He couldn’t be sure whether his racing circulation came from trepidation or exhilaration.
Probably both.
Chapter Eight
The shuttlecraft Keplerdescended swiftly through the turbulent Dayside atmosphere, its passage creating plumes of superheated plasma that clutched at the hull like the fingers of some angry god. The cockpit rattled and jerked. Picard stole a backward glance at the admiral, who was sitting beside Crusher in the crew cabin. He could only imagine the hell she had endured, having first lost Tabor and then having discovered the ambassador’s possible malfeasance on Chiaros IV. He noticed then that her skin had taken on an almost greenish tinge; spacesickness, adding insult to injury.
“Will someone please explain again just why the Federation is so interested in this place?” Crusher said as she scanned the admiral with a medical tricorder.
Batanides smiled weakly. “I couldtell you. But then I’d have to kill you.”
“Excuse me?” Crusher said, looking startled as she deactivated the tricorder.
“Sorry, Doctor. A very old intelligence operative’s joke.” The cabin shuddered again, and the motion appeared to intensify the admiral’s nausea. “I just had an even better idea, Doctor: Why don’t youkill me?”
Smiling, Crusher touched a hypospray to Batanides’s neck. “You’ll start feeling better in a minute or so, Admiral.”
Lieutenant Hawk occupied the control station to Picard’s right. “The plasma discharges are still affecting the inertial damping system, Captain,” he said.
“Continue compensating manually, Lieutenant.”
“Aye, sir.” Hawk’s fingers moved nimbly, almost too quickly for the eye to follow. Picard was reminded for a moment of Data’s ultrafast motions at the ops console.
“Ship’s status, Mr. Hawk?” Picard said.
Hawk continued manipulating the controls as he spoke: “As predicted, sir, our sensors are at less than half efficiency, thanks to these atmospheric effects. And even our enhanced subspace transmitter can’t make contact with anything as small as a combadge, if any of the survivors still have one. Shields won’t function at all in the lower atmospheric layers, but the phasers are operational. The transporter is on‑line, but I wouldn’t recommend trying to exceed a two‑kilometer radius with it.”
“Grand,” Picard said wryly. He was grimly aware that without shields, a single hostile phaser blast could finish them all in the space of a heartbeat. Fortunately, that problem cut both ways; most of the rebel compound would be accessible via the Kepler’s transporter, even if the base’s detention‑area forcefields were to remain intact.
Though the sensor display was still obscured, the forward viewer showed the planet’s rapidly approaching terminator. Seconds later, a nightward mountain range rolled past and a shroud of darkness enveloped the little ship. To avoid detection, Hawk brought the ship low, hugging the planet’s dim curvature, maintaining an altitude of no more than sixty meters. The topographic map Batanides had obtained from Ruardh’s Intelligence Ministry was helping to keep the half‑blinded shuttle clear of hills and rock outcroppings.
Hawk tapped several controls on the navigation console, and the shuttle responded by banking gently onto a southeasterly heading. The craft’s forward velocity began to diminish, as did the buffeting and turbulence.
“Captain?” the lieutenant said, his brow crumpling. “Something about these sensor readings isn’t right.”
“Apart from the interference?”
“Yes, sir.” The younger man gestured to the staticgarbled tactical display. “Even through the charged atmospheric particles, we’re already close enough to detect somesign of the rebel base. But I’m reading absolutely nothing. Not even a stray calorie of waste heat.”
Picard pondered what that might mean. Then he glanced at his chronometer and decided to put the matter to one side for the moment. “Carry on, Mr. Hawk,” he said, rising from his seat. Best to let the lad do what I brought him along to do.
Picard sat beside Batanides and Crusher. The admiral was massaging her temples.
“Admiral, perhaps you should remain aboard with Dr. Crusher,” Picard said. “If you’re not feeling up to this–”
Meeting his gaze, she cut him off. “Remember the time I came down with that Berengarian virus?”
He was glad they lacked the time to tell Crusher that story. During their Academy days, Batanides had been exposed to an alien enzyme that put her into a coma and nearly killed her. She was alive now thanks partly to her own innate ruggedness, and partly because Picard and Zweller had secretly–and illegally–taken her to the remote planet Yrskatdon for the gene resequencing therapy that had ultimately saved her life.
He wondered: Was she trying to remind him that she was tough? Or that their current circumstances might force him once again to bend Starfleet regulations?
“How could I forget?” Picard said, nodding. If she could survive that, then a little queasiness wouldn’t even slow her down. He could already see the color returning to her cheeks.
“How’s the mission timetable?” Batanides said.
“We’re locked on course for the coordinates we received from Corey. The shuttle should be over the base in . . .” Picard paused to consult his chronometer “. . . two minutes and five seconds. We’ll have only a few moments to beam into the base before the Keplerflies out of transporter range. That will put us inside the base four and a half minutes before the forcefields in the detention area come down.”
“Ifthe forcefields come down,” Crusher said grimly.
Picard ignored the doctor’s comment. “After the beamin, Mr. Hawk will circle around, pass back into transporter range, and retrieve everyone from the beam‑up point.”
His eyes on the instruments, Hawk said over his shoulder, “It’ll be tricky, because I’ll have to do the beam‑outs a few at a time. I’ll just have to keep circling over the base until I’ve recovered everyone.” With a sheepish grin, he added: “Assuming that the Chiarosans don’t shoot me down first.”
“And also assuming,” Crusher said, her gaze trained on Picard, “that this entire situation isn’t a trap. It’s still possible that Commander Zweller’s message was a ruse created by the rebels.”
“Or perhaps even by the Romulans,” Picard said as he rose and walked to the portside weapons locker. He quickly removed two tricorders, a pair of hand phasers, and a compression phaser rifle. “I’ll grant that we may be walking into a trap. On the other hand, we can’t accomplish anything by waiting. This is the best–and the only–lead we’ve got.”
Batanides followed him and took possession of a tricorder and one of the hand phasers. After checking the charge on her weapon, she turned toward the cockpit. “Heads up, Mr. Hawk.” She threw the phaser to him, hard.
Hawk swiveled his chair toward her and plucked the phaser out of the air as though it had been standing still. The admiral smiled. “Good reflexes, son. You’ll be a real asset to the away team.”
Picard frowned as he slung the rifle onto his back. “Admiral, I prefer to have Mr. Hawk piloting the shuttle. His reflexes will be put to better use here in case of a Chiarosan attack. I hadn’t intended on leaving the doctor on board alone.”
Crusher gave him a look of mock umbrage. “I’m capable of piloting a shuttle, Captain.”
Batanides took the remaining phaser and tricorder out of Picard’s hands. “She won’t be alone. You’llbe staying aboard with her.”
Picard struggled, not altogether successfully, to control a volcanic surge of anger. “Damn it, Marta, I brought Mr. Hawk along specifically for his piloting skills–”