The Children of Hamlin - Carmen Carter [5]
Deelor switched his attention to the interior of the Ferrel. From his seat at the center of the circular bridge he could scan the entire room. He described the dropping temperature and dimming emergency lights as the ship’s energy reserves were funneled into the defense shields in a losing battle against the alien force field. He described the glittering flakes of white paint that drifted through the air like snow, and the metal wall panel that blew out from under the inoperative communications station, knocking Lieutenant Morrissey hard against a railing, bending him double.
The man sagged to his knees, then coughed a bright spot of blood onto the deck. Dr. Lewin jumped to his side with an open field kit. It was a futile gesture to Deelor’s mind and he did not include it in his report. If there were to be posthumous commendations for the crew, they would be based on the captain’s log.
The screams of compressing metal plates grew louder, threatening to drown out Deelor’s comments. He pressed the grill closer against his mouth, but his voice had grown too hoarse to rise above the background noise. He snapped the protective cover down over the vocoder before slipping the unit into an inner pocket of his jacket. If the record were recovered, his successor would have a detailed description of the penalty for failure.
His failure. Deelor regretted that epitaph more than his death. He turned to the woman sitting beside him. Ruthe was hunched into a tight ball, her legs drawn up beneath her chin, a gray cloak wrapped tightly around her body. She had buried her face in the coarse fabric. Loose locks of straight black hair fell down over her knees.
He leaned over, bringing his mouth up against her ear. “We’re about to die,” he told her, not certain if she had realized that yet. “I’m sorry.”
Ruthe looked up. Her skin was pale, but that was its natural color. “I’m cold. I hate being cold.”
“Yes, I know.”
A sudden cessation of activity around them triggered an alarm in Deelor’s mind. The crew had frozen in place, oblivious to the groans and labored breathing of the saucer hull as it flexed in and out. Their faces were turned in one direction, to the rear of the bridge, and he twisted about to follow their gazes. They were watching the captain and his first officer. The two men stood side by side at the weapons console, their backs blocking sight of their actions, but Deelor knew immediately what they were about to do. And why they mustn’t.
Deelor shouted at Manin to stop, but his voice could not carry above the pervasive din of disintegrating metal. He scrambled out of his chair, but the buckling deck surface pitched him down onto his knees. He would never reach them in time. Plunging a hand into the folds of his jacket, he fumbled at the inner pocket. His fingers shoved aside the familiar cylindrical vocoder and closed in on the blunt casing of a hand phaser.
He fired at both men, but the tremblings of the hull threw off his aim. D’Amelio dropped in place under the impact of the stun beam; the captain was only grazed. Manin whirled about in confusion. When he caught sight of the weapon in Deelor’s hand, bewilderment quickly transformed into a burst of rage.
“Kill him!” The scream was inaudible, but the shape of the words was clear. And the order was instantly obeyed.
Andrew Deelor never saw who fired.
Three centuries of engineering knowledge, the product of the combined efforts of the brightest minds in the United Federation of Planets, culminated in the galaxy-class starship known as Enterprise. The finest metals and alloys, the strongest polymers, the newest computer technology, had been expertly crafted into a vessel designed to travel to the farthest reaches of the galaxy. She was manned by officers and scientists of the highest caliber, dedicated to an extended exploration of that new territory which beckoned so seductively.