Starfleet Year One

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Matsura was dazed. He couldn’t bring himself to believe what had happened. However, the sadness in Beschta’s eyes told him it was true.

  The younger man made his way through the crowd until he stood in front of his hulking mentor. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Then Beschta shrugged his massive shoulders.

  “It’s no big deal,” he growled. But the bitterness in his voice belied his dismissal of the matter.

  Matsura shook his head. “It isn’t right,” he said.

  Anger flared in Beschta’s eyes. “It doesn’t have to be right. It is what it is. Make the most of it, Hiro—or I’ll be the first to tear you out of the center seat and pound you into the deck. You hear me?”

  Matsura could see the pain through the big man’s act. “It should have been you,” he insisted.

  Beschta lowered his face closer to his protégé’s. “Don’t ever let me hear you say that again,” he grated. “Ever.”

  The younger man swallowed, afraid of what his friend might do. “Okay,” he conceded. Suddenly, an idea came to him. “Why don’t you sign on with me as my exec? That way, I know I’ll come back in one piece.”

  The big man’s eyes narrowed in thought for a moment. Then he waved away the idea. “I’ve got better things to do than be your first officer,” he rumbled proudly. “There’s still an Earth Command, isn’t there? There are still ships that need flying?”

  “Of course,” Matsura assured him.

  “Then that’s what I’ll do,” said Beschta. He managed a lopsided smile. “If your fancy Star Fleet gives you a day off sometime, come look for me. I’ll be the one flying circles around all the others.”

  Matsura grinned. “I’ll do that.”

  But he knew as well as the big man did that Earth Command wouldn’t be what it had been in the past. After all, there weren’t any more Romulans for them to fight. And whenever a threat reared its head, Star Fleet would be the first wave of defense against it.

  Beschta nodded his big, jowly face. “Good. And as the admiral told you... make us proud.”

  Matsura sighed. “I’ll do that, too,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  7

  AS CONNOR DANE SLIPPED INTO AN ORBIT AROUND COMMAND Base, he saw on his primary monitor that there were still a handful of Christophers hanging around the place. He glanced at the warships, observing their powerful if awkward-looking lines.

  “Can’t hold a candle to you, baby,” Dane whispered to his ship, patting his console with genuine affection.

  Then he punched in a comm link to the base’s security console. After a second or two, a round-faced woman with pretty eyes and long dark hair appeared on the monitor screen.

  “Something I can do for you?” she asked.

  “I believe I’m expected,” he said. “Connor Dane.”

  The woman tapped a pad and checked one of her monitors. “So you are,” she noted. “I’ll tell the transporter officer. Morales out.”

  With that, her image vanished and Dane’s view of the base was restored. Swiveling in his seat, he got up and walked to the rear of his bridge, where he could stand apart from his instruments. The last thing he wanted was to materialize with a toggle switch in his belly button.

  Before long, the Cochrane jockey saw the air around him begin to shimmer, warning him that he was about to be whisked away. The next thing he knew, he was standing on a raised platform in the base’s transporter chamber.

  Of course, this chamber was a lot bigger and better lit than the ones he was used to. But then, this was Command Base, the key to Earth’s resounding victory over the Romulans. It didn’t surprise him that it might rate a few extra perks.

  The transporter operator was a stocky man with a tawny crew cut. He eyed Dane with a certain amount of curiosity.

  “Something wrong?” the captain asked.

  The man shrugged. “Honestly?”

  “Honestly,” Dane insisted.

  The operator shot him a look of disdain. “I was wondering,” he said, “what kind of man could see a bunch of birdies invade his system and not want to put on a uniform.”

  The captain stroked his chin. “Let’s see now. . . I’d say it was the kind that was too busy popping Romulans out of space to worry about it.” He stepped down from the platform. “Satisfied?”

  The man’s eyes widened. “You drove an escort ship? Geez, I didn’t—”

  “You didn’t think,” Dane said, finishing the man’s remark his own way. “But then, guys like you never do.”

  Leaving the operator red-faced, he exited from the chamber through its single set of sliding doors. Then he looked around for the nearest turbolift.

  As it turned out, it was just a few meters away, on the opposite side of a rotunda. Crossing to it, Dane went inside and punched in his destination. As the doors closed and the compartment began to move, he took a deep breath.

  He would get this over as soon as he could, he assured himself. He would satisfy his curiosity. Then he would get back in his Cochrane and put as much distance between himself and Command Base as he possibly could.

  The lift’s titanium panels slid apart sooner than he had expected, revealing a short corridor shared by five black doors. Dane knew enough about Command protocol to figure out which one he wanted.

  Advancing to the farthest of the doors, he touched the pad set into the bulkhead beside it. Inside, where he couldn’t hear it, a chime was sounding, alerting the officer within that he had company.

  With a rush of air, the door moved aside. Beyond it stood a broad-shouldered man in a black and gold admiral’s uniform, his hair whiter than Dane remembered it.

  Big Ed Walker’s eyes narrowed beneath bushy brows. “Connor,” he said. He indicated a chair in his anteroom. “Come on in.”

  Dane took the seat. Then he eyed the admiral. “I’m glad you recognize me, Uncle Ed. For a moment there, I thought you were confusing me with someone who had some ambition to be a Starfleet captain.”

  Walker chuckled drily as he pulled up a chair across from his nephew. “Funny, son. But then, you always did have a lively sense of humor.”

  “I’m glad I amuse you,” said Dane. “But I didn’t come here to crack jokes, Uncle Ed. I came to find out how my hat got thrown in the ring. I mean, you and I haven’t exactly been close for a good many years now, so I know it wasn’t a case of nepotism.”

  The admiral nodded reasonably. “That’s true, Connor. But then, you can’t call that my fault, can you? You were the one who chose to leave the service and strike out on your own.”

  “I had no desire to be a military man,” Dane tossed back. “No one seemed to believe that.”

  Walker smiled grimly. “I still don’t. What you accomplished during the war, the reputation you earned yourself . . . that just proves you had it in you all along. You’re a born officer, son, a natural leader—”

  “So are dozens of other space jockeys,” Dane pointed out, “guys who’d give their right arms to join your Star-fleet. But you picked me instead.” He leaned forward in his chair, deadly serious. “So tell me... what’s the deal, Uncle Ed?”

  The older man scowled, accentuating the lines in his face. “There’s a war going on, son—a war for the future of Starfleet. And I find myself in the position of having to command the good guys.”

  Dane shook his head. “I don’t get it.”

  Walker heaved a sigh. “The fleet is being put together by a commission of twelve people, humans as well as aliens—each of them a bigwig in his or her own way.”

  “I’ve heard that much already,” Dane told him.

  “What you may not have heard,” the admiral said, “is that some of those commissioners would like to turn their new fleet into a big butterfly-catching expedition—an organization of scientists and mapmakers and precious little else.”

  “And that’s not to your liking,” his nephew noted.

  “I’m all for the advancement of science,” his uncle told him. “Anyone will tell you that.
But I haven’t forgotten how it felt to have the Romulans breathing down our necks at the beginning of the war. I haven’t forgotten how close they came to conquering us. And I’m determined not to let it happen again—not here on Earth or on any other peaceful planet.”

  Dane looked at him. “That doesn’t explain—”

  “Why we submitted your name to the commission?” Walker said, finishing the question for his nephew. He shrugged. “The truth is you’re a compromise—a civilian who nonetheless has the qualifications to command a ship. To the opposition, you’re as acceptable a candidate as they come.” He smiled again. “But then, they don’t know you the way I do.”

  Dane tilted his head. “Meaning?”

  “Meaning I know that, deep down inside, you regret leaving the military. And I’m confident that when push comes to shove, you’ll come down on the side of the good guys.”

  And redeem yourself in your family’s eyes, the younger man thought. His uncle hadn’t said it out loud, of course. But then, he didn’t have to.

  Walker regarded him. “I don’t hear you joking, son. Does that mean I might not have been entirely wrong in my assessment?”

  Dane shook his head. “Let me give you some advice, Uncle Ed. If you think I’m going to become some kind of stooge for you, don’t hold your breath. The only reason I came here was to find out how the commission had gotten my name.” He stood up. “And now that I’ve done that, I’m going to bid you a real fond adieu.”

  But as he headed for the door, his uncle spoke up again. “You can help me or not help me,” he said. “That’s up to you. But don’t deprive the Federation of a good captain on my account.”

  Dane turned and looked back at him. “What?”

  “You’re still one of the best men for the job,” Walker told him. “Regardless of whether you plan to become my ‘stooge’ or not.”

  The Cochrane jockey stared at him a moment longer, wary of giving any credence to the man. Then he left his uncle’s quarters and headed back to his ship...with a bit more on his mind than he had planned.

  Bryce Shumar had already entered the stately blue-gray building that housed Earth Command headquarters and was presenting his credentials to the woman at the security desk when an all too familiar face showed up beside him.

  The other man glanced in Shumar’s direction. There was a flicker of recognition in his slate-blue eyes, a hint of a sneer. Then he looked away again, without a civil word.

  But then, in Shumar’s experience, Connor Dane had never been civil. From the moment he set foot on Earth Base Fourteen, the Cochrane pilot had been devoid of charity and compassion and respect for anyone but himself.

  After their desperate battle with the Romulans, Shumar would have expected anyone else to lend a hand with the dead and the injured. But Dane had spent most of his time in the lounge tossing back shots of tequila. And when the tequila supply was exhausted, the pilot had retreated to his ship—where he was still dozing off a hangover when the Nimitz arrived.

  As far as Shumar was concerned, Dane lacked a piece of what made people human. He was and probably always would be something lower on the evolutionary scale, no matter how good he was at the helm of a spacecraft.

  He wondered what the Cochrane pilot was doing there at Earth Command—but he didn’t wonder for long. It wasn’t any of his business, he told himself, as he returned his attention to the security guard.

  “Everything’s in order,” the woman said, returning the commander’s identification card to him. “You may proceed through the doors to the right, then make a left at the first intersection. When you reach a dead end, you’ve found the briefing room.”

  Shumar nodded to her. “Thank you.”

  Making his way through a pair of dark sliding doors, he negotiated a long, high-ceilinged corridor with a gray stone floor and textured white walls. Every few meters, the commander passed a large bronze representation of the Earth Command insignia—a north-pole view of Earth supported by a pair of laurel wreaths.

  Before too long, he came to the intersection of which the guard had spoken. Before he could make his turn, he heard the sound of footsteps and instinctively looked back down the corridor to see who had made them.

  As it turned out, it was Dane.

  Frowning, Shumar went left and followed a hallway that ran perpendicular to the first. It was decorated the same way, with the Command insignia placed at intervals along the walls. But here, there were dark sets of sliding doors between the insignias.

  The commander ignored them. The only item of interest to him was the wider set of sliding doors that awaited him at the far end of the corridor. Beyond them lay the destination to which he had been summoned.

  But as Shumar approached the doors, he found he could still hear a set of footfalls echoing behind him. He stopped and looked back. Could they be Dane’s? he wondered. Still?

  As if to confirm the commander’s suspicion, the Cochrane pilot turned the corner and appeared in the hallway. Then he made his way toward Shumar, eyes straight ahead. If he was looking for one of the intervening offices, he gave no sign of it.

  The commander glanced at the set of double doors, then at Dane again. No, he thought. It can’t be. Who in their right mind...?

  Despite Shumar’s dismay, the Cochrane pilot didn’t stop. He walked past the commander without a word and kept going, until the double doors parted for him and he was able to enter the briefing room.

  The commander couldn’t believe that Dane had been asked to attend the same meeting. There had to be some mistake. Hell, he thought, the man was a disaster waiting to happen. He couldn’t take care of himself, much less worry about a crew.

  Yet there he was. And it didn’t seem to Shumar that there was a lot he could do about it.

  As the doors started to slide together again, the former commander of Earth Base Fourteen took a deep breath and followed the Cochrane jockey into the room. Sensing his approach, the doors retracted into their wall slots, giving him an unobstructed view.

  And for the first time, Shumar was able to get a glimpse of what he had gotten himself into.

  CHAPTER

  8

  AARON STILES WAS STANDING BETWEEN HAGEDORN AND Matsura, not far from the six chairs that had been set up in the center of the room, when the first of the butterfly catchers walked in.

  He found himself sizing up the competition. But after a moment, he decided the guy looked familiar. And the more he looked at the newcomer, the more certain he was that he had met him before.

  Suddenly, he placed the face. “Son of a . . .” he began, then remembered where he was and checked himself.

  Hagedorn looked at him. “What is it?”

  Stiles grunted. “An old friend. Pardon me.” And without another word, he moved to intercept the newcomer.

  The man’s eyes narrowed as he saw Stiles approach him. “Something I can do for you?” he asked.

  Stiles smiled, trying to be as friendly as possible. “You can give me back my gun,” he said.

  The man’s forehead crinkled. “Excuse me?”

  Out of the corner of Stiles’s eye, he saw another butterfly catcher walk in. But he was too intent on the first one to take much notice.

  “Your name is Dane?” asked Stiles.

  The man nodded. “What about it?”

  “Three years ago,” Stiles explained, “you were in a poker game under Marsdome. According to security files, you won a twentieth century revolver from a man named Peter Stiles.”

  Dane shrugged. “So?”

  “So Peter Stiles was my cousin and the revolver was a family heirloom,” Stiles said reasonably. “He had no business gambling with it. I want it back—and just to be fair, I’m willing to pay for it.”

  The other man smiled a slow, thin smile. “I remember now. Your cousin’s a lousy poker player.”

  “Was a lousy poker player,” said Stiles. “But fortunately for you and me and the populations of a dozen planets, he was one hell of a space fight
er. Now about that gun... I’ll give you two and fifty hundred credits. It can’t be worth more than that.”

  Dane shook his head. “Forget it.”

  Stiles felt as if he had been slapped across the face. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I won the gun fair and square,” Dane told him. “What’s more, I’ve grown attached to the thing. You want it,” he went on in a casual, almost arrogant tone, “you’re going to have to take it from me.”

  And he started to move past Stiles.

  But before the newcomer could get very far, the captain put his hand on the man’s shoulder. “I just may do that,” he said, barely controlling a hot surge of anger.

  Dane looked at him for a moment. Then he brushed off Stiles’s hand. “You’re welcome to try, amigo.”

  Abruptly, a deep, resonant, and almost musical voice filled the room. “Welcome, gentlemen. Please be seated.”

  Stiles turned and tracked the voice to its source—a short, slender man in a gray suit. He had very dark skin, an aquiline nose, and a shock of gray hair. And he was looking directly at Stiles and Dane.

  Stiles glared at Dane, warning him with a look that their business wasn’t finished. Then, because he was every bit as disciplined as he was determined, he took a seat as the slender man had advised.

  As the civilian took his place before the assembled chairs, Hagedorn and Matsura placed themselves on either side of Stiles in the front row. Dane and the other butterfly catcher secured seats behind them.

  But that only made five of them, Stiles noted. Putting his ire over the revolver aside, he turned to Hagedorn and whispered, “I thought there were supposed to be six of us.”

  “So did I,” said his wingmate, never taking his eyes off the man in the gray suit.

  “Maybe they changed their minds,” Matsura suggested.

  Hagedorn seemed to ponder the possibility for a moment. Then he shook his head. “I doubt it, gentlemen. Three of us, three of them. More than likely, the beggar’s just—”