The Children of Hamlin - Carmen Carter [4]
Deanna Troi sensed the heightened anxieties on the ship’s bridge even before the alert signal sounded. Stirring in sleep, her mind drifted upward through the layered textures of unconsciousness, lazily waiting for a summons from the bridge to complete the journey.
When the call did not come, she pulled herself through the final barrier.
“Troi to bridge.”
“You’re off duty, Counselor. And your services won’t be needed for a while.”
Riker’s reply should have been a relief; instead, the matter-of-fact statement called forth a stab of annoyance. He knew her too well, could anticipate her thoughts.
“If I can be of any use … “
“Captain Picard applauds your initiative; we’ll call if the situation changes.”
“Don’t do me any favors,” she replied, but only to herself. On a moment’s reflection Troi admitted her ill temper was due to being awakened from a sound sleep and could not with justice be blamed on Will Riker. She would take him at his word, that the ship’s counselor was probably not needed, and indulge herself in a shower before dressing. Checking her reflection in the cabin mirror, Troi frowned disconsolately at the tangled mass of dark hair that crowned her head. Someone like Tasha Yar might be able to respond to emergencies within seconds, but Troi preferred a few extra minutes to pull herself together.
The dormant engineering section had been transformed into a storm of activity as off-duty crew tumbled into the room, racing to their reactivated posts. Wesley and Dnnys exchanged looks of pure joy at their good fortune.
“Do you report to the bridge now?” asked the young Farmer.
Heady excitement, and perhaps a lack of sleep, made the question sound reasonable. Without thinking, Wesley opened a link to the bridge.
“Ensign Crusher here-” He got no further than that.
“Get back to bed, young man,” snapped Captain Picard’s voice.
Both boys bolted from Engineering.
As the Enterprise sped nearer and nearer to the USS Ferrel, Picard held himself in check, fighting against any physical movement that could distract him from the reports of his bridge crew.
“Captain,” said Yar. “Sensors detect energy emissions at source coordinates for the distress transmission. The pattern is unfamiliar, but very powerful to be detected this far away.”
“Raise shields,” ordered Picard.
“Rendezvous in three point four minutes,” announced Data.
La Forge held his hands poised over the helm panel. “Ready to leave warp speed.”
“Impulse power.” Picard still sat unmoving in his chair.
Ever so gently, the pilot’s fingers touched down onto the board. With an almost imperceptible shudder the ship’s engines shifted to sublight drive. The universe contracted.
On the viewer, the pinpoint sparkle of distant stars sprang into relief against a featureless black backdrop. In the center of this static image a blur of movement cast shadows over the fixed lights. Two vessels tumbled through space, locked in a deadly dance of combat. A glowing blue fog enveloped them both.
Picard leaned forward. “Go to Red Alert.”
The waiting was over.
Chapter Two
ANDREW DEELOR ESTIMATED that the USS Ferrel would last another six minutes before the bridge dome collapsed, crushing him and Ruthe and the ship’s crew within. Which meant that he had five minutes and a handful of very unpleasant seconds left of life. Realization of his approaching death occupied only a small corner of his mind; his attention was fixed on the translucent blue haze that rippled and flowed across the surface of the main viewscreen. The starship was held in the grip of an energy matrix. Minute by minute the matrix contracted like a fist closing tighter, crumpling the hull of the main saucer between its fingers.
The starship shuddered. The bridge screen went black.
Over the last hour the ship’s sensors had failed, one after another, until the viewscreen was Deelor’s sole remaining source of information. He had whispered a description of everything appearing within its frame into the palm-size vocoder cupped in his hand.