were nonexistent—that’s what engineers were for. Her only use would be if someone was injured. And then what? I can tell them to put pressure on their wound or watch helplessly if they need more than that. I have no bandages, no scanners, no alcohol—
Suddenly, a thought occurred. She went back into the aft compartment, and found what she had hoped would be under the QongDaq: half a case of bloodwine.
Worf had followed her. “What did you find?”
“Bloodwine. I’m attempting to assemble what medical equipment I can, and this is the closest to a disinfectant we have.”
The ambassador looked pensive. “We may be able to use that as well—for weaponry.”
B’Oraq frowned. “You’re going to drink your enemy to death?”
“No.” Worf almost smiled.
He was remarkably taciturn for a Klingon. She wondered why that was. A by-product of living among humans, no doubt, she thought. Having lived among them herself during her time at Starfleet Medical, she knew how fragile they could be—most were physically incapable of handling Klingon passion.
He continued. “Have you ever heard of a human weapon called a Molotov cocktail?”
“Uh, no.”
“It involves lighting a fire on a rag attached to the neck of a bottle of alcohol.”
Understanding, B’Oraq nodded. “Of