Part 21 (1/2)

”Ja, Herr Major,” said the broad-shouldered Austrian.

Behind the two flight officers, the rest of the MACOs perched like gargoyles along the lip of the penthouse's roof, which was a jumble of odd shapes and angles. It was lunchtime, and the men were all snacking on small pieces of fruit, as well as on sticks of dried, synthetic meat that they had conserved and rationed from their provisions for the past few months. The switch to a predominantly vegetarian diet had given all the members of the landing party a distinctly lean and hungry look.

”I wish there was some satisfaction in being able to say I told you so, Lieutenant, but there isn't.” Foyle sighed and turned back toward the faraway range. ”If Captain Hernandez isn't willing to use force to secure our freedom, then I have to question her fitness to command.” At the edges of his vision, he saw Graylock and Thayer stake out positions on either side of him, leaning on the terrace's railing. ”If I place this mission under military authority, will I have your support?”

”Absolutely,” Thayer said.

”Jawohl,” said Graylock. ”It's why we came to you.”

The major nodded. ”And the others?”

”Nein. They won't go against the captain.”

”I'd suspected as much,” Foyle said. Turning his head toward Thayer, he said, ”Tell me about your diversion.”

There was excitement in her eyes as she detailed the plan. ”It entails coordinated strikes on the 'apparatus' in two of the other cities, preferably ones as far as possible from Axion.”

”I don't have that much manpower,” Foyle argued.

She pulled a hand scanner from her jumpsuit's leg pocket and handed it to him. ”We only need to seize one node of the apparatus in person. In the second city, we'll use a timer-detonated munition to blow up a different node while it's all juiced up for their big experiment. The tachyon pulse alone should be enough to collapse the scattering fields worldwide.”

”For how long?”

Thayer glanced at Graylock, who said, ”No idea. We hope it'll last for at least six minutes so we can beam back to the s.h.i.+p and break orbit.”

Foyle considered the power that their captors had already displayed on the planet's surface. ”Once we're on the s.h.i.+p, what then? Do we really think we can outrun the Caeliar at impulse?”

”We may not have to,” Graylock said. ”The technology they're using for their 'great work' could be modified to send us back home in a snap.”

The major gritted his teeth and twisted his mouth into a rueful grimace. ”Let's remember what the good captain said about our hosts' bad habit of 'displacing' entire civilizations. Do we want to risk bringing that kind of attention to Earth?”

Graylock smirked. ”If we do this properly, Herr Major, the Caeliar might never know we were here.”

”That's the other proposal the captain rejected,” Thayer said. ”The Caeliar's machines can move us through time and s.p.a.ce. We'd have to run afoul of the predestination paradox, and deal with meeting ourselves, and about a dozen other temporal no-nos...but we could go back, warn Earth about the Romulans, and save ourselves from getting stuck here in the first place.”

From behind the trio came the scuffle of men climbing down from the rooftop. Foyle and the Columbia officers turned to see Pembleton and Yacavino stride toward them, while Crichlow, Mazzetti, and Steinhauer scrambled over the edge and sought purchase with their hands and feet.

”Did I just hear that?” asked Pembleton. ”We can go back? I can see my wife again and watch my boys grow up?”

”In theory,” said Graylock.

The MACOs gathered around, a wall of intense focus and dark forest camouflage, as Foyle asked the engineer, ”What will it take to make your theory a reality?”

”Phase two of the plan,” answered Thayer. All eyes turned to her, the only woman on the terrace, as she continued. ”Karl has a good idea what the Caeliar's machines are capable of, but he doesn't know how to make them do what he wants. I think the Caeliar do know how, and if they're properly motivated, they might be...persuaded to a.s.sist us.”

Pembleton threw a sidelong stare at Foyle. ”That does sound like our specialty, Major.”

Foyle was torn. Mucking about with time was dangerous business, no matter how cavalierly his men embraced it. He hadn't been trained for decisions such as this. Small-unit tactics, SERE protocols, psyops, boarding procedures-those were his areas of expertise. Altering the flow of history had not been covered at the war college in Credenhill. But the human cost of his decision was staring him in the eye. This was a chance to reunite his sergeant with his family, bring his men and the crew of the Columbia home to their friends and loved ones, and spare all those people back on Earth the grief of believing the s.h.i.+p and its crew lost in action.

A chance to go home to Valerie. To his life. Their life.

For all I know, the Romulans conquered Earth because we couldn't get a warning out, he brooded. What if everyone we care about is gone because of that mistake? What if our going back in time is Earth's only hope?

He climbed up from the deep well of his thoughts to find everyone staring at him and waiting for his answer. ”Graylock, if my people get you into one of those machines and compel the Caeliar to cooperate, are you sure you can pull this off?”

”I'm certain it's our only chance, Herr Major.”

Foyle studied Thayer's eyes, looking for the resolve of a soldier. He asked her, ”When this turns ugly-and I promise you, it will-can I count on you to go the distance?”

”Whatever it takes, sir,” Thayer said. ”I refuse to die as a prisoner, here or anywhere else.”

That was an answer Foyle could accept and respect. ”All right, then,” he said. ”Forget what Captain Hernandez wants. If we're going to make a go of this, we have to hit the Caeliar where it'll hurt them most.” He worked his way around the circle with speed and certainty. ”Yacavino, you and Crichlow get munitions in place before they start their big experiment. Have Lieutenant Thayer tell you which site to mine. Pembleton, go over the scans of the Caeliar with Lieutenant Graylock and see if we can bring them down to our level and hurt them once we get them there. Mazzetti, Steinhauer-you're both with me.”

Yacavino looked worried. ”What will you be doing, sir?”

”I expect Captain Hernandez will object to our plan,” Foyle said. ”She and the other flight officers will have to be kept in sight and out of the loop. When it's time to attack, they'll have to be contained until we're ready to beam up.” He saw Yacavino's expression of concern mirrored on the faces of Thayer and Graylock. ”Trust me,” he added. ”She'll thank us after we all get home.” That seemed to mollify the three lieutenants. Foyle snapped everyone into action with a clap of his hands. ”We have a lot to do. Let's get to work.”

The group moved off and segregated into duos according to the a.s.signments that Foyle had made. The lone straggler was Sergeant Pembleton, who waited until the others were out of earshot before he confided to the major, ”You know containment won't be enough, don't you? She won't stand for it.”

”I know,” Foyle said. ”And we can't take a chance on her alerting the Caeliar before we break orbit.” He patted the taller man's shoulder. ”I'll handle it.”

”One more thing bothers me, sir,” Pembleton said. Foyle nodded for him to continue. ”What if the Caeliar have taken the rest of the s.h.i.+p's crew prisoner? What if there's no one up there to beam us aboard?”

Foyle looked to the horizon. ”Then we're already dead.”

2381.

18.

Commander Geordi La Forge walked through the mechanical jungle of a.s.sembly lines that occupied three converted cargo bays on Deck 23 of the Enterprise. A tang of overheated metal filled the ozone-rich air, and the long, open s.p.a.ce buzzed with the hum of motors, plasma welders, and industrial replicators.

The death factory. That was La Forge's secret nickname for this hastily erected manufacturing complex. Here was where the crew struggled to produce a steady supply of the one weapon that so far had proved consistently effective against the Borg: transphasic torpedoes.

Flashes of light from the welding teams pierced the blue haze that lingered between checkpoints on the line. Lighting in the munitions plant was kept glare-free and diffuse, to avoid hard shadows and reduce eyestrain. Most of the line was powered by antigravs, which kept the noise to a low rumble.

For those who toiled here, the only relief from the monotony was to be rotated between different stations each day. Watching the dull routine, the grind of repet.i.tion, La Forge found it hard to believe that it made much difference. One set of rote tasks was as mind-numbing as another.

He stopped to check the phase variance circuit on a finished warhead that was awaiting delivery to the forward torpedo room. He used the warhead's built-in touch-screen interface to perform a quality-control inspection of its internal systems. The data was still crawling up the screen as he noted someone approaching from his left.

”Geordi,” said Beverly Crusher, who had a medical satchel slung at her hip. She stopped beside him and noted the inspection in progress. ”Am I catching you at a bad time?”

It was a terrible time, but the chief engineer shook his head and replied, ”Not at all. What can I do for you?”