by Peter David
He studied their distress message, tugged at his lower lip thoughtfully, and came to the conclusion that the entire thing might very well be a set-up. That the Redeemers either might be in league with the Fennerians, or else were pressuring them to summon theExcalibur and force a confrontation on that basis.
Knowing this, however, or at the very least suspecting it, did not do Calhoun a great deal of good. He only had two choices: Go there or not go there. If he didn't go there, and the distress was legitimate, then Fenner would be overrun and theExcalibur will have done nothing to prevent it. That was unacceptable. But if he did go there, and the Redeemers were lying in wait, then things could get ugly.
The only foreseeable option was heading to Fenner and proceeding with as much caution as possible. Expect nothing, anticipate everything. That had always been Calhoun's personal mantra, and he saw no reason to change it.
He poured himself araktajino and was quite annoyed to notice that his hand was shaking. He could still taste Shelby's lips against his.
"I think I'm losing my mind," he said. Then again, if he was… there were worse ways for it to go.
Shelby felt as if she were losing her mind.
Normally she never had any trouble sleeping, but this night had been incredibly fitful. She thought that perhaps she had managed to sleep a few minutes here and there, but for the most part she had spent the evening staring at the ceiling, or the floor, or burying her face in her pillow. All in all, it had been one of her most wasted nights. She rolled over, looked at the chronometer and moaned softly. It was just past oh four hundred hours, and she knew that closing her eyes was going to be pointless. She could have been on the bridge, in the middle of her shift during the height of a Romulan attack, and not been more awake than she was right then. She got out of bed, put on her exercise clothes, and headed for the rocketball court.
She figured that, at that time of night, it would not be occupied. So she was appropriately surprised when she walked in and found Katerina Mueller, the ship's executive officer, wielding a paddle and slapping the glowing ball around with ruthless efficiency.
Shelby had never quite known what to make of Mueller. In many ways, Mueller was still something of a mystery to her. She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and an air of infinite superiority about her. Her body, outlined in the clinging tights she wore, was lean and hard. As she concentrated on the ball, her jaw was slightly out-thrust and her dark blonde hair—usually tied in a severe knot—was completely out of the way beneath a kerchief. She immediately became aware of Shelby's presence and turned to face her, her cobalt-blue eyes so intense that Shelby felt as if they were drilling right through her.
Mueller's most prominent feature remained her scar. It was not exactly like Calhoun's, it was on the left side of her face instead of the right, and thinner. The fact that she wore it, though, as opposed to having had some simple surgery to get it removed, spoke volumes of her. Shelby had heard that she had picked it up fencing at a university on Earth called Heidelberg.
Once upon a time, the rank of second in command, which was Shelby's rank, and executive officer, which was Mueller's, were synonymous. But about a hundred years before, it had been decided to split the two from one another, giving the ship the equivalent of two righthands to the captain. After all, in space the designation of day and night was purely arbitrary, a convenience for the crew and something that no potential enemy was necessarily guided by. Inadvertently wandering into hostile territory, the sleeping ship could venture smack into the middle of someone else's day. So although there remained one captain, it was felt that two people of identical rank directly beneath the commanding officer were required. But two individuals both referred to as "Number One," as it were, seemed confusing. After much debate, the First Officer/XO split was decided upon. It was a compromise that pleased absolutely no one, which was how everyone knew it was a good compromise.
So in essence, Mueller and Shelby were peers. However, since Shelby functioned during the day shift while Mueller had charge of the night, the two women almost never saw one another.
"Commander," Mueller said in her faint-but-crisp German accent. "You're up early, I see."
"More like up late, actually. I didn't know you played."
"Played?"
"Rocketball."
"Oh." Mueller looked at the small racquet in one hand and the glowing ball in the other. "Yes, I suppose some consider this play. To me it's more work, actually. Exercise. Keeping trim." She slapped her taut belly in obvious pride. It made a hollow sound. The woman was pure muscle.
"Absolutely," agreed Shelby, and slapped her own middle. It jiggled slightly and she muttered under her breath before forcing a smile. "Would you care to…"
"By all means. I so rarely have an opponent. Most people don't desire to compete. They find it disheartening."
"Do they?" Shelby said, her thin lips bright against her face. "How sad for them."
They lined up at the ready line and Mueller put the ball into play. It had been ages since Shelby last tested herself in rocketball, but she was pleased to see the old reflexes coming back to her. She moved gracefully to and fro across the court, handling each return and delivering it back against the wall with a smart snap of the wrist. She was rather pleased with her performance… until she noticed that Mueller barely seemed to be moving. She had absolutely no idea how she did it. The executive officer wasn't that much taller than she, her reach not terribly further. And yet she seemed to have no problem getting to every return of Shelby's with the most minimal of effort. For six straight returns, Shelby could have sworn that Mueller's feet didn't even budge from the spot. It was as if her damned arm just stretched somehow to get the racquet there.
Shelby, for her part, was constantly on the move. Consequently, she began to wear herself out. As the game progressed, she missed more and more returns. Soon she was panting, and at one point she missed the ball so completely that she stumbled. Just before she fell, however, one of Mueller's strong arms was around her, stopping her from hitting the floor. "Thanks," Shelby managed to gasp out.
"You're playing excellently," said Mueller.
"Sure I am," Shelby said, pausing for breath by leaning against a wall. "You're kicking the crap out of me."
"Perhaps. But I play regularly, and my body is accustomed to functioning at this hour. You're in an unfamiliar sport at an odd time of day. If I were not kicking the crap out of you, there would be something seriously wrong with me."
Shelby laughed. "You make it sound like I should be proud that I'm losing."
"You should be. There are others I've played who would have left the court by this time, or even earlier. Then again, I haven't played many women. Mostly I've played against men." She shook her head, sounding a bit annoyed. "I know that, by and large, they are the weaker sex, but one would have thought they would have a bit more intestinal fortitude than that. Come." She gestured for Shelby to follow her, which she did. Mueller crossed to a food slot and said, "Two Mueller specials."
After only a moment's pause, the slot door slid open and two small glasses of some sort of colored liquid were inside. Mueller took one and sipped it, extended the other to Shelby. "Here," she said. "Only drink a little. It goes a long way, plus you wouldn't want to fill up with liquid. You'll cramp."
"What is it?" It didn't smell particularly inviting to Shelby.
"My own special blend. Very high in electrolytes. Just what you need."
Shelby braced herself and took a sip. It smelled worse than it tasted. And she had to admit that Mueller knew what she was talking about; just a small bit of it reinvigorated her. "This is excellent. Thank you."
"Odd, isn't it?" said Mueller philosophically. She sat on a small bench nearby, the racquet dangling from a loop around her wrist, squeezing the glowing ball absently in her hand. "Humanity considers itself so advanced. We look to our ancestors, see the racism, the hatred, the pointless wars, and we pat ourselves on the back over how far we've come. An
d yet, the male ego remains a universal constant, after all this time. Men get much more upset when I beat them than women do."
"Well, to be fair, there are other universal constants besides the male ego," said Shelby.
"Female superiority?" Mueller suggested, which drew a laugh from Shelby.
"Yes, that. And stupidity. Stupidity is a major universal constant. Despite what scientists say otherwise, stupidity is probably the most common element in the entire universe. And there are others."
"There certainly are. Another round?"
"Why not?" said Shelby gamely, slapping her thighs as she rose.
Shelby fared slightly better the second time around. She still wasn't Mueller's match in technique, but she started watching Mueller more carefully and saw that it wasn't so much that Mueller wasn't moving. It was that, through a combination of patience and practice, she was anticipating where the ball was going to go. So instead of playing catch up, trying to make it to where the ball was (as Shelby was doing) Mueller was moving to where the ball was going to be and heading it off before it could take additional bounces or build up more speed to stay away from her. So Shelby started imitating the style of play. Naturally she wasn't quite as deft at it as Mueller was. But every now and then she managed to get to the ball earlier than she had been, and send it off in unexpected directions that would surprise Mueller and make her work a bit more than she had anticipated. Mueller smiled in grim appreciation and approval. "Very good," she said after one particularly invigorating and lengthy volley that Shelby had won.
"Thank you."
"You're watching me and learning. A very good practice."
"Thank you."
Another sip of Mueller's brew, and then Mueller said, "So why the difficulty sleeping? I assume that's why you're here."
"Oh, it's nothing. Stupidity. Nothing of any real significance."
"Ah. I see. It's a man, then."
Shelby laughed and shook her head. "Do you have a problem with men?" she asked. "You seem very critical of them."
"A problem? No. No, not at all," said Mueller. She removed her kerchief which was soaked with sweat by that point, and waved it about to dry it a bit. "Actually, I get along with most men quite well."
"Yet you seem to enjoy picking on them."
"Well," said Mueller wryly, "they are fairly easy targets. So this man you're losing sleep over… is he worth it?"
"Is he worth it? Yes. Is the relationship worth it? I don't know. Is the relationship smart? Definitely not"
"Ah. One of those," Mueller nodded knowingly. "Do you want to tell me who it is?"
"Nah. It's not really worth dwelling on." She looked at Mueller askance. "Have you ever lost sleep over a man?"
"Only during activities that make it difficult to sleep."
It was difficult for Shelby to tell when Mueller was joking. She said everything with the same deadpan. She either had a wicked sense of humor, or no sense of humor. Shelby couldn't quite make up her mind.
"I see. Ever had a shipboard romance?"
"Once. Probably it would be best if I didn't discuss it."
"Okay. I understand."
Mueller readied herself to serve again, and Shelby felt a wall going up between the two of them. She suddenly felt, not for the first time, a keen loneliness. The truth was that she didn't have many friends aboard the ship, and certainly no one who was her peer in rank. She felt as if she and Mueller were making tentative steps toward friendship with one another, but their mutual tendency toward internalizing and caution was now getting in the way of that.
The bottom line was, she liked Mueller. She wasn't sure why, but she did. She seemed dependable and forthright, someone whom she could count on. In many ways, they were quite similar, and there was a lot that they could build upon. The thing was, they could only go so far as long as they kept their guards solidly in place.
What the hell, thought Shelby. A little honesty won't hurt. Half the time everyone on this ship finds out everyone else's business anyway, so for all she knew, word would be out about her and Calhoun's unexpected romantic embrace. She didn't think Calhoun would broadcast it, but nevertheless these things somehow tended to leak.
So just as Mueller served the ball, Shelby said, "Calhoun. Captain Calhoun."
Mueller turned and stared at her, eyes wide open, clearly dumbfounded. "How did you know?"
"What?" Shelby saw the ball coming, returned it.
As if she were psychic, Mueller returned the serve without even glancing at it. "How did you know that it was Captain Calhoun I had the shipboard romance with?"
Shelby spun, gaped… and the ricocheting ball hit her in the head.
"Are you all right?" Mueller asked. She held three fingers up in front of Shelby. "How many fingers do you see?"
"Ninety," said Shelby.
"Here. Let's sit you down on the bench. Do you want me to call sickbay?"
Shelby took a deep breath and shook off her disorientation. "It's all right. I'll be all right."
"You didn't answer me. How did you know about me and Mac?"
Shelby steadied herself and forced a smile. "Well… it seems a natural fit, that's all. The two of you are a lot alike… and you've got the scars. As I said, natural."
"I didn't think it was that obvious."
"Well, when you know exactly what to look for, things become that much more obvious. So how long have you and the captain been…" She waggled her fingers while, at the same time, trying to fight down mounting incredulity.
She felt slightly relieved, though, when Mueller said, "Oh. It hasn't been here. On theGrissom. We were involved on theGrissom."
"Oh."
Mueller looked surprised. "What, you thought it was here? Now?"
"I wasn't sure…"
"Definitely not." She shook her head. "This was back before he was a captain. Not now. Oh, no, you'd have to be ten kinds of stupid to become romantically involved with a ship's captain."
"You think so?"
"Oh, absolutely. The captain has far too many responsibilities. The last thing he or she needs is to form some sort of romantic attachment to a member of the crew. It would totally affect the way he conducted himself. It would invite charges of preferential treatment, no matter how even-handed the captain was. And besides, let's face it: A captain is usually married to his ship, and he's got a thousand or so children he calls the crew to look after. Not that they necessarily need looking after, you understand, but that's the mindset they come from. Oh, involvement with a captain is just too much trouble. It's a huge amount of aggravation, and more than anyone could possibly need."
"So you would never become romantically involved with the captain now, despite what happened before."
"Never. Absolutely no way."
Shelby nodded and took a sip of Mueller's special brew.
"I'd sleep with him though," said Mueller by way of finishing a thought.
It was all Shelby could do not to cough up the liquid through her nose. "What?" she managed to get out. "But you just said you'd never…"
"Become romantic, right. Sex isn't about romance. Sex is about exercise, relaxation, and letting off steam."
"You make it sound like rocketball," protested Shelby.
"It is a little," she admitted. "Although with me, sex is more of a game than rocketball."
Shelby leaned back and let her head thud against the wall. "You know, Katerina—"
"Kat."
"You know, Kat, in a lot of ways, I don't understand you at all."
"Good," Mueller said approvingly. "I value my mystique. So tell me—I've been candid with you—who is the man who's been keeping you up at nights. I told you, after all."
"You didn't tell me. I guessed. One guess is all it took."
"I see. So if I guess, then you'll tell me."
"This is a stupid game, Kat."
"It's simply seeking a bit of equity. Since—"
"Fine, fine," Shelby said impatiently. "Go ahead. One guess."
<
br /> Mueller leaned back, her eyes appearing to search the inside of her skull. She chewed on her lip a moment, then leaned forward once more and looked straight into Shelby's eyes. "Captain Calhoun," she said.
Shelby did not so much as blink. Her face was a carefully maintained deadpan.
"Wrong," she said.
"Really? I was sure—"
"Wrong."
Mueller shrugged. "All right. Keep it to yourself, if it will make you happy."
It did not, in fact, make Shelby happy at all. And she was beginning to wonder if anything ever would.
Burgoyne was having trouble sleeping as well.
Unlike Shelby, however, s/he had no idea in the least what was causing it. S/he felt a vague uneasiness in hir stomach, but was at a loss to determine what was wrong. S/he reviewed the contents of what s/he had eaten that day, but it hadn't been anything unusual. So it likely wasn't food poisoning. It could be some sort of virus or bug, but the symptoms seemed so free floating. One moment there was a discomfort in hir stomach, the next it was an achiness in hir joints. "Computer," s/he said at one point, "am I running a fever?"
"Scanning," said the computer, and then after a moment, said, "Negative. Your present body temperature is well within Hermat norms."
"Atmosphere control: Room temperature at requested standard?"
"Affirmative."
Yet s/he felt clammy. It was nothing but confusing to hir. Finally some instinct prompted hir to sit up and say,
"Burgoyne to Selar."
There was a long pause, with no response. "Burgoyne to Selar," s/he repeated.
"Burgoyne," came Selar's tired voice, "do you have any notion what time it is?"
"I'm not feeling well and I don't know why."
"You are in luck. There is this brand new invention called 'sickbay.' It is staffed with another new invention, called a 'night shift.' Go complain to them."
"I was wondering if…" Burgoyne wished that Selar was with hir instead of simply being a disembodied voice over the intercom. "I was wondering if it might be connected to you somehow."
