The Last Stand - Brad Ferguson [86]
“There’s nothing worth talking about,” Wiggin said after a moment, and then he smiled. “Now where were we?” He moved his chair a little closer to Troi.
“You were telling me about the aliens,” she reminded him. “You said they were a problem for you.”
“They sure are,” Wiggin said. “Trying to prepare for an attack from them is impossible when you don’t know what to expect,” he said. “What kind of weapons do they have? How many? Will they fight to destroy us? To capture us? Or just to incapacitate us? Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but rumor has it that the aliens have faster-than-light drive.”
Troi kept her expression blank. “That’s not supposed to be possible, is it?” she asked.
“No, it’s not, and it makes you wonder what else they’ve got. But I think we might have an answer. It’s something we’ve been working on for a long time for—for other applications. Crash priority, especially recently, and it’s ready to go. The final checkout’s taken up most of our time lately.” He grinned. “I can’t show you the specs on it, of course, but you can see the thing itself if you want—from a distance, anyway. We brought a school group through just yesterwatch to see it.”
“The ‘thing’? What is it?”
“An answer to whatever it is that’s out there. We hope. Come on, Pralla. It’s in a converted cargo bay that’s just the other side of the next bulkhead.”
Troi and Wiggin left the cubicle area and went down a small, spare gangway to a heavy metal door. There were large red and green lights mounted overhead. The green one was lit.
“What are the lights for?” Troi asked.
“Vacuum warning,” Wiggin replied. “We’re just one level away from the hull. The cargo bay can be opened to space. This door is actually an air lock.” Wiggin put his hand against a slick metal panel mounted on the wall to the right of the door, and after several seconds the door began to roll aside slowly.
“Getting in and out of here is not a very quick process, I’m afraid,” Wiggin said, “but this is one of the smaller air locks. There’s a much bigger one for watch changes and so forth a few levels spinward. We can move hundreds of people in and out in just a few minutes. Ah, here we go.”
Wiggin and Troi entered the air lock. It was big enough to hold six people, if they crowded in. Wiggin reached past Troi’s shoulder and pressed his hand against another metal plate. The door behind them began to roll shut.
“Now where were we?” Wiggin asked Troi as the door behind them closed fully. He was not quite leering.
“You were about to open this other door here,” the counselor said firmly.
“Oh.” He sounded disappointed. “Are you sure?”
“Very.” Her tone brooked no nonsense. “You were about to open this door.”
Wiggin nodded. “As you say,” he said resignedly, “that was what I was about to do.” He put his hand on the plate for the inner air lock door, and it rumbled aside.
Troi gasped when she saw it. The cargo bay was huge, but the device inside nearly filled it.
“Well?” Wiggin asked, grinning as if he’d built the thing all by himself. “Whaddaya think?”
Troi was wide-eyed. “I’m impressed,” she said. “I’m very, very impressed.” They entered the cargo bay and began walking slowly toward the device.
The weapon looked something like an ancient anti-aircraft gun combined with the fat, smooth barrel of one of the old planet-based optical telescopes. It was pointed right at the wall of the cargo bay—or, rather, at two large doors that were apparently designed to swing open so that the weapon could be extended into space and fired. The barrel was mounted on long, gimbaled legs that would allow the device to be pointed up, down, left, and right. Thick cables led from the weapon into the cargo bay floor. Scores of Krann technicians were swarming and clambering over, around and through the device, adjusting, repairing, replacing, fine-tuning. The activity seemed very nearly frantic.
Troi wished desperately that she could have brought a tricorder along with her on this mission. Instead, she tried to memorize every visual detail that she could. “What does this thing do?” she asked Wiggin,