The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [145]
Deanna leaned toward me. “Captain, it’s nothing to be ashamed of. What matters far more than your joy is the shame you felt right afterward. It’s when you don’t feel the shame after a perfectly natural instinct that you have to worry.”
As she leaned forward, I leaned back, crossing my legs in a failed attempt to get comfortable. “We’re on our way now to meet with a Klingon civilian ship that allegedly has intelligence about Dominion activity—at which point, we will likely again be sent into battle.” I sighed. “Remember at Evora when I asked if anyone remembered when we were explorers?”
“Yes. And we will be explorers again, Captain, I’m sure of it.”
“Assuming we do win the war. Assuming we aren’t all killed. We’ve been so very lucky, Deanna—even when we lost the EnterpriseD, we all survived. But now, I see the Grissom and the other five ships destroyed, the Christopher possibly needing to be scrapped as well, and I wonder when our luck will finally run out.”
“Captain—”
“Riker to Picard.”
I pulled down my uniform jacket and tapped my combadge. “Go ahead, Number One.”
“We’re picking up a distress call from a Cardassian ship. It’s adrift in interstellar space. Data picked it up on long-range, and it seems to be legitimate.”
Normally, I would recommend caution, but the urge to save a life rather than take one became almost palpable. “Have Ensign Perim change course.” After a moment, I added, “And go to yellow alert. I’ll be on the bridge shortly, Picard out.”
Getting to my feet, I turned to the counselor. I did not need her empathic senses to determine that she was worried about me. “Captain, I think we should speak further.”
“I agree, Counselor—but later, in a formal session, perhaps?”
She picked up her padd, we agreed on a time the following afternoon, and I went to the bridge.
The distress call came from an old Akril-class vessel. I was amazed that any were still in service, as that model was prominent when I was captain of the Stargazer but had become less common in recent years. As usual, Data had an explanation. “Sensors show several deviations from the known design of Akril-class vessels. It is likely that Dominion engineering has been used to augment this ship.”
Will added, “The last squib from Starfleet Intelligence indicated that Cardassian shipyards had been converted by the Dominion to upgrade Central Command’s fleet.”
“Well,” Daniels said, “this upgrade must not’ve taken. I’m reading hull damage over 40 percent of the ship, structural integrity field down to 25 percent and falling—and the distress call is now a disaster beacon.”
Data added, “Ship’s registry indicates it is the Central Command vessel Pakliros.”
I tugged the front of my uniform jacket again—a comforting habit that I’d never seen any reason to break—and said, “Bring us in slowly, Ensign.”
“Aye, sir,” Perim said.
Disaster beacons were far more difficult to forge—though not impossible—and increased the likelihood that this was a legitimate call for help.
Will asked, “Any life signs, Data?”
“The ship’s engines are putting out considerable radiation, sir, making life-sign readings difficult. However, sensors do read two Cardassian life signs in the forward cargo section.”
That put them as far as possible from the irradiated engines. I tapped my combadge. “Bridge to transporter room 3. Lock onto the two life signs in the forward section of the Cardassian vessel and stand by.” I moved toward the turbolift. “Mister Daniels, have a security complement meet me in the transporter room.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You have the bridge, Number One.”
“Yes, sir,” Will said. “Lieutenant, keep a weapons lock on the Pakliros—just in case.”
Daniels’s acknowledgment was swallowed by the turbolift doors closing. “Transporter room 3,” I said.
Will’s caution was quite sensible. A Sovereign-class ship would be a valuable prize for a Dominion soldier to bring home to Cardassia Prime. This still could have been a