As it turned out, Stiles wound up with a lot less thinking time than he had bargained for—because as the doors to the gym slid apart, he saw a sweaty, red-faced Dan Hagedorn toweling off in front of the parallel bars.
The other man saw him, but didn’t acknowledge him at first. Clearly, he was as surprised to see Stiles as Stiles was to see him. And like his colleague, he probably hadn’t thought things out enough to know what to say.
Still, Hagedorn was the one who spoke first. “Aaron.” Just that, evenly and without inflection.
Stiles nodded. “Dan.”
He knew his friend well enough to glean that Hagedorn had been angry, too. And Stiles could understand why. When a guy went into a fight, he expected his wingmen to go in with him.
But you don’t go into a fight to protect the enemy, he insisted bitterly. And if someone was crazy enough to consider it, he shouldn’t expect help—from anyone.
All the arguments he had been mulling began bobbing to the surface of his mind. They’re not like us, dammit. They’re the enemy. Starfleet would be a lot better off without them and you know it.
But he didn’t give voice to them. He didn’t have to. Hagedorn would know exactly what he was going to say.
Likewise, Stiles knew what his friend would tell him. Should I have stood there and watched Dane and Cobaryn get hurt? Was that what my duty to Starfleet demanded of me?
In the end, they didn’t have to say anything at all. They had already run through it all in their minds. And if they hadn’t resolved anything, just as Stiles and Matsura hadn’t resolved anything immediately after the fight, they had at least put the matter to rest.
“You done here?” Stiles asked.
Hagedorn thought about it, then shrugged. “I should probably take another shot at the rings.”
“They get the better of you?”
Hagedorn worked his shoulder in its socket. “A little.”
“Then,” Stiles concluded, “you’ve got work to do.”
So Hagedorn stayed there in the gym with him. And as the two of them worked out on apparatus after apparatus, Stiles and his friend wordlessly repaired the bonds of trust between them.
CHAPTER
13
BRYCE SHUMAR WALKED INTO THE SMALL, GREEN-WALLED cubicle and saw that his first interview was already waiting for him.
Circumnavigating the room’s sleek, black desk, the captain took his seat in a plastiform chair and eyed the tall blond man seated opposite him. “Welcome,” he said, “Mr.—”
“Mullen. Lieutenant Commander Steven Mullen. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, sir.”
The man spoke in a clipped, efficient voice. A distinctly military voice, if Shumar was any judge of such things.
“Likewise,” the captain responded.
He brought up Mullen’s personnel file on the small screen built into the desk. It showed him everything... and nothing.
“You’ve got a degree from West Point,” said Shumar, reading from the file. “You graduated with honors. Then you signed up with Earth Command, where you flew seventeen missions against the Romulans.”
Mullen nodded. “That’s correct, sir.”
Shumar read on. “At the Battle of Aldebaran, you took command of the Panther after your captain and first officer were killed. Despite your lack of experience, you destoyed two enemy warships, not to mention a major Romulan supply depot.” He looked at Mullen. “It says here that you were given a Medal of Valor for that action.”
“That’s true as well,” the blond man replied solemnly. “But it was the crew who deserved that medal, sir. I just gave the orders. They’re the ones who carried them out.”
Shumar studied Mullen. “Do you mean that, Commander?”
The man’s forehead puckered. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
The captain shrugged and leaned back in his chair. “Every Earth Command officer I’ve ever met gives his crew credit for his success. It’s an unwritten code, I think.”
“Perhaps it is, sir,” Mullen answered earnestly. “But in this case, I mean it. My crew was responsible for that victory.”
Shumar liked the man’s approach. And Mullen’s record was impeccable. There was only one more thing he needed to know.
“Tell me something, Commander,” said the captain, “and for heaven’s sake, please be honest.”
Mullen nodded. “Of course, sir.”
Shumar leaned forward again. “How would you feel taking orders from a man who’s never commanded a starship?”
The blond man seemed to mull it over. “I don’t know, sir,” he said at last. “I suppose it would depend on the man.”
The captain considered Mullen’s response. Then he stood up and extended his hand. “Thank you, Commander.”
Mullen stood, too, and shook Shumar’s hand. There was a trace of disappointment in his eyes. After all, they had only conversed for a couple of minutes—normally not a very good sign.
“Thank you for your time,” said the commander. “And good luck, sir.”
“My luck will depend,” the captain told him.
Again, Mullen’s brow puckered. “On what, sir?”
“On you,” said Shumar. “I’d welcome you aboard, Commander, but I don’t have a ship yet. All I have is a first officer.”
Finally, Mullen allowed himself a smile. “Yes, sir. I’ll do my best not to disappoint you, sir.”
The captain smiled back at him. “I’m sure you will, Commander.”
Cobaryn scanned the personnel file displayed on the screen in front of him. “You have quite an impressive résumé, Mr. Emick.”
The sturdy-looking, sandy-haired man on the other side of the table smiled at him. “Thank you, sir.”
The Rigelian regarded Emick for a moment. The fellow was pleasant enough and his transport piloting credentials were clearly first-rate. What else could he possibly need to know?
“I am not the sort of person who requires a great deal of time to make a decision,” Cobaryn declared. “I would like to sign you on as my primary helmsman.”
Emick’s smile widened. “I’d be delighted, sir.”
Cobaryn smiled back at him. “Excellent. As soon as I know when and where you must report, I will send word to your superiors.”
“Thank you, sir,” the helmsman said. He got up to go, then stopped and looked back at the Rigelian. “May I ask a favor, sir?”
Cobaryn shrugged. “Of course.”
“I’d like permission to exceed the weight and size parameters allotted to personal effects by about thirteen percent. That is,” said Emick, “if it’s not too much trouble, sir.”
The captain looked at him. “Like you, Mr. Emick, I have never set foot on a Christopher, though I cannot imagine that a deviation of thirteen percent will be a problem. But if I may ask... what is it that you have in your possession that is both so large and so precious to you?”
“It’s a book collection,” the man told him. “You see, sir, I like to read a lot—and I like it even better when I can read from an actual volume and not a computer screen.”
Cobaryn nodded. He had heard that there was a movement of bound-paper book aficionados on Earth. Apparently, Emick was one of them.
“Do you have any special interests?” he asked.
“Quite a few, actually,” the man told him. “Antarctic zoology. Aboriginal music. Religious art. Organized crime.”
The last subject piqued the Rigelian’s interest more than the others. “Organized crime?” he echoed. “What is that?”
“A phenomenon of Earth’s early twentieth century,” said Emick. “Some of Earth’s larger urban centers were plagued by a number of illegal and often violent organizations.”
Cobaryn absorbed the information. “I see. And you are in some way attracted to these organizations?”
The man recoiled. “No, sir. I’m appalled by them... of course. But they’re still fascinating when viewed as a subculture.”
The captain didn’t see the a
ppeal. “I suppose I will have to take your word for it.”
“Or,” Emick suggested as an alternative, “you could borrow one of my favorite books on the subject—Chicago Mobs of the Twenties, by Billings and Torgelson. Then you could judge for yourself.”
Cobaryn effected another smile. “It would be my pleasure to do so. And by the way, your request for additional storage space is granted.”
The helmsman’s eyes crinkled at the corners. “I’m grateful for your understanding, sir.”
“You and I and the other members of our crew have a lot of hard work ahead of us,” the Rigelian noted. “I want us all to be as comfortable on our vessel as possible.”
“I will certainly be more comfortable knowing I’ve got my books around me,” Emick assured him. “Thank you again, sir.”
“Think nothing of it,” Cobaryn told the fellow graciously. “Consider yourself dismissed.”
He watched Emick leave the cubicle. Then he sat back in his plastiform chair and tried to imagine an Earth overrun by men dedicated to violence. It just didn’t seem possible.
But then, in that same century, humans had supposedly inhaled the smoke of burning vegetation, built habitations on geological faults, and destroyed herbivores for sport ...so he had to concede that anything was possible.
Matsura felt funny as he stepped out of the shuttle pod and waited for the woman who had accompanied him to do the same.
Her name was Martha Megapenthes and she was the leading candidate for the job of chief engineer on his ship—a position formerly held by a man named Warneke, who had opted for retirement once the war was over.
Normally, Matsura would have conducted the woman’s interview entirely in a room back on Earth, where he had conducted all his other interviews. Nor was he the type to break with convention very often. But in this instance, he felt circumstances demanded it.
As Megapenthes extracted herself from the pod, she looked a little out of place. But then, she had spent the war teaching warp theory at a university back on Earth.
“Looks interesting,” she said of the shuttle bay.
Matsura smiled and gestured in the direction of the exit. “This way.”
He led the way out of the bay and into the corridor beyond, which took them to the nearest turbolift. As soon as both of them were inside the compartment, Matsura pressed the button that would direct the lift system to take them to their destination.
Megapenthes looked at him as the compartment began to move. “Begging the captain’s pardon, but you haven’t told me where we’re going.”
“It’s no mystery,” he said. “We’re headed for the supply room on Deck Six. That’s where we keep—”
“The ship’s complement of containment suits,” she finished for him. “I know that. But—”
“But why are we going there?” Matsura asked. “Actually, I want to test your abilities as an engineer.”
Megapenthes looked confused. “In a supply room?”
He nodded. “In a supply room.”
“But my qualifications—”
“Are impressive,” he told her. “You know warp field physics as well as anyone I’ve ever met. But it’s been my experience that good engineers are good with their hands, with fixing things that are broken—because on a ship like this one, things are breaking all the time.”
“I see,” she said.
Matsura felt a bit of a jolt as they reached Deck Six. He waited for the doors to open, then emerged from the lift compartment and turned in the direction of the supply room.
Megapenthes didn’t ask any other questions as they followed the curve of the corridor. Obviously, he thought, she was trying to figure out what the captain had up his sleeve.
When they reached the supply room, Matsura tapped the pad on the bulkhead and the titanium doors parted for them, revealing two rows of goldcolored metal lockers. The door to one of the lockers was ajar.
The captain pointed to the open door and turned to Megapenthes. “Can you fix that?” he asked her.
The woman looked at him, a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “You mean the locker...?”
“I know,” Matsura said. “It sounds like it should be easy compared to something like warp core physics. But that locker hasn’t closed properly since we got knocked around in the Battle of Cheron. Nobody—I mean nobody—seems able to get it hung correctly, including the guy who was chief engineer on this ship for years before I got here.”
Megapenthes advanced to the locker and took the door in her hand. She swung it back and forth a few times. Then she eyed the captain.
“Let me get this straight,” she said. “If I can fix this locker, you’ll make me chief of your engineering section?”
“That’s the offer,” Matsura confirmed.
She studied his face for a while, then shook her head from side to side. “No. There’s got to be a catch.”
“No catch,” he assured her. “Can you do it?”
The woman laughed. “Well, yes... of course I can.”
“Good. I’ll see to it that you’re supplied with tools. Then I’ll check back in... say, an hour?”
That was fine with Megapenthes. “Piece of cake,” she told him.
Unfortunately, even after an hour had gone by, the door to the locker still didn’t close right. Megapenthes was at a loss to explain it, but there it was, as uncooperative as ever.
And Captain Matsura was forced to return to Earth to try to find another chief engineer.
Stiles went over Elena Ezquerra’s file as he had gone over more than a dozen others that day.
He took note of the time she had put in on the Timber Wolf and the Wildcat. He saw the commendations she had received for bravery and initiative over the last couple of years. And he read the glowing praise that Captain Renault had heaped on her.
When Stiles was finished with the file, he looked up at the petite, dark-haired woman. She looked eager to see what he thought of her.
“I like what I see here,” he told her. “I like it a lot.”
Ezquerra’s eyes lit up. “Very kind of you to say so, sir.”
The captain shook his head. “It’s not kind of me at all, Lieutenant. In fact, it’s downright cruel.”
The woman sat back in her seat. “I beg your pardon, sir?”
“It’s cruel,” he explained, “that despite all your considerable qualifications, I can’t bring you aboard.”
Ezquerra looked perplexed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand, sir.”
“It’s very simple,” Stiles told her. “Starfleet has put a cap on the number of Earth Command people we can take on as officers—and I’ve already filled my quota. So the only way I can add you to my crew is if you accept a demotion, which I would never ask you to do.”
The lieutenant’s shoulders slumped. “I see,” she said.
But it was clear to him that she didn’t like it. And for that matter, neither did he.
“There’s one other thing I can do,” Stiles said. “I can recommend you to one of the other captains in the hope they’ve still got room for you.”
Ezquerra smiled a halfhearted smile. “You don’t have to do that, sir.”
“Actually,” the captain replied, “I do, Lieutenant—because the alternative is to go track down my superior and vent my considerable frustration on him and maybe get myself court-martialed in the process. And as you can imagine, I don’t see that as a viable option.”
The woman took a moment to figure out what he had just said. When she was done, she nodded. “In that case, thank you, sir.”
“It’s the least I can do,” Stiles told her.
Then he tapped the communications stud on the side of the desk and put in a call to Matsura.
Dane walked straight into his bedroom and hit the sack without even taking his boots off.
For a while, he just lay there, his mind reeling after an entire day spent staring at strange faces and personnel files that had begun to blur together all too quickly.<
br />
If Dane had needed further proof that he had no business in Starfleet, he had now received it in ample supply. How was he supposed to know who would be a good officer and who wouldn’t? By making small talk for a few minutes? By counting the commendations in a damned computer file?
In some cases, he had picked the candidates with the most experience. In others, he had gone with a gut feeling. And as the day wore on, he had simply picked anyone who could do the job.
Dane was pretty sure that wasn’t the way it was supposed to work. He was certain that none of his fellow captains had handled it that way. But then, he wasn’t anything like his fellow captains.
Which is why, years from now, they would be flying the Daedalus and her sister ships . . .and he would be back in his Cochrane escorting cargo tubs through the worst neighborhoods the galaxy had to offer.
“Captain Dane?” came a voice, jolting him out of his reverie.
Dane swore under his breath. “That’s me.”
“This is Captain Fitzgerald in Earth orbit. I’ve got orders to turn the Maverick over to you at your earliest convenience.”
Dane grunted. The Maverick, eh? Was that his uncle’s idea of a joke?
“When should I expect you?” Fitzgerald asked.
Dane swung his legs out of bed. “Now,” he said.
There was a pause. “Now?”
“Now,” Dane confirmed. “Or, to be more accurate, as soon as I can get to a working transporter platform.”
“Transporter? I’m afraid I don’t—”
“I know, it sounds crazy. But the eggheads here have developed a transporter that can reach ships in orbit.”
It had actually been designed for the Daedalus. However, Dane didn’t think Fitzgerald needed to know that.
There was another pause—one that seemed to reek of resentment. “Acknowledged, Captain. Fitzgerald out.”
In the silence that followed, Dane actually felt nervous. His heart was beating harder than it should have and there was an unfamiliar weakness in his knees. But it didn’t stop him.
He made his way out of his quarters, followed the corridor to another corridor and then another, and finally found the facility’s main transporter room. It was manned by a single operator, a muscular man with dark, neatly combed hair.
Starfleet Year One Page 12
