by Peter David
He had a couple of disruptors in a hidden compartment under his feet. He could remove those, go into the aft section where all the passengers were situated, and just start firing away. Blow them all to hell and gone and then eject the bodies. But then he pictured himself standing there, shooting, body after body going down, seeing the fear of death in their eyes, hearing the death rattles not once, not twice, but forty-seven times. Because it was going to have to be all of them. All or nothing, he knew that with absolute certainty. He couldn't pick and choose. All or nothing. But he was no murderer. He'd never killed anyone in his life; the disrupters were just for protection, a last resort, and he'd never fired them. Never had to. Kill them and then blast them into space . . . how could he . . . ?
Then he realized. He didn't have to kill them. Just blast them into space, into the void. Sure, they'd die agonizingly, suffering in space, but it wasn't as if death by disrupter was all that much better.
The Cambon was divided into three sections: The helm pit, which was where he was. The midsection, used for equipment storage mostly, and his private quarters as well. And the aft section . . . the largest section, used for cargo . . .
. . . which was where all his passengers were. They were cramped, they were uncomfortable, but they were alive.
Hufmin's eyes scanned his equipment board. And there, just as he knew it would be, was the control for the aft loading doors. There were controls in back as well, but they were redundant and—if necessary—could be overridden from the helm pit. The helm pit, which was, for that matter, selfcontained and secured, a heavy door sealing it off from the rest of the vessel.
All he had to do was blow the loading-bay doors. The passengers back there probably wouldn't even have time to realize that their lives were ended before they were sucked out into the vacuum of space. Granted he'd lose some air as well. With power so low, the onboard systems would never be able to replenish what he lost to the vacuum. On the other hand, he'd have the remaining air in the helm pit and in the midsection. Not a lot, but at least it would be all his. All his.
. . . lots of bodies . . .
The bay-door switch beckoned to him and he reached over and tapped it, determined to do what had to be done for survival before he thought better of it. Immediately a yellow caution light came on, and the operations computer came on in its flat, monotone masculine voice. "Warning. This vessel is not within a planetary atmosphere. Opening of loading-bay doors will cause loss of air in aft section and loss of any objects not properly secured. Do you wish to continue with procedure? Signify by saying, 'Continue with procedure.'"
"Con—" The words caught in his throat.
. . . lots of bodies . . .
"Con . . . contin—"
There was a rapping at the door behind him. It reverberated through the helm pit, like a summons from hell. "What is it?!" he shouted at the unseen intruder.
"Mr. Hufmin?" came a thin, reedy voice. A child's voice, a small girl. One of the soon-to-be corpses.
"Yeah? What?"
"I was . . . I was wondering if anyone heard our call for help."
"I don't know. I wish I did, but I don't. Go back and sit with your parents now, okay?"
"They're dead."
That caught him off-guard for a moment, but then he remembered; one of the kids had lost her parents to some rather aggressive scavengers. She was traveling with an uncle who looked to be around ninetysomething. "Oh, right, well . . . go back with your uncle, then."
There was a pause and he thought for a moment that she'd done as he asked. He started to address the computer again when he heard, "Mr. Hufmin?"
"What is it, damn you!"
"I just . . . I wanted to say thank you." When he said nothing in response, she continued, "I know you tried your best, and that I know you'll keep trying, and I . . . I believe in you. Thank you for everything."
He stared at the blinking yellow light. "Why are you saying this? Who told you to say this?" he asked tonelessly.
'The gods. I prayed to them for help, and I was starting to fall asleep while I was praying . . . and I heard them in my head telling me to say thank you. So I . . . I did."
Hufmin's mouth moved, but nothing came out. "That's . . . that's fine. You're, uh . . . you're welcome. Okay? You're welcome."
He listened closely and heard the sound of her feet pattering away. He was all alone once more. Alone to do what had to be done.
"Computer."
"Waiting for instructions," the computer told him. The computer wouldn't care, of course. It simply waited to be told. It was a machine, incapable of making value judgments. Nor was it capable of taking any actions that would insure its own survival. Hufmin, on the other hand, most definitely was.
"Computer . . ."
He thought of the child. He thought of the bodies floating in space. So many bodies. And he would survive, or at least have a better chance, and that was the important thing. "Computer, continue with . . ."
What was one child, more or less? One life, or forty-seven lives? What did any of it matter? The only important thing was that he lived. Wasn't that true? Wasn't it?
He envisioned them floating past his viewer, their bodies destroyed by the vacuum, their faces etched in the horror of final realization. And he would still be alive . . .
. . . and he might as well be dead.
With the trembling sigh of one who knows he has just completely screwed himself, Hufmin said, "Computer, cancel program."
"Canceling," replied the computer. Naturally, whether he continued the program or not was of no consequence to the computer. As noted, it was just a machine. But Hufmin liked to think he was something more, and reluctantly had to admit that—if that was the case—it bore with it certain responsibilities.
He leaned back in his pilot's seat, looked out at the stars, and said, "Okay, gods. Whisper something to me now. Tell me what an idiot I am. Tell me I'm a jerk. Go ahead. Let me have it, square between the eyes."
And the gods answered.
At least, that's what it appeared they were doing, because the darkness of space was shimmering dead ahead, fluctuating ribbons of color undulating in circular formation.
Slowly he sat forward, his mind not entirely taking in what he was witnessing, and then the gods exploded from the shadows.
These gods, however, had chosen a very distinctive and blessed conveyance. They were in a vessel that Hufmin instantly recognized as a Federation starship. It had dropped out of warp space, still moving so quickly that it had been a hundred thousand kilometers away and then, an eyeblink later, it was virtually right on top of him. He'd never seen such a vessel in person before, and he couldn't believe the size of the thing. The ship had coursecorrected on a dime, angling upward and slowing so that it passed slowly over him rather than smashing him to pieces. He saw the name of the ship painted on the underside: U.S.S. Excalibur. The ship was so vast that it blotted out the light provided by a nearby sun, casting the Cambon into shadow, but Hufmin could not have cared less.
Hufmin had never been a religious man. The concept of unseen, unknowable deities had been of no interest to him at all in his rather pragmatic life. And as he began to deliriously cheer, and wave his hands as if they could see him, he decided that he did indeed believe in gods after all. Not the unknowable ones, though. His gods were whoever those wonderful individuals were who loomed above him. They had come from wherever it was gods came from, and had arrived in this desperate environment currently inhabited by one Captain Hufmin and his cargo of forty-seven frightened souls.
Thereby answering, finally, a very old question, namely:
What does God need with a starship?
And the answer, of course, was one of the oldest answers in the known universe:
To get to the other side.
XI.
ROBIN LEFLER LOOKED UP from Ops and said, " Captain, everyone from the vessel has been beamed aboard: the ship's commander and forty-seven passengers."
Shelby whistled
in amazement as Calhoun said, clearly surprised, "Forty-seven? His ship's not tiny, but it's not that big. He must have had people plastered to the ceiling. Shelby, arrange to have the passengers brought, in shifts, to sickbay, so Dr. Selar can check them over. Make sure they're not suffering from exposure, dehydration, et cetera."
"Shall we take his ship in tow, sir?" asked Kebron.
"And to where do you suggest we tow it, Mr. Kebron?" asked Calhoun reasonably. "It's not as if we've got a convenient starbase nearby. Bridge to Engineering."
"Engineering, Burgoyne here," came the quick response over the intercom.
"Chief, we have a transport ship to port with an engine that needs your magic touch."
"My wand is at the ready, sir."
"How many times have I heard that line," murmured Robin Lefler . . . just a bit louder than she had intended. The comment drew a quick chuckle from McHenry, and a disapproving glance from Shelby . . . who, in point of fact, thought it was funny but felt that it behooved her to keep a straight face.
"Get a team together, beam over, and give me an estimate on repair time."
"Aye, sir."
He turned to Shelby and said briskly, " Commander, talk to the pilot. Find out precisely what happened, what he saw. I want to know what we're dealing with. Also, see if you can find Si Cwan. He's supposed to be our ambassador. Let's see how his people react to him. If they throw things at him or run screaming, that will be a tip off that he might not be as useful as we'd hoped. Damn, we should have given him a comm badge to facilitate—"
"Bridge to Si Cwan," Shelby said promptly.
"Yes," came Si Cwan's voice.
"Meet me in sickbay, please. We have some refugees there whom we'd like you to speak with."
"On my way."
Shelby turned to Calhoun. "I took the liberty of issuing him a comm badge. He's not Starfleet, of course, but it seemed the simplest way to reach him."
"Good thinking, Commander."
She smiled. "I have my moments," and headed to the turbolift.
The moment she was gone, though, Kebron stepped over to Calhoun and said, "Captain, shall I go as well?"
"You, Kebron? Why?"
"To keep an eye on Cwan."
"What do you think he's going to do?"
"I don't know," Kebron said darkly. He seemed to want to say something more, but he kept his mouth tightly closed.
"Lieutenant, if you've got something on your mind, out with it."
"Very well. I feel that you have made a vast mistake allowing Si Cwan aboard this vessel. He could jeopardize our mission."
"If I believed he could, I would never have allowed him to remain."
"I'm aware of that, sir. Nevertheless, I feel it was an error."
"I generally have a good instinct about people Lieutenant. I've learned to trust it; it's saved my life any number of times. If you wish to disagree with me, that is your prerogative."
"Then I'm afraid that's how it's going to remain, Captain, until such time as I'm convinced otherwise."
"And when do you think that will be?"
Zak Kebron considered the question. "In Earth years, or in Brikar years?"
"Earth years."
"In Earth years?" He paused only a moment, and then responded, "Never."
Shelby entered sickbay and looked around at the haggard faces of the patients in the medlab. Immediately her heart went out to them. They were a mixture of races, with such variations of skin colors between them that they looked like a rainbow. But there was unity in the fact that they were clearly frightened, dispossessed, with no clear idea of what lay ahead for them. Dr. Selar was going about her duties with efficiency and speed. Shelby noticed that Selar and her people already seemed to be working smoothly and in unison. She felt some relief at that; Calhoun had mentioned that there'd been some difficulty between Selar and one of her doctors, but Shelby wouldn't have known from watching them in action.
"I'm looking for the commander of the vessel," she said to the room at large.
One of the scruffier individuals stepped forward. "That would be me." He stuck out a hand. "Name's Hufmin."
"Commander Shelby, second-in-command."
"You people saved our butts."
"That's what we're here for," she told him, even as she thought, Did I just say that? I sound like something out of the Star fleet Cliché Handbook.
And then Shelby saw the attitude of the people in sickbay change instantly, as if electrified. A number who were on diagnostic tables immediately jumped off. One even pushed Dr. Selar aside so he could scramble to his feet. They were all looking past Shelby's shoulder. She turned to see that, standing behind her, was Si Cwan.
There was dead silence for what seemed an infinity-to her, and then a young woman, who appeared to be in her early twenties by Earth standards, seemed to fly across the room. She threw her arms around Si Cwan so tightly that it looked as if she'd snap him like a twig, even though she came up barely to his chest.
"You're alive, thank the gods, you're alive," she whispered.
And now the others followed suit. Most of them did not possess the total lack of inhibition of the first woman. They approached him tentatively, reverently, with varying forms of intimidation or respect. Si Cwan, for his part, stroked the young woman's thick blue hair as gently as a father cradling his newborn child. He looked to the others, stretching out his free hand as if summoning them. They seemed to draw strength from his mere presence, many of them genuflecting, a few had their heads bowed.
"Please. Please, that's not necessary," said Si Cwan. "Please . . . get up. Don't bow. Don't . . . please don't," and he gestured for them to rise. "Sometimes I feel that such ceremonies helped create the divide between us that led to . . . to our present state. Up . . . yes, you in the back, up."
They followed his instructions out of long habit. "This ship is bringing you back to power, Lord Cwan?" asked one of the men. "They'll use their weapons on your behalf?"
Shelby began to state that that was uncategorically not the case, but with a voice filled with surprising gentleness, Si Cwan said, "This is a mission of peace, my friends. I am merely here to lend help wherever I can." And then he glanced briefly at Shelby as if to say, A satisfactory answer? She nodded in silent affirmation.
Then Shelby turned back to the refugees and said, "What were you all fleeing from?"
A dozen different answers poured out, all at the same time. The specifics varied from one individual or one group to the next, but there were common themes to all. Governments in disarray, marauders from an assortment of races, wars breaking out all over for reasons ranging from newly disputed boundaries to attempted genocide. A world of order sliding into a world of chaos.
"We just want to be safe," said the young woman who had so precipitously hugged Si Cwan. "Is that too much to ask?"
"Unfortunately," sighed Si Cwan, "sometimes the answer to that is yes."
"The rest of the royal family . . . are they . . . ?"
He nodded and there were a few choked sobs . . . and also, Shelby noted, a few sighs of relief.
"What's going to happen to us now?" asked one of them.
"First, we're going to repair Captain Hufmin's vessel We have a team there right now," Shelby told them. At this, Hufmin moaned softly and shook his head, which piqued Shelby's curiosity. "Problem, Captain?"
"Well, don't think I'm not grateful for the rescue and repair. I am. More than you can believe. But I have to ask . . . how much is the repair job going to cost? Because I'm not making the kind of money off this job that you'd probably think I am—"
"Captain Hufmin," Shelby began.
"—and you've got your experts who, I'm sure, are the best that money can buy, but my credit level is so low that unless we set up some sort of payment schedule . . ."
"Captain, there's no charge," Shelby interrupted him.
This brought him up short. "No charge?"
"None."
"Well then . . . what do you get out of
this?"
"We get nothing more from it than the awareness that we're fulfilling the mandates of Starfleet. That, and simply the knowledge of a job well done," Shelby told him, and this time she thought, Dammit, I know I've mostly specialized in fighting the Borg, and have far more strategic bridge experience than I do with one-to-one diplomacy, but I have got to drop the homilies before someone beats me to death with a baseball bat.
"And then what?" asked another of the refugees. "
Then we'll make sure that you get where you're going. Where are you going, by the way?"
"Intended destination is Sigma Tau Ceti," Hufmin told her. "Not the greatest planet on the rim, but it's within range considering what they were able to pay. Although if you've got other suggestions, I'm sure they'd be happy to discuss it. . . ."
At that moment, Si Cwan's comm badge beeped.
He seemed slightly startled by it since he was, naturally, unused to wearing it. He tapped it tentatively and said, "Yes?"
"Si Cwan, this is Soleta," came the Vulcan's voice. "We've received a communique I think you should be aware of."
"What is it?"
"It's another vessel. They not only sent out a distress call, but they included a passenger roster. If I'm recalling correctly, didn't you say your sister's name was Kallinda?"
For a moment Si Cwan felt as if his heart had stopped. "Yes. Yes, I did."
"Well, her name's on it."
"I'm on my way," he said without hesitation. He paused and said to the refugees, "Trust these people. They will take care of you," and then he was out the door, his long legs carrying him so rapidly that Shelby felt as if he'd vanished between eyeblinks.
Hufmin took a step forward and, clearing his throat, said, "Uhm, Commander . . . as long as your people are over there . . . you know, the phase converter's never worked really up to what I'd like. Also I could use a replacement of the dilithium charger, and a full cleaning of the—"
