Restoration

by Peter David

  “Then save our lives!”

  “If I save your lives,” Shelby said implacably, “then millions will likely be lost. Because if I give you asylum … then nothing will be able to forestall a war. And that war will be fought either between your respective races … or between this vessel and the Makkusians. Neither of those options are acceptable.”

  “And sending us off with them … ?” His hand trembled as he pointed at Hauman. “That is acceptable?”

  “I’ve found, in my experience, Shuffer, that often command is less about doing what’s right … than it is about doing what’s the least wrong.”

  Shuffer was shaking his head vigorously. It was as if he was disconnected from what was happening. “You can’t do this … you can’t …”

  Shelby shrugged. “There are worse things I could do.” Then she tapped her combadge. “Shelby to transporter.”

  “Transporter room. Mankowski here.”

  “Mr. Mankowski, prepare to beam—”

  “No!” Shuffer suddenly screamed, and lunged straight toward Shelby.

  Shelby didn’t budge from the spot. Kahn, however, was on the other side of the room, unable to physically intercede. She went for her phaser to take down Shuffer …

  … and at that moment, Garbeck stepped in between them, her jaw set and her fist cocked. She swung a fast right cross and caught Shuffer squarely on the side of the head. Shuffer went down, loud and hard. Even as he lay on the floor, dizzy and unable to move, he kept saying, “Can’t be happening … can’t be …”

  “Are you all right, Number One?” Shelby asked solicitously as she saw Garbeck shaking out her fist. Garbeck winced, but nodded. Kahn, meantime, was already hauling the stunned and confused Shuffer to his feet. Shuffer was continuing to shake his head in disbelief. The other scientists didn’t appear to be in much better shape, emotionally.

  “Number One, would you be so kind as to escort Hauman, Brandi, and their … prisoners … to the transporter room, so they will be able to return to their vessel,” asked Shelby.

  Garbeck nodded and turned to the scientists. They were clustering together, as if hoping to be able to draw strength from one another. “Talk to her!” one of them said to Garbeck. “Ask the captain to spare us!” The others took up the cry, and they started pawing at Garbeck, as if hoping she could heal their critical situation with her touch. She worked to push them away, and it took Kahn’s summoning other security personnel to manage the escorting of the scientists down to the transporter room. Surrounded as they were by Exeter security guards, it didn’t stop them from pleading with Garbeck, asking her to do something, anything, since clearly the captain wasn’t going to lift a finger to aid them.

  “It’s regulations,” Garbeck kept saying to them, and she cast a stricken look at Shelby.

  And Shelby saw it right there, saw it in her eyes. Saw a silent pleading for Shelby to come up with some alternative, to think of something, so that these pleading, pathetic specimens would not be sent off to certain death on a world that they had tried to destroy. But Shelby held firm, shaking her head. “Commander Garbeck is quite correct. It’s regulations. And we can’t go around breaking them whenever we feel like it, can we, Commander?”

  “No, Captain. We can’t,” she said tonelessly as she led the shrieking scientists away.

  Hauman nodded approvingly to Shelby. “Well done, Captain. I’m sure that wasn’t easy for you. But we all have to make compromises, don’t we? After all … we must never forget the big picture. And please inform your United Federation … that we would be honored to join.”

  “That’s wonderful to hear,” said Shelby, as a piece of herself died within every time she replayed, mentally, the cries of the scientists. She remained in the conference lounge long after everyone had left, not especially wanting to emerge.

  MOKE

  “ARE YOU GOING to marry my mother?”

  Calhoun had been sitting tilted back in his seat, looking quite at ease. Over in his cell, the semipermanent resident of the jail, Kusack, sat up with interest.

  Moke had wandered in during what was a pleasantly slow day. A number of citizens of the town were out at his home, endeavoring to rebuild the place and doing a respectable job of it. The thing that was most remarkable about it was the way in which his mother seemed to be reacting to the whole business. They had, after all, been responsible (or at least some of them had, apparently) for causing the house to burn down in the first place. But you’d never have known it from the way Rheela was handling it all. She was going around and offering people water from her private stores, or little cakes that she had baked, or juice that had been freshly harvested. These offerings had been greeted very guardedly at first, but slowly they had warmed to the notion that Rheela was a generous woman who—astoundingly enough—wasn’t holding any grudges. Moke had even heard her saying something to Calhoun about “this being the thing that finally got through to them.” Moke wasn’t entirely certain what she meant by that, and considering that Calhoun simply grunted in response, it seemed as if he wasn’t entirely convinced of it. Still, what mattered to Moke was that the house was getting rebuilt, and he and his mother would be able to stop sleeping in a tent (while Calhoun chose to sleep under the stars).

  What also mattered to Moke was how his mother seemed to dwell on Calhoun. She never discussed it with him, of course. But, one night, his mother’s tossing and turning had awoken Moke, and he sat up, confused and blinking in the darkness. He heard her saying something about “Mac,” over and over.

  He said nothing of his being aware of the dream to his mother, because he felt oddly as if he had been eavesdropping or somehow invading her privacy, even though he’d had no reasonable way of avoiding doing so. It did, however, give him cause to ponder what he had overheard, and, in doing so, coming to the decision that Calhoun’s presence clearly made his mother very happy.

  Naturally, Moke himself was rather taken with the notion of having a father around as well. But, really, his first and foremost concern was his mother’s happiness, and if Mackenzie Calhoun possessed the power to do something to make that happiness permanent, then Moke felt obliged to do something about it.

  So Moke had asked his mother’s permission to ride into town while she supervised the work at the house. She’d hesitated at first, for Moke had never gone off on his own into the city before. But he’d assured her that he was going in to spend time with Calhoun, and this alleviated his mother’s concerns somewhat. So off he’d gone, and now he was standing in the Majister’s office, posing the question without even offering a “hello” first.

  Calhoun didn’t move from his position behind the desk. Kusack snorted in amusement from his cell, but didn’t offer any commentary. “Where did this come from?” Calhoun inquired after a moment’s consideration.

  “This what?”

  “This question.”

  “Oh. From me,” said Moke.

  “No, I mean …” He sat forward so that the front chair legs, tilted back before, were now resting on the ground. “… what prompted you to ask about that?”

  “Because you make my mom happy. And she makes you happy.” Moke hesitated. “Doesn’t she?” he asked in a very small voice.

  Calhoun smiled, and Moke instantly relaxed. “Yes. She makes me happy,” Calhoun told him.

  “So, are you going to marry her?”

  “Yeah, are ya?” called Kusack.

  Calhoun didn’t even bother to look at him. Instead, he remained focused on Moke. “It’s … not as simple as that, Moke.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, for one thing—”

  “Your mother is lousy between the sheets!”

  This last comment of Kusack’s so amused the outlaw that he practically fell over laughing. Calhoun bobbed his head slightly to Moke and said, “Give me a moment.” Then he walked over to Kusack. Moke never clearly saw Calhoun’s hand move. One moment it was relaxed, at his side, and the next it was a blur, and then Kusack was laid ou
t on the floor. His eyes were open, but he didn’t appear to be seeing anything through them, and a large bruise was already appearing on his jaw. Calhoun turned back and returned to his seat, regarding Moke thoughtfully before continuing to speak. “Now … as I was saying …”

  “What did he mean about sheets?”

  Without missing a beat, Calhoun said, “He was saying your mom doesn’t make the bed very well.”

  “Yes, she does!” Moke protested. “She gets the sheets nice and clean and flat!”

  “That’s why people like him are in gaol,” Calhoun pointed out. “Now, Moke … you see, the problem is … I’m just passing through.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I’m only going to be here for a short while.”

  “My ma says that everyone is only here for a short while.”

  Calhoun smiled at that, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he did. “That’s true enough,” he said. “But what I mean is that I’m not going to be staying around here forever.”

  “How do you know?”

  Calhoun seemed ready to give a quick answer, but then he closed his mouth and thought about it. “Truth is … I don’t,” he admitted. “I might be here … a lot longer than I’d intended. But, sooner or later, Moke, the odds are I’d be moving on.”

  “Then you can take us with you.”

  “No. I can’t,” said Calhoun.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I thought grown-ups could uncomplicate and explain anything to kids.”

  “Well,” Calhoun sighed, “there’s some people who say I’m more kid than grown-up.”

  “I think you should marry her,” Moke said, a bit sullen. “I think you should marry her and stay here with us forever.”

  “That would be nice, Moke.”

  “Then do it.”

  Calhoun smiled once more and shook his head. “You don’t let up, do you, Moke? You’d make a good—” Then he stopped.

  “A good what? What were you going to say?”

  “Majister,” Calhoun told him.

  Moke had the oddest feeling that that wasn’t what Calhoun had been about to say, but before he could press the matter further, the door of the office suddenly burst open.

  Once again Calhoun’s hand was a blur, and he was on his feet with the plaser pointed straight at the door. His face was set, his eyes steely and focused. The relaxed man that Moke had been speaking to an instant before was gone, replaced by a taut and prepared warrior.

  It was, however, unnecessary, at least for the moment. Standing in the doorframe was Spangler, and the newspaper editor seemed—to say the least—agitated.

  “Majister!” he cried out, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a gun pointed at him. “You’d better come quick!”

  Calhoun had glided the gun back into his holster with such ease that the movement had not caught Spangler’s attention. But his readiness for trouble did not let up at all. “What’s the matter?” he said, although it didn’t sound like a question when he said it.

  “There’s a … I think it’s a man! A green man! Over in the tavern! Calling for you!”

  “A … green man,” Calhoun said slowly.

  “That’s right! He’s like …” Spangler looked completely flustered. “… like nothing I ever seen before! I mean, hell, Majister, we’ve had the occasional mutant through here before …”

  “Including you,” Moke pointed out helpfully to Calhoun.

  “Thank you, Moke. And this mutant … is nothing like me?” Calhoun asked Spangler. “He’s green, you said?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any antennae?”

  Spangler stared at him blankly. “Any what?”

  “Like these. Sticking out of his forehead.” Calhoun extended his index fingers from his forehead and waggled them.

  “No, he didn’t have no fingers sticking out of his head,” said Spangler.

  Calhoun closed his eyes briefly in what appeared to be a moment of pain, and then he opened them again. “Nothing at all unusual sticking out of his head?”

  “No.”

  “Eyes set in his face like mine? Were his ears pointed?”

  “Yes to the eyes, no to the ears.”

  “I assume he had two arms, two legs, five fingers on each.”

  “Don’t know if he had fingers on his legs, Majister.”

  “Grozit,” moaned Calhoun. “On his hands. Five fing—never mind.” He waved him off impatiently. “He’s over in the tavern, you said?” Spangler nodded. Calhoun turned to Moke and said firmly, “Stay here.”

  He and Spangler headed out for the tavern.

  Moke waited ten seconds and followed.

  * * *

  When Moke had passed by the tavern earlier, he’d been impressed by the amount of noise that was generated by such a relatively small place. But now the quiet impressed him even more. He might not have noticed it if he’d just been passing by, but it provided such a stark contrast to what he’d been hearing from there before that it couldn’t help but snag his interest.

  Carefully, Moke peered through the large swinging double doors that allowed entrance into the tavern, and he couldn’t quite believe—or even understand—what he was seeing.

  There was Mackenzie Calhoun, the Majister, staring up at the single most impressive, and most intimidating, individual that Moke had ever seen. His head was shaved, his skin was a dusky green, and he carried so much hatred in his body that it seemed as if his frame was unable to contain it all. In the way that he studied Calhoun, he seemed to be evaluating everything the Majister had ever done in his entire life, and endeavoring to determine whether Calhoun was, in fact, worth his time.

  The two of them were standing and facing each other from opposite sides of the tavern. Moke, still looking in from around the edge of the doorframe, his breath caught in his throat, watched goggle-eyed. Their hands were at their sides in what appeared to be a relaxed, even leisurely manner. But both of them were obviously whipcord tense.

  “So,” the green man said after a time. The patrons were looking from the green man to Calhoun and back again. No one seemed inclined to leap to the aid or defense of the Majister. “You are the Majister. The ‘Mackenzie Calhoun’ people in these parts seem to talk about with such … enthusiasm.”

  Calhoun said nothing. He seemed to know that this odd green man was going to talk whether Calhoun spoke or not, and so Calhoun kept silent. Moke instantly intuited why. The more he allowed the green man to talk, the more the green man might say something that Calhoun could use against him.

  Why against him?

  Because the green man was an enemy. If Moke had ever been sure of anything, he was sure of that. This strange green man was going to try and hurt Calhoun.

  “You,” Calhoun finally said, “are obviously not from around ‘these parts.’ Why are you here?”

  “My own reasons.”

  “And what would your ‘own reasons’ be?” asked Calhoun.

  “My own. They need not concern you.”

  “I can guess,” Calhoun said, with slight irony in his voice. “What is your name?”

  “Krut,” said the green man.

  “Krut … I suspect you are here because of some sort of reward being offered. Some promise of remuneration. May I safely assume that you came here in a …” He paused, glanced at the wide eyes of the people around him, and then said cautiously, “… a vehicle.”

  There seemed to be something akin to amusement in Krut’s eyes. “A safe assumption.”

  “Whatever you are being paid or offered … I can promise to pay you a great deal more, if you give me transport in your vehicle.”

  “Would, for you, that it were that simple. Mackenzie Calhoun. Mac,” the green man continued. “Finally, a full name to put to the shortened one … and the scar. Oh, she told me all about the scar.”

  “She?” Calhoun’s single-word utterance was in a carefully neutral tone.

&nbs
p; “Tell me … does the name ‘Zina’ sound at all familiar to you?” he asked.

  Calhoun frowned slightly. Clearly, he recalled it, but he couldn’t quite recollect from where. Then it obviously came back to him.

  “Yessss,” said the green man approvingly. “I see that it does. She spoke of the Xenexian named ‘Mac.’ The one with the scar that ran the length of one side of his face. The man who killed Krassus. You remember Krassus, too, I take it.”

  Calhoun nodded ever so slightly.

  “I’m sure you thought nothing of killing him. Just another Orion. Just another victim for a mad-dog killer.”

  “If I were a mad-dog killer, Zina would not have been alive to spread my name and description,” Calhoun pointed out quietly. It did not seem as if he really thought what he said was going to make any difference, but, nevertheless, he obviously felt constrained to point it out. “And you came here because of me?”

  “I came here for my own reasons. Discovering you were who you were was simply a bonus.”

  At which point, Praestor Milos—who had apparently witnessed the entire exchange—asked what was easily the most unnecessary question of the day. “Majister … do you two know each other?” It was such an absurd query that neither Calhoun nor the green man deigned to answer it.

  “What was Krassus to you?” asked Calhoun.

  “He was like unto a brother to me. He was a business partner … a scholar … a great man … his one drawback being a less-than-deft handling of fiscal resources.”

  “He died owing you money,” Calhoun guessed.

  “Exactly so.” Krut sounded slightly mournful over the admission. “A sizable sum. He was on his way to meet me and make restitution … except he became caught up in a card game with you. A card game at which you cheated. When he discovered your duplicity, you killed him.”

  “If I say that’s not what happened, will it make any difference?”

  “None.”

  Calhoun gave a small shrug. Clearly that answered that question.

  “You have cost me money and inconvenience, Calhoun. Restitution must be made. If that is paid for in your blood, so be it. You might indeed have been able to buy me off … but no longer. This is a personal matter. So,” and he smiled in what he probably imagined was an amiable fashion. It merely served to make chills run up and down Moke’s spine. “Tell me, Calhoun … what do you think is worse? The moment of death … or the anticipation of the moment of death?”