And if there was, which camp he fell into.
When Oxxreg’s amphibianlike face appeared on the main viewscreen, Captain Pressman faced him, shoulders square, hands again clasped behind his back. “We have considered your offer,” the captain said. “And I’m here to tell you that there will be no deal.”
Oxxreg arched what would have been an eyebrow, had he possessed them, wrinkling his forehead. “Your superiors don’t care what happens to you?”
“They care,” Pressman argued. “But they care more about upholding Starfleet regulations. We are a neutral party, as far as your war is concerned, and we will remain so. I hereby demand, once again, that you release us and let us be on our way. Starfleet is no threat to you.”
“I’m sorry you have to so humiliate yourself, Captain.”Oxxreg sounded almost disappointed. Will supposed he probably was—he had probably been congratulating himself on the brilliance of his plan, and now faced having to explain to his own superiors why it wasn’t going to work. “But very well,”he went on. “You’ll have a few more minutes to live, then. We’ll see how willing the Ven are to fire on a Starfleet ship when they get within range.”
This time, Oxxreg broke the connection. Pressman turned toward the bridge crew. “So we’re to be a shield, apparently.”
“Maybe the Ven are more reasonable,” Dusefrene suggested.
“We’re one ship—a small one, compared to the Omistol ships,” Will noted. “We won’t make a very good shield. And when the shooting starts, I doubt anyone will make a special effort to miss us.”
“Mr. Riker’s right,” Captain Pressman said. “So let’s put the admiral’s plan into motion, see what happens. Are you still with us, Admiral?”
“I’m here,”Admiral Paris’s voice replied after a few seconds. Communication by susbspace radio was far from immediate, but it was pretty fast. “I wish you the best of luck, Captain.”
“We’ll need more than luck,” Pressman said. “Let’s see if we’ve got it. Mr. Riker, commence.”
“Yes, sir,” Will said, trying to sound as sharp and military as he could. He knew what they were proposing was risky, so he wanted to try to keep everyone’s morale up as best he could. The only morale he could directly influence was his own, though, so he focused on that.
He tapped at the conn controls, reversing the thrust of the Pegasus’sengines. Where before they had been burning fuel trying to escape the tractor beam, now he began to gently nudge the ship closer to the Omistol vessel that held them.
“They’re on the move,” Captain Jensen pointed out.
There was increased tension in the situation room, but also a growing sense of elation. At least something was being done. No one knew if it would work, but it was movement.
To Kyle, the success or failure of the plan had even greater significance than it did to the Starfleet officers in the room. Sure, it was their ship, their personnel. But his son was on that ship. He’d been a lousy father, and he wasn’t likely to change now. The last couple of years had taught him some hard lessons, though, and one of those was that his standard approach to life—duty first, all other considerations a distant second—was perhaps not the healthiest way to live. It had cost him too much. He knew he couldn’t simply waltz back into Will’s life, even if the boy survived the next few minutes. But at least Will would still be out there, and maybe somewhere down the line he’d be able to find it in his heart to forgive his old man for the stupid mistakes he’d made.
“I hope this works,” Admiral Paris muttered.
“It hasto,” one of the other officers fired back.
“It may not,” Kyle said, always willing to play devil’s advocate to his own tactics.
“We’ll know soon enough,” Bonner observed. “There’s nothing we can do now except wait.”
“They’re getting closer,” Jensen said, as if he were the only one who could see the screen.
Over the subspace radio relay, Kyle heard the words he’d been waiting for—the words that would make this plan work.
Or fail miserably.
“This is Captain Erik Pressman,”the captain’s voice said. “Initiate auto-destruct sequence.”
There was a pause, and Kyle knew the next voice he heard should be the first officer’s. When it finally came, it quavered with fear and uncertainty.
“This is Commander Barry Chamish... Captain, I can’t. I won’t.”
“Number One, I must insist,”Captain Pressman said.
“You can’t make me,”Chamish replied. To Kyle, he sounded more like a petulant child than a Starfleet officer.
“It’s your duty,”the captain urged. “To this ship and this crew.”
“That’s exactly why I won’t do it,”Chamish said. “I think it’s the wrong decision for the crew. I refuse to give my authorization.”
“You’re relieved, Mr. Chamish.”Kyle could hear the fury in Pressman’s voice as he did so.
“Sir, I’ll do it,”another voice broke in. “If I can.”
Kyle thought the voice sounded familiar. It was not a voice he’d heard often, certainly not recently. It was deeper, more mature than he remembered it. But the sound of it, the valor he heard in those few words, filled him with immense pride.
Will felt every eye on the bridge burning into him. Captain Pressman regarded him levelly, as if trying to fit a new perception around the old ones he had already established.
“You can’t, Ensign,” Pressman said. “It would have to be the third-in-command of the ship.”
“Well, it’s got to be soon, sir. We’re already within range.”
Before Will finished his sentence, the officer to his immediate left said, “This is Lieutenant Commander Shinnareth Bestor.” The operations officer’s voice was flat, betraying no emotion at all. “Initiate auto-destruct sequence.”
“Verbal confirmation requested,”the computer replied. “Captain Pressman?”
“Confirmed,” Pressman stated.
“Lieutenant Commander Bestor?”
“Confirmed,” the operations officer said.
“What is the desired interval until destruction, Captain Pressman?”
Pressman glanced at Will, who checked his instruments quickly and then held up three fingers. “Three minutes,” the captain said.
“Auto-destruct sequence initiated,”the computer intoned. “Destruction in two minutes, fifty-eight seconds.”
Will wiped at his forehead. His heart pounded in his chest and the rush of blood in his ears almost drowned out the other noises on the bridge. Everything except the computer’s soulless voice, counting down the last few seconds until the ship blew itself up. The force of the explosion, he remembered from the Academy, would be roughly the equivalent of a thousand photon torpedoes.
At least it’ll be quick,he thought. Probably fairly painless. Probably even a relief after sitting around waiting for it for three minutes.
“What’s going on up there?” someone asked plaintively.
“You can hear as well as the rest of us,” Bonner responded. “They’re waiting.”
Kyle knew it wasn’t that simple. The delay inherent even in subspace radio meant that the Pegasusmight already be destroyed. He wondered what they’d hear on this end—static? An electronic hum? Or would they first, momentarily, hear the thunder as the explosions ripped through his son’s vessel?