by Peter David
“Indeed. Why you?” Calhoun’s voice was strangled. But he saw that Lodec was so far in his recollections that he wasn’t noticing.
“I’d practiced with whips ever since I was a kid. To me, it wasn’t a weapon. It was a tool of skill. I could knock over a particular rock from thirty paces without disturbing anything around it. Falkar saw me showing off one day, and on the spot, stated that I was his new whip master. He had me beat people…the screams…the blood…”
“Beat them to death, did you?”
“Sometimes,” he whispered. “Sometimes, yes. I’d be there, torturing the poor devils, and in my head I was taking myself away, somewhere far away…”
“What are you telling me this for?” demanded Calhoun abruptly. “What do you want from me? Absolution? You want me to tell you that it’s okay, you’re forgiven?”
“Perhaps. You were their warlord. If you said you understood…if you…” Then he saw the look in Calhoun’s hard purple eyes. “No. No, I suppose not. My apologies. It was foolish of me even to try.”
The door slid open and he walked out, leaving Calhoun drained in the turbolift, his hands shaking.
The viewscreen was massive, and on it, everyone could see the celebration of the bicentennial well under way. It was in the great plaza of the United Federation Headquarters, and it was a wonder to behold, a veritable sea of races and faces, smiling or doing whatever their respective physicality allowed them to do when it came to expressing pleasure. Calhoun even fancied that he could make out Jellico’s face somewhere in all that hubbub.
Gerrid Thul was standing upon a raised platform, looking down at the assemblage that he had gathered. He looked stronger, more vital than he had before. “Thank you, my friends,” he said. “Thank you for coming. Thank you for…believing. For many months now, you have heard the whispers…you have had revealed to you, in small amounts, the truth of the time to come. And you see there, now, on this screen, on the planet earth, the United Federation of Planets celebrating its own birth. As it so happens, we shall be celebrating as well. We shall be celebrating…its demise.
“It is ironic somehow that we are witnessing a celebration on earth. Earth has many interesting and intriguing end-of-the-world myths from its many cultures. The details differ, but the outcome remains the same: The old is washed away, while the new rises to take its rightful place.
“The time has come for a new cleansing. The Federation has become too huge, too insensitive, interested only in maintaining its own existence and status quo rather than attending to the true needs of various sentient beings. There is too much need for commonality, and there is a loss of individual identity. You see on that screen a dazzling array of species…but as year upon year has gone by, they have slowly lost that which made them unique, special. The Federation must pay for that loss. And the Federation must, and shall, pay for the disservice that it has done to you. You, the outcasts, who for whatever reason, do not fit in with the Federation’s grand scheme of the way things should be. Rejoice, my friends, for the days of your living in a galaxy that attends to the Federation’s beck and call are soon over.”
Thul gestured to his right, indicating that someone should join him on the podium. In the meantime, Calhoun looked around, trying to catch a glimpse of either Picard or Vara Syndra or, most particularly, Zolon Darg. Darg was the only one he managed to spot, but that wasn’t too surprising. With his bulk, he towered above everyone around him. Picard might have been standing right next to him, but thanks to the crowd, Calhoun couldn’t possibly see him.
A rather unassuming human was now standing next to Thul on the podium. “This…is Doctor David Kendrow, one of the premier computer scientists in the quadrant. Wave to the good people, Kendrow.” Kendrow obediently waved. He seemed none too thrilled to be there. “Doctor Kendrow,” continued Thul, “has been instrumental in aiding us. He has helped us to coordinate an astounding amount of information about artificial intelligence. His greatest aid has come in helping us to understand a remarkably advanced computer called the Omega 9…a
computer which sets new advances in the art of interfacing with existing mainframes. Working in tandem with the Omega 9, assorted other research, and dissident residents of a world called Narobi II, we are going to accomplish what no one else in the history of the Federation has managed to do: We are going to connect, at one time, with every computer mainframe through the entire UFP.
“The very commonality which has made the UFP into such a tightly-knit organization is going to be used against it. But we are not simply going to use the Omega 9 to destroy the computers, oh no. Far from it. You see, the computers are tied in with, and control, food replicators which are common technology on all the member planets. The Omega 9 is going to cause all the computers to replicate a virus which I call the Double Helix, which I have spent years perfecting. Now…replicators are limited. They cannot create something that is alive. They can, however, create a string of chemicals which will replicate the disease, and as the disease is introduced into the food or textiles that the replicators generate, that—I assure you—will be more than sufficient.
“But that is too slow. Oh yes…too slow, my friends, and too inefficient. So what will, in fact, happen, is that at the precise same moment, all replicators everywhere will go active, and a gas will be issued by them. That gas will contain the Double Helix virus, and will spread as an airborne menace in no time at all, over every single planet.
“The Federation representatives are scheduled to re-enact the signing of the charter. That will be the moment when the virus will be released on all the Federation worlds simultaneously via the replicators.
It will be galaxy-wide, and the entire Federation will be obliterated in one stroke. Those worlds which are not part of the Federation will naturally survive…as will anyone who is safe within the Thul sphere.” He smiled out at the crowd, spreading his arms wide. “And that will be that. In one grand, glorious stroke, the entire United Federation of Planets will become a thing of the past!”
A huge buzz of conversation had been building and building as Thul had continued, and when he stopped and waited for a reaction, he very much got one. There was a gigantic cheer, a roar of approval so loud that Calhoun thought he was going to go deaf. The applause and huzzahs seemed to go on forever, and when it finally did subside, it was only at Gerrid Thul’s urging as he clearly had more to say.
Calhoun, in the meantime, was endeavoring to drift toward the back of the room. He had no problem making sure that no one was watching him; every eye in the place was rivetted on Thul. He tapped the inside of his left heel, and the long-range communicator slid smoothly out of the heel and into his palm.
Thul started to speak again. His voice was amplified, and it was so loud that Calhoun knew he was going to have trouble getting anyone to hear him.
“Yes, my friends. The Federation has become weak,” said Thul. “The Federation has become stupid. And the most insulting of all…the Federation thinks that we, ourselves, are so stupid, that we will easily be fooled by whatever pathetic plan they might come up with. See for yourself the pathetic spy that they have sent into our midst.”
Calhoun’s head snapped around…and he saw himself. To be precise, he saw his face on the gigantic screen behind Thul, having replaced the image of the UFP celebration. There he was, right in the midst of the crowd, palming the device that he was about to speak into.
Those who were standing around him naturally recognized him immediately and lunged toward him. Calhoun tried to fight his way out, but it was hopeless before he even began. Innumerable hands surrounded him, shoving him toward the floor, and the communicator flew out of his hand. It skidded to a halt several feet away and he could see it, just out of his reach.
And then it was trampled, simply crushed beneath the stampede that was converging on the spy who had been named by Gerrid Thul.
Calhoun was hauled to his feet, still straggling. Even as he did, though,
he knew that it was futile. It was almost more out of misplaced pride than anything else, because in point of fact, he didn’t stand a chance.
“Up here, my friends! Bring him up here!”
They shoved Calhoun forward, laughing and shouting, and within moments he had been thrown at the feet of Gerrid Thul. He started to get to his feet, and then an immense foot came down on his back. He knew who it was immediately, even as his spine creaked under the weight.
“Zolon Darg,” Thul said conversationally to Calhoun, “has been asking for this opportunity.”
“I’m not a spy—” Calhoun began. Then he couldn’t get another word out as Darg increased the pressure, chortling as he did so.
“It is possible,” Thul allowed. “On the other hand, that is merely a possibility…whereas I consider your being a spy to fall far more into the realm of likelihood. Darg…do as you like.”
“As I like?” Darg said, and made as if to slam his foot completely through Calhoun’s torso. Then he paused and said, “No. Why should I keep the fun to myself? You know…there are many things I can do with you, Calhoun, after you’re dead. So why not give others the opportunity to actually escort you to the other side.” He pulled his blaster from his holster and called out, “Kwint!”
Kwint appeared at his side, his face one big sneer. “Yes, sir?”
“Here,” and he handed the blaster to Kwint. “Execute him.” Calhoun, very carefully and very deliberately, did not look up at the disguised Picard. To do so would have come across as pleading, and that was not something he could risk. Calhoun was done for, he knew that. But if Picard foolishly attempted to save him, they would both be finished. One of them had to complete the task. And if Calhoun was going to be the one to fall, then so be it.
He just prayed Picard wouldn’t be so foolhardy as to try some insane rescue ploy. Surely Picard had to know that it was hopeless, that Calhoun had to be sacrificed. That was simply the way it had played out. No offense, no foul, see you next lifetime.
In a way, it was almost a relief. At that point, Calhoun had absolutely no idea what to do about Lodec. At least dying first would resolve that quandary.
He had always understood that, when one is about to die, one’s life flashes before one’s eyes. He waited for that to happen.
There was no flash. There was no life.
This made him edgy, as it seemed to indicate that he wasn’t about to die. If that were the case, then it was most unfortunate because that meant—
“Nobody move!” shouted Picard.
“Oh, hell,” muttered Calhoun.
Picard considered, for a moment that was in fact brief but, to him, seemed endless, the option of shooting Calhoun. There didn’t seem to be any other options being presented to him.
His finger even started to squeeze the trigger…and that was when Picard knew that he simply couldn’t do it. If one was dealing with sheer numbers—the death of one man, Calhoun, versus the potential death of trillions of beings—obviously there was no choice. But Picard refused to accept that it was that simple. There had to be other choices.
Moving with surprising speed, Picard vaulted the distance between himself and Thul and put the blaster straight at Gerrid Thul’s head. Darg didn’t budge. Neither did Thul. The crowd started to converge, to surge forward, and Picard called out, “Tell them to back off! We’re going!”
“Are you?” Darg asked calmly. “And if you’re prevented from doing so…?”
“Then Gerrid Thul dies,” Picard said firmly. “I’ll kill him…”
“As you killed my son?” Gerrid Thul asked.
The words froze Picard. Did Thul actually know him? What was that possible? But if he did, then that meant—
“Go ahead,” Darg was saying. “Shoot. See if I care.”
That more or less clinched it for Picard. He looked down at the energy indicator on the blaster he was holding, but was reasonably certain about what he was going to find.
It read “empty.” The blaster was completely out of power.
Picard looked up and saw that he was ringed by half a dozen blasters, all aimed squarely at him.
“Now these,” Darg said conversationally, “all work.”
Slowly Picard put up his hands, knowing there was no choice. He was grabbed from all sides, and he saw Calhoun being hauled to his feet as well.
“I never trusted you for a moment, ‘Kwint,’ ” Darg told him. “So I had a DNA check run on you from scrapings taken off a glass at Kara’s. By the time we arrived here, Gerrid Thul was already quite aware that the man who killed his son was going to be making a return visit.”
“I was not responsible for the death of your son, and you know it,” Picard said to Thul.
“You can believe that, if it pleases you to do so,” Thul said. “I, however, know otherwise. Darg…take them away. Put them in lock-up.”
“What? Why? I’ll just kill them…”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Thul admonished him. ‘I want them in lock-up, with a screen that broadcasts the Federation ceremonies. I want them to witness their Federation’s fall. I think…” and he smiled broadly, “I think my son would have liked it that way.”
XX.
“WHAT DID YOU EXPECT me to do?” demanded Picard.
From within their cell, Calhoun glowered at him. “I expected you to pull the damned trigger, that’s what I expected you to do.”
“And kill you in cold blood.”
“If it meant preserving the mission, yes.”
Just outside the cell, two guards were visible through the force field that was blocking the door. They appeared to be smirking as the two captains disagreed rather vocally about the direction that Picard should have followed in the given situation.
Calhoun was sitting disconsolately on one of the hard benches that constituted the entirety of the furniture in the cramped cell, while Picard was standing and facing him. “So you expected me to shoot you down?”
“Absolutely,” said Calhoun. “I knew there were hazards to this mission…”
“For God’s sake, Mac, there are hazards to any mission. But this was…” He paused and then said, “If the situation were reversed, would you have shot me.”
“With the safety of the entire Federation on the line?”
“Yes.”
Without hesitation, Calhoun said, “In a heartbeat.”
They stared at each other for a long moment, and then Picard said softly, “And if it were Shelby?”
Calhoun looked away. “This is a stupid discussion. It’s all moot anyway. The game was up before they even handed you the blaster.”
“True.”
“So…” Calhoun slapped his thighs and stood. Then he walked over to the forcefield that barred the way and he stroked his chin thoughtfully. The guards outside watched him through narrowed eyes. “Here’s what we have to do. We have to get out of here, destroy their computer system, take down Gerrid Thul and Zolon Darg, and do it all before they have the signing ceremony back on earth that’s going to signal the beginning of the end.”
The guards clearly thought this to be a hilarious proposition. They laughed out loud as Calhoun stared at them. “Is something funny?” he asked quietly.
“No, nothing at all,” said one of the guards. “We’d be most interested in seeing you get out of here. Wouldn’t we, Benz?” he said to the other.
“Absolutely, Zeen,” said Benz.
“I just need to warn you,” Calhoun said calmly, “that if I do get out of here, the first thing I’m going to have to do is kill the both of you. Nothing else to be done for it, I’m afraid. I can’t take the chance of either of you recovering and sounding an alarm prematurely.”
“Oh, we understand that perfectly. We won’t hold it against you. How are you going to kill us, by the way? Weapons scan revealed no weapons on you.”
“I’ll just have to do it with my bare hands.”
“Very well. You go right ahead,” grinned Zeen.
“Not at all. We understand you have a difficult job to do. Far be it from us to resent you for it.”
“That’s very kind of you. Activate transporter, right.”
The grin remained on their faces for another moment or two…and then, to their shock, Calhoun vanished in a burst of molecular rearrangement.
“What the hell!” the one called Benz roared.
They were both facing the cell when Calhoun rematerialized directly behind them. They spun, faced him.
Benz was closer. Calhoun’s right hand speared out, nailed Benz in the throat, crushing his windpipe. It was effectively over for him at that moment as he collapsed to the floor, unable to breathe.
Opening his mouth to shout out a warning, Zeen brought up his weapon at the same time. Calhoun didn’t even slow down. Moving with incredible calm, he grabbed Zeen’s gun, angled it backward and fired. The blast struck the forcefield, ricocheted, and hit Zeen in the back. Zeen’s eyes went wide as his spine sizzled, but he didn’t feel the pain for long as Calhoun grabbed either side of his head and twisted with brisk efficiency to the right. Zeen’s neck broke with remarkable ease and he sagged to the floor.
As he fell, Calhoun pulled the gun from his lifeless fingers and glanced down at Benz, gasping on the floor, unable to draw in air. Calhoun fired off a quick shot into his head and Benz stopped thrashing about.
From the moment he’d reappeared outside the cell to the moment that the guards were dead, the entire incident had taken no more than four seconds.
