by Peter David
That had left Moke with a good deal to ponder, and Xyon back with Lyla within his ship…the only company that he was truly able to tolerate. But Pontalimus was certainly an interesting enough individual on his own, and spoke to Xyon at length about whatever was on Xyon’s mind (although Xyon, trying to be cautious, made sure not to make any slipups about what little he knew regarding strategic aspects of the ship).
“You were correct in attempting to retrieve the mate you desired,” Pontalimus was telling him in regard to his ill-fated kidnapping of Kalinda. “Allowing lesser creatures to issue dictates is of no advantage to you.”
“Does your species have…you know…females?” Xyon asked cautiously.
“It requires three of our type to mate. When we do, the most dominant simply absorbs the other two. The process can be protracted, especially if they cannot come to a decision ahead of time of who is the most dominant. Then it can become ugly.”
“I would think so,” Xyon had said. He was about to make further inquiries when the lights went out. He heard alarmed cries from out in the corridor as well, where a security force had been stationed for the duration of Pontalimus’s stay.
Even though it was dark, Xyon could still make out the towering creature’s outline. The leader of the Teuthis wasn’t budging an inch.
“Now what?” Xyon moaned. He’d been issued a com link upon becoming a resident—however short his stay was intended—because Calhoun wanted to be able to keep in touch with him at all times. He tapped the link and called out, “Xyon to bridge. What’s going on up there?”
It was a good long while—and several follow-up demands that were escalating in anger—before Xyon got his answer. It was Xy, the science officer, who provided it: “Morgan crashed! Something happened to her; we’re not certain what. As soon as we have full power and some semblance of computer aid online, we’ll be sure to let you know. Xy out.”
“Who is ‘Morgan’?” Pontalimus asked.
Xyon told him.
“Ah. That’s how they attempted to do it, then.”
“Do what?” Xyon frowned, having no idea what Pontalimus was referring to.
Pontalimus made a strange sound that might vaguely have been along the lines of a laugh. “I cannot be certain, mind you…but I would suspect that they attempted to utilize this computer entity you describe to penetrate the remaining operating systems of the derelict.”
“Why?”
“To find a means of accessing the Teuthis corridor, of course. They want to be able to create one so they can return to their own sphere. An action of foolish hubris. As sophisticated as they believe their technology to be, they cannot begin to comprehend what we have achieved. Ours is the oldest, greatest race in the sphere. None can match us. None.”
“And yet, from what I hear, these Bolgar have got you on the run.”
One of his tentacles twitched in a dismissive manner. “It means nothing. A setback at most. Our triumph is inevitable.”
“You keep talking about ‘our.’ I’m curious: How many of you are there left, anyway?”
Pontalimus said nothing. His tentacles twitched a bit more, and then he said abruptly, “I am fatigued. Your computer entity will recover. The protections she encountered were not designed to be lethal. Consider yourselves fortunate in that regard. I am done speaking now.”
Xyon watched as Pontalimus wrapped his tentacles around himself, one at a time, very meticulously, until he looked like one huge cocoon of tentacles.
“Great,” muttered Xyon, as he headed off to the bridge to tell his father that sending Morgan in on an espionage mission—which he fully expected Pontalimus was correct about—might not have been the brightest plan he’d ever conceived. And Xyon’s problem was that he didn’t know if he was regretting being the bearer of his news…or looking forward to it.
iii.
Xy, the Excalibur’s science officer, was halfway up a Jefferies tube, working on some systems rerouting. Normally such endeavors were purely the province of the engineering department. But Xy was no slouch when it came to engineering know-how, and indeed it was generally acknowledged that Xy was second to none when it came to understanding how the computers operated in general and Morgan in particular. So he was pitching in where he could, in this case helping to reboot the entire computer system so that Morgan would ideally wind up unfrozen. It was, however, a vastly difficult job as systems had to be brought online first one at a time before the general restart could commence.
So when someone tapped him on his booted foot and a voice said, “Xy,” he was nothing but curt in response. “Not now,” he called down from the top of the tube. “I’m busy. And if you don’t like it, go complain to Calhoun.”
“That’s something I’d pay good credits to see.”
The sudden depressing familiarity of that voice was sufficient to prompt Xy to drop right out of the tube and land in the corridor at attention. “Sorry, Captain,” he said.
“Don’t concern yourself about it,” said Calhoun. “I just had an interesting discussion with Xyon about what happened and why it happened.”
“Oh?”
“Yes. Which means I’m going to have to explore some other options for getting us home…one of which could wind up getting somewhat nasty.”
“How nasty, sir?” Xy asked cautiously.
Calhoun draped an arm around him as he led him down the corridor. And he smiled an almost wolfish smile that Xy found extremely disconcerting.
“Very nasty, Xy,” he said. “And I think you may be the only one on the ship who can help make it happen.”
“Captain,” Xy said, choosing his words carefully. “Not to be indelicate, but…Xyon. Your son. Is it at all possible that he allowed you to think he was dead so he’d never have to find himself in these sorts of situations, where you’re about to embark on some insanely daring plan that could wind up causing your death and possibly the deaths of anyone in proximity to you?”
“I hardly think that’s fair, Xy.”
“Is it an accurate description of what you’re about to discuss with me?”
“Yes.”
“Ah. Well then…”
“In answer to your question: No. Xyon didn’t allow me to think he was dead in order to avoid these sorts of situations. He did it out of love for Kalinda—”
“Whom he later tried to kidnap.”
“Yes. And out of pure hatred for me.”
“He hated you.”
“Sad to say, but true,” sighed Calhoun.
“Hard to understand how.”
“It is indeed one of life’s great mysteries,” Calhoun said. “Now…let’s discuss this plan I have that could kill me and possibly anyone near me…”
“By all means,” said Xy. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
Space Station Bravo
As the Trident fell into orbit around Space Station Bravo, there was a deep and uncomfortable silence upon her bridge. Words, when spoken, were brisk and efficient and lacked any sense of camaraderie or byplay.
It had been that way ever since the Spectre had departed. Perhaps even longer than that: ever since Hash had his barely controlled blowup at Kat Mueller. Mueller herself had spoken to no one of it, but a starship was still a confined community, and word had a habit of getting around no matter what.
Hash wasn’t disrespectful to Mueller in any way. Out there, on the bridge, there were lines he simply wasn’t going to cross. But there was still a tension on the bridge that was palpable. Mueller wasn’t sure how to address it or even whether it should be addressed. Technically, it wasn’t her problem. If Hash had problems with her command decisions, he was welcome to depart and she certainly wasn’t going to stand in his way. It really wasn’t something she needed to care about. Indeed, Mueller prided herself on not caring about anything except getting her job done in the most efficient manner possible.
Still…it gnawed at her, deep down, that she had no one on the ship she felt she could speak to as a confidant. No one she co
uld unburden her frustrations upon…and her frustrations were considerable.
“Captain,” spoke up Arex, “we’re receiving contact from the ambassadors at the space station. They want to know when they’ll be beaming aboard.”
Mueller didn’t reply. She simply continued to stare at the station.
“Captain…?” Arex said again, perhaps thinking she hadn’t heard him.
“Billions of credits go into building a starship,” Mueller said, as if speaking to herself, “and they use us as a taxi service. Sometimes I don’t know what the hell is going on anymore.”
This prompted many exchanged looks of confusion. Before anyone could say anything else, however, Mueller stood and said, “Tell the ambassadors they can beam aboard anytime. Confirm to them that we’ve received Starfleet’s orders and that we will be bringing them to Ares IV to greet the newly elected chancellor on or close to schedule. Then make sure that they’re put in guest quarters in as remote a section of the ship as possible so that I don’t have to deal with them. Also tell Admiral Shelby I’m coming down.”
“You’re beaming over to Bravo Station, Captain?” asked Desma.
“No, I thought I’d just open a door for an orbital skydive. You have the con.”
She headed for the door as Desma called after her, “Shall I tell the ambassadors when they can expect you back, Captain?”
“When I feel like it, XO. I hear tell,” she added, tossing the comment over her shoulder, “that we starship captains have gobs of discretion.” Without waiting to see if Takahashi reacted to her remark, she left the bridge.
All during her fast trip down to the transporter room, she was fuming. Crewmen would greet her and she would nod briskly without even making eye contact. As aggravating as it sounded, she felt as if she were a stranger in her own vessel, totally disconnected from the men and women aboard it who depended upon her to keep them safe. It was almost as if she resented them because they needed her.
Why? Why did she feel that way?
Because you feel like you’re needed elsewhere.
With absolutely no warning, she turned and slammed her fist angrily into the nearest wall. The sudden gesture prompted passing crewmen to jump back, startled, and perhaps concerned that they were going to be the next target of her wrath. Mueller shook out her hand, then kept going on her way without offering comment to the puzzled crewmen around her.
Moments later she arrived in the transporter room, and in short order she had beamed over to Bravo Station. She walked through the station, ignoring everyone she encountered. There was such rage pounding through her that she had no idea what to do with it. There was one thing she did know for sure, however: This was beyond the recent unpleasantness with Hash. It was beyond her anger with Soleta for going over to the Romulans, and beyond her annoyance with herself for allowing the Spectre to depart after the Trident had extended succor to them.
She knew all too well what was truly getting under her skin, and there was perhaps one person in the sector—possibly the galaxy—who would understand and share her frustration.
She strode into Shelby’s outer office. Shelby’s aide began to rise from behind his desk and said all in a rush, “Captain, we weren’t expecting to see you here. Admiral Shelby is in a meeting at the moment, but if you’d like to come ba—”
As if he hadn’t even spoken, Mueller ignored him and instead slammed her fist against the closed door to Shelby’s inner office. Unfortunately she used the same hand that she’d previously used to strike the wall in the Trident corridor. Consequently a shudder of pain rippled through her arm. She grimaced slightly but otherwise ignored it as she bellowed, “Shelby! Let me in, dammit!”
The doors abruptly hissed open. The aide bolted around his desk, calling, “I’m sorry, Admiral, I wasn’t able to stop her—”
“That’s all right, Lieutenant,” came Shelby’s laconic tone. “Truth be known, this isn’t actually all that much of a surprise. So, Kat…”
Mueller stood there, looking in, and her eyes widened in astonishment. Seated across the desk from Shelby was Robin Lefler, whose eyes looked red and puffy. As for Shelby, she had a large bottle of what appeared to be Orion whiskey on her desk. There were two glasses out, but without hesitation she reached under her desk and produced a third one with a flourish, as if she were a magician.
“…care to join us?” asked Shelby.
“More than you can possibly believe,” replied Kat Mueller as she pulled up a chair.
The Spectre
In her private quarters, Soleta stared at the bottle of schnapps that Kat Mueller had given her as a parting gift. It had caught Soleta completely off guard, because she had been quite certain that Mueller had despised her and the decisions that she had made.
“I did and do,” Mueller had informed her. “However, having given a lot of thought to your predicament, I’ve decided that you can use this,” and she had held up the bottle, “far more than I can.”
Now Soleta placed it carefully upon the top of her desk and then sat down, resting her chin upon her fingers and staring fixedly at the bottle. She admired the contours of the bottle, the general curves of its shape. It was strange. For all the time that she served aboard the Excalibur during the same period as Mueller, she’d never really had all that much involvement with her. She’d spent some time with her during the entire incident with the godlike beings who had seduced Soleta into their way of life. But ultimately, she had no sense of attachment to Mueller, and furthermore, Mueller had grilled her pretty thoroughly during her recent time as a “guest” on the Trident.
Yet, curiously, the bottle symbolized a bizarre attachment to Mueller that Soleta felt would be surrendered if she cracked it open.
She had no idea why she would feel any need for an attachment to Mueller, or anyone else for that matter…
Yes, you do. You know perfectly well. It’s because you haven’t the faintest idea what the hell to do or who to trust.
There was a chime at the door. Soleta looked at the closed portal for a moment, and her fingers strayed toward the disruptor she wore on her hip. Basic logic told her that if her people were about to stage a coup of some kind, they wouldn’t ring the bell. They’d charge in, try to catch her by surprise.
Then again, what better way to catch her by surprise than to pretend that business was proceeding as usual?
You’re going to make yourself insane if you keep this up. Just proceed as normal, and remain cautious.
She gripped the butt of her disruptor, the careful gesture obscured by her desk, and said cautiously, “Come.”
The doors slid open and Lucius entered, his shoulders square and his bearing formal. But there was far more concern in his eyes than Soleta had ever seen before. He actually looked…dare she say it…nervous. The question, of course, was: What precisely was he nervous about?
Perhaps he was still trying to process everything that she had told them. Upon returning to the Spectre and setting out from the Trident, she had informed the crew of all that Mueller had told her. At first there were gasps of disbelief, and several of her crew insisted that Mueller was deliberately misleading them. There was no way, they told her, that the Remans could possibly mount such a coup. Soleta quickly realized that their opinions were shaped by decades, if not centuries, of prejudice. She, on the other hand, had no reason to underestimate what the Remans were capable of. Slowly common sense swayed her crew around to the realization that not only did Mueller have no reason to lie, but it went a long way toward explaining the bizarre encounter they’d had with the Romulan war vessels.
Her crew had lapsed into silence, each trying to deal with the news in their own way. Soleta had ordered Aquila to simply take the Spectre in a leisurely circular pattern, which seemed mildly more productive than just hanging in space. Then she had retired to her quarters to try and consider their next move.
Now Lucius had come to her, and she was alert to all the possibilities that this entailed…particularly the d
angerous ones. He cleared his throat as the doors closed behind him, and then inclined his head. “Commander,” he said.
Soleta didn’t ease her grip on her disruptor, but she did cock an eyebrow. “Commander?” she asked with a slightly mocking tone. “Not ‘Legate’?”
“No.” He paused. “May I sit?”
That too was unusual for him, since he typically embraced formality and stood at attention. With her free hand, she gestured toward the seat facing her. He sat, looking uncomfortable, and his hands rested on his thighs.
“Commander,” he said, not acknowledging her “legate” comment. “You know as well as I that I have been…reluctant…to embrace your command of this vessel.”
“Yes. The whole ‘being able to kill you’ thing. I’d like to think it would never come to that.”
“As do I. The point is, now we have a…situation.”
“We do indeed,” said Soleta, “considering that at the moment we’re traveling in a slow circle around the sector with no particular destination.”
“Yes. I have studied our predicament from every angle, and I am forced to conclude that I must…revisit…my priorities. More than ever before, a unified front is necessary if we are to survive in a hostile galaxy.”
“We must hang together or we will assuredly hang separately.”
“Yes.” He blinked. “What?”
“A quote from a human during a turbulent time in Earth history. In ancient times, they would execute criminals through hanging. Tying rope around the throat, knotting it, and then suspending them in the air so that their neck would break.”
Lucius considered that and then shook his head in disgust. “And they call us barbaric.”
“It has been my experience, Tribune, that barbarism is not limited to any one race. All display equal facility at some time or other.” Her voice sounded relaxed, and her posture likewise seemed at ease. But she continued not to ease up on her disruptor. Although it was blocked by the desk, she was certain that the blast would easily go through the desk and strike its target.
