The Sky's the Limit - Marco Palmieri [89]
Red.
By now, he could scarcely see. But he could hear the warning as time ticked down toward a warp core breach. Behind him, in engineering, they were trying to talk to him, urge him on, ask him questions. He ignored all of them but did not turn off the signal: no need to make them fear he had turned traitor once again. Let them busy themselves with lesser worries.
It was getting darker fast now. Odd: the shriek of the ship in torment seemed softer. His hearing was failing, along with the rest of him. He realized he had one last chance to use his waning strength to force the power coupling closed.
La Forge had been right. They were all but fused. DeSeve abandoned his charred gloves over the deactivated grenade even though the ship’s true engineers would be able to see it now that it was uncloaked and deactivated. Only the couplings remained. He struck them hard with joined, bleeding fists. Pain radiated through him as his bones snapped, but at last he felt the switches give.
The deadly pyrotechnics in the Jefferies tube subsided. Even if he could not see them, or truly hear the screams of the ship’s engines, he felt the shaking of the tube around him diminish, then steady until he crouched, panting in the stillness and the dark.
He expected at any second to begin convulsing, to roll about and batter himself unconscious in the Jefferies tube. He guessed he just didn’t have that much strength left. He dropped, panting. He was beyond pain now. For a moment, he savored the triumph and the silence.
“DeSeve, Ensign DeSeve! Come in, man. Report!”
“Radiation levels are dropping…”
“…Power drain ceasing…”
“He did it!” a feral hiss in a most aristocratic accent. It was almost funny.
“Stefan!” Picard’s voice again, pain filled. “Are you there? Can you answer me?”
He wanted to reply, but his mouth was filled with blood. By the time Picard called his name again, he was beyond hearing, beyond reply, beyond life itself.
The cup of tea on Picard’s desk had cooled a long time ago. The lights were dim, compared with the skidding rainbows of stars at warp speed he could see through the viewscreen in his quarters.
“Captain’s log. Repairs on Enterprise’s engines are proceeding satisfactorily, even after Lieutenant Commander La Forge was apprehended in an unauthorized attempt to leave sickbay in order to get back on the job. Doctor Crusher has declined to bring charges. Similarly, I have declined to arrest Lieutenant Worf for disobeying my direct order to remove Ambassador Spock’s…associates from danger, although I have accepted his personal apology.
“Mister La Forge, now restored to duty and Doctor Crusher’s good graces, informs me that we shall be operational within six hours. All tachyon emissions appear to have vanished.” Picard allowed himself a thin smile at the paradox.
“Admiral Ross has spoken to me from Draken IV. He had indeed sent out a ship, the Nolan, as soon as communications broke down. Once it makes rendezvous”—he remembered how Ruanek had stammered over the word—”Vice-Proconsul M’ret and his staff will transfer from Enterprise and be taken to Vulcan as quickly as possible.”
Presumably by Starfleet, rather than Vulcan shuttle, Picard assumed. The transfer would be accomplished quickly, efficiently. Picard would take an honor guard down to transporter room 3. As much as M’ret might protest, Picard gave honor where he saw it.
It was unfortunate, though, that he would have no time to speak with the “Vulcan” legate, let alone take up his offer of hospitality back on Vulcan. It would have been pleasant to see how the exile whom he had saved had prospered, but the legate would have to continue to store the 2360 against the day when Picard might actually have