Being Human

by Peter David

  “You’ll just make it worse,” McHenry said, and there was something in his voice that was a bit singsong . . . that sounded almost childlike to Soleta.

  Then she spotted something via her instruments that snagged her full attention. “Captain!” she called out.

  “I’m a little busy at the moment, Lieutenant!” he growled, scrambling to his feet. “Kebron! Place Mr. McHenry under arrest!”

  “Yes, sir!” said Kebron, easing the dazed Burgoyne into his chair as he strode with distance-eating strides toward McHenry. “Out of the chair, McHenry. Now.”

  “Zak, you don’t understand,” McHenry said, pleading, but the Brikar paid him no mind and reached for him. Instantly the same energy that had knocked Calhoun and Burgoyne for a loop enveloped Kebron. Kebron staggered and let out an uncharacteristic roar of fury, tried to push his way through it, and was rebuffed as the energy surge doubled. “Stop it! Stop it!” shouted McHenry, and still Kebron tried to push through. The crackling energy went from blue to blue white and suddenly Kebron, as incredible as it seemed, was hurtling through the air. Nobody tried to break his fall; they were too busy getting the hell out of the way. Kebron crashed into the guardrail in front of the tactical station, and there was a shuddering, creaking noise as the rail bent from the impact. Kebron sagged against it, almost losing his footing and trying to shake off the aftereffects. His uniform was scorched in places, and Soleta could have sworn that more of his skin was peeling at the base of his head. “Kebron, are you all right?” Burgoyne called. Kebron grunted, more in annoyance than anything, looking as if he was endeavoring to get his second wind.

  Energy was still crackling through the bridge, although it had taken on a more defensive posture. Everyone hung back as bolts danced between them, keeping them off balance. Morgan, the closest to McHenry, was in the most danger, but she clung stubbornly to the ops station and when a bolt came so close that it crisped her hair, she snarled, “Go to hell!”

  “McHenry!” shouted Calhoun. “You’re only making this worse for yourself!”

  “I’m not doing it, Captain! Don’t you understand that?” McHenry said desperately. “It’s not me! I’m the one who’s trying to get us out of here!” and he manipulated the controls with his customary deftness.

  The mighty starship, even moving at the relatively piglike crawl of sublight, had still reversed itself, and was now heading away from Zone 18 Alpha. But Calhoun was having none of it. “Engineering, full stop! All engines full stop! Do you hear? Full st—”

  Soleta, meantime, had not taken her eyes off her scanners, and then she saw something that practically caused her heart to leap into her throat. “Captain!” she called, louder than she had before.

  Calhoun started to turn to her in irritation, clearly not knowing where to look first. But Soleta had already changed the view on the main screen to angle behind the ship and she pointed mutely. Calhoun turned to see what it was that had struck her dumb, and his eyes widened. Suddenly everyone on the bridge had something to think about besides McHenry’s apparently incredible assault on them.

  On the screen, the nebulous cloud of energy that they had been approaching and which was now behind them had coalesced into something very discernible. It was a gigantic hand. The fingers were slim and elegant, clearly female. It was, nevertheless, gargantuan; from wrist to fingertip, it was half again as large as the Excalibur.

  “Holy God,” muttered Morgan.

  McHenry looked at her in a way that Soleta could only think was supposed to be commiserating. “You don’t know the half of it,” he said.

  “What . . . is that thing?” asked a perplexed Calhoun, staring at the screen.

  “It’s a giant hand, sir,” said Soleta.

  “I know that!”

  She looked back at her scanners. “It’s giving off identical wave readings as the energy emissions we were supposed to chart. It’s energy as matter, converted without any means of artificial devices that I can detect.”

  “It . . . looks like it’s getting closer. Are we . . . heading toward it?” asked Burgoyne.

  “No,” said McHenry, looking utterly depressed.

  “Oh, hell,” Morgan said, “it’s getting closer.”

  At that moment, Mitchell’s voice sounded from down in engineering. “Engineering to bridge. Sorry we weren’t able to stop on a dime for you, Captain, but we’ve brought engines to full stop. Thought you’d want to—”

  “Get us out of here,” Calhoun said quickly, moving toward his chair.

  Mitchell sounded incredulous. “What? But we just—”

  “Best possible speed. Do it! McHenry, punch it. Now.”

  “Captain!” Kebron, who had just managed to disentangle himself from the rail, looked almost irate. “He was under arrest—!”

  “Not now, Kebron! McHenry, go! Go!”

  “Won’t do any good. It’s too late,” said McHenry, but he dutifully piloted the ship forward as fast as he could.

  Like a dinosaur ripping deliriously free from a tar pit, the Excalibur vaulted into warp space.

  For long moments it was extremely uneasy on the bridge. No one knew quite where to look, including Soleta: At the viewscreen, where the enormous hand seemed to be receding? Or at her old classmate, McHenry, who had somehow repelled any attempts to take them out of the area . . . except out of the area was where they were now heading, which made McHenry seem prescient. But then how, Soleta wondered, could he possibly have known? And how did he start producing incredible displays of energy that kept everyone back, including the usually unstoppable Kebron? Questions, piling up, one upon the next, with no answer in sight . . .

  Soleta’s scanners gave her barely enough notice to shout warning, even as the pursuing hand finally disappeared into the distance. “Conn! Dead ahead!” she shouted a warning to McHenry.

  The screen changed views to chart space directly in front of them, and there was the hand, looming and huge, so close that they could see fingerprints that looked like valleys. The lines on the palm bore a striking resemblance to the fabled canals of Mars.

  “Evasive action!” Calhoun called, and McHenry was already doing it. The ship lurched a sharp 45 degrees, away from the hand, and then there it was again, closer still.

  “Leave them alone, dammit! This doesn’t involve them!” McHenry shouted, even as he sent the ship straight down, relative to the mammoth hand that was moving to intercept them. The ship took a relative nosedive, and for a heartbeat they were in the clear. And then the hand was in front of them, so close that the fingers couldn’t be seen.

  The hand started to close and Soleta realized that they were too close. Calhoun must have known it, too, for he hit the intercom and bellowed, “All hands! Brace for impact!”

  It was about two seconds’worth of warning, and Soleta hoped that that was enough time, for the ship suddenly jolted. Morgan’s head slammed against the console, causing blood to start flowing from a cut just above her eye. Burgoyne smashed into the immobile Kebron and came close to sustaining a concussion. Calhoun fell backward, but luckily fell into his command chair. Everyone else hit the floor except for McHenry, who maintained his position but looked utterly miserable doing it.

  For a moment all power went out on the bridge, and then the backups kicked in. The light was dim but everything was still visible. Soleta, using her station for support, pulled herself to her feet even as she wondered, for the umpteenth time, what the hell Starfleet had against seat restraints.

  “All stations, report in,” ordered Calhoun, and immediately status reports flooded in to Morgan at ops. Calhoun moved to help Burgoyne up. “You okay, Burgy?” he asked solicitously.

  “I will be,” Burgoyne said, “as soon as my transfer to Captain Shelby’s ship comes through.”

  “Your transfer request is noted, logged, and lost,” said Calhoun. “Everyone else?” There were ragged choruses of affirmatives from all around. Calhoun then turned and looked at the screen. It was impossible to see much of anything s
ince the immediately exterior view was blocked. “Soleta, give me a different angle on this thing, will you? All I’m seeing is a giant palm.”

  The screen switched over to a different view.

  “Much better,” said Calhoun. “Now all I’m seeing is a giant fingernail.”

  He considered the situation a moment. “Something tells me shooting it isn’t going to accomplish much. Kebron . . . open a channel.”

  “To what?” asked Kebron.

  “That.” He pointed at the screen.

  “Captain . . . you’re going to talk to the hand?” asked Burgoyne.

  “No alternatives come to mind . . .” He walked toward the conn station, pausing a moment to see if more energy surges reared up to drive him back. None did, and he stood next to McHenry, looking down at him. “Unless the lieutenant here wishes to offer some up.” McHenry just stared resolutely down, not lifting his gaze to look up at his captain. “Mr. McHenry,” Calhoun continued with forced patience, “I am getting the distinct impression that you have at least some idea of what’s going on here. True?” McHenry managed a nod. “Would you care to enlighten the rest of us?”

  McHenry let out a long, tremulous sigh. “I don’t think I’ll have to, Captain.”

  “You don’t?”

  “No, sir. I expect you’ll be finding out any moment without my—”

  Suddenly the ship began to tremble. Soleta saw that it wasn’t from the hand; it was staying rock steady. It was as if energy was building and the ship was shaking at some sort of molecular level, in sympathy with it. Energy leaped through the air as before, except this time more focused, and then from all different points in the bridge came together right in the middle. There was an earsplitting hum, as if something was materializing via the world’s noisiest transporter. Soleta, whose eyes were genetically resistant to extremely bright light, squinted slightly but stayed focused on the center of the burst, while everyone else shielded his or her eyes against it. The intensity of the sound almost overwhelmed her, however, and then there was sudden, blessed relief as the noise ceased along with the light.

  And when it did, it left behind it a woman.

  Her face was triangular, coming to a chin so pointed that it seemed as if she could cut someone with it. Her nose was aquiline, her jade eyes gleamed with vigor. She had curly red hair piled high on her head, little ringlets framing her face. Her lips were round and set in what seemed a permanent pout, the edges twitching as if she was totally secure in her superiority to all she surveyed. Her face . . . her face was so absolutely perfect that it appeared unreal, and Soleta couldn’t figure out why.

  Her neck was extraordinary, giving her an almost swanlike grace as she surveyed her new surroundings. Her body was slim and muscular, and it was easy to make judgments in that regard, for she was quite scantily attired. She wore only a short toga, made from a material that appeared to be a light pink chiffon, and an off-the-shoulder cape that hung to just below her thighs. Her right shoulder was bare, and it—along with her long legs—was very tanned. She also wore Greek sandals with laces that ran up to just under her knees. A quiver of arrows was slung over her left shoulder, and she held an elegantly curved bow in her right hand.

  Soleta was reasonably sure she was imagining it, but she could have sworn that she heard a fanfare of trumpets in the back of her head.

  The woman looked at each one of them, one at a time, her gaze lingering longest on Calhoun as if silently acknowledging that he, of all those on the bridge, was most likely to give her problems. Calhoun’s brow furrowed, and he seemed about to say something, but didn’t. Then she turned and looked straight at McHenry, her chin tilted upward so that she was gazing down at him with a look that spoke of arrogance and superiority.

  He said nothing; just returned the stare.

  Then she walked over to him, placed a hand at the back of his neck, hauled him to his feet and—without a word—kissed him passionately. Her hands ran down his back, drawing him more closely to her.

  Everyone stared, jaws dropping collectively . . . all except Kebron, who merely appeared annoyed, and Calhoun, who watched the display with cold calculation and a hint of grim amusement.

  “Friend of yours, Mr. McHenry?” he deadpanned.

  TRIDENT

  i.

  LIEUTENANT COMMANDER GLEAU contentedly manipulated the star charts that played across the cavernous walls of stellar cartography. Star study and mapping remained his first love, his greatest passion, and it was rare that he had the time to indulge himself in it. So caught up in his activities was he that he barely noticed when the doors hissed open behind him. He was, however, startled from his findings when an angry female voice called out his name. “Hello, Lieutenant M’Ress,” he said without bothering to turn and look at her. “What can I do for you?”

  The Caitian strode toward him, her tail twitching in what could only be considered irritation, her muzzle drawn back to reveal the points of her teeth. He couldn’t help but notice, despite all that had happened, how exotic and intriguing her cat’s eyes remained, even clouded as they were now in irritation.

  “I think you know damned well what you can ‘do for me,’ ” she snapped at him.

  “Well, some things come to mind,” he said, “but I’ve taken specific oaths that forbid them. So I would think they don’t enter into the mix.”

  Since he’d been seated, he easily kept his back to her, but she stepped around him so that she was facing him. She looked none too pleased. “The duties you’ve assigned me lately have been nothing short of menial,” she said. “They could have been done by ensigns or science techs.”

  “My, my, M’Ress, you’re quite the snob, aren’t you,” said Gleau with amusement. “I don’t know how they did things in your time, but in ours, we don’t focus on whether particular duties are beneath our respective stations. We all pitch in to get the job done without complaining. Especially those of us who are still on the learning curve and trying to get caught up with scientific advancements of the past century.”

  “Soil samples, lab cleanups,” she fumed. “These were things I was doing when I was an ensign. You’re not utilizing my capabilities in an appropriate manner . . .”

  “Oddly enough, M’Ress, what with my being science officer,” said Gleau, “I believe it’s up to me to decide what is and is not appropriate . . . in science matters, if not personal ones.” He gestured for her to step aside. “If you wouldn’t mind . . . you’re in my way.”

  “And you’re in mine,” shot back M’Ress. “The fact is, Gleau, that you’ve downgraded my duties ever since I filed the complaint with Captain Shelby.”

  “The fact is, M’Ress, that I am doing nothing that is outside my bounds as science officer.” The pleasant tone that he’d been maintaining was starting to fracture slightly. “You have taken it upon yourself to draw boundaries for me in other aspects of my life. I will thank you not to challenge me on those that are proscribed by Starfleet command. As long as you are under my command, you will do what you’re told, when you’re told. If you do not like the duties assigned you, you are always welcome to request a transfer to another department . . . or better yet, another vessel . . . providing you can find one that will have you.”

  She stepped in close to him. He was irritated to discover that her mere presence was alluring to him. “Everyone in the science department,” she said, her body trembling with anger, “looks at me as if I’m carrying a disease. You told them all about the situation, didn’t you.”

  “It’s a small ship. Word gets around.”

  “And you told it in such a way as to make me look like a shrew, correct? Like a whining, complaining, provincial complainer.”

  He met her with leveled gaze. “The truth hurts, Lieutenant.”

  M’Ress drew herself up and looked at him imperiously. “Gleau . . . we have been lovers, however briefly. But do not presume for a moment to know me. Don’t presume to know what makes me tick. Don’t think to know what I am and am not capa
ble of. Certainly don’t think to know what I find acceptable and what I do not from a sexual point of view.”

  “And I will thank you,” he replied, “to extend me the same courtesy.”

  They glared at each other for a long moment, and then he sighed heavily. “M’Ress . . . look at this,” he said, indicating the stars around them with a sweeping gesture. All around them the star maps, projected against the wall, shined invitingly, not twinkling since they were not distorted by any atmosphere. “Look at the enormity of the galaxy . . . of the universe. Look at these stars, alive for millions upon millions of years. All of them there long before any of us came upon the scene, and all of them guaranteed to be there long after we are gone. This, M’Ress . . . this is what we’re all about. This is the type of thing that should be concerning us: the exploration of the greatness that is the universe around us. In the face of such boundlessness, why are we wasting time with petty, individual concerns? We need to have our priorities in place.”

  “Our priorities.”

  “Yes.

  “In place.”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled. Unpleasantly. “Gleau . . . where do you think it all came from?”

  Gleau tilted his head questioningly. “Pardon?”

  “All this,” and she gestured in the same way that he had. “The stars, the planets, the boundlessness. Where did it all come from?”

  “Are you asking me about the origins of the universe, M’Ress? I don’t pretend to have all the answers, but certainly there are schools of scientific thought that were present even when you were first studying,” he said sardonically.

  “Yes. Yes, there were.” She circled him, and with one finger she played with a lock of his hair. It was a surprisingly intimate gesture, considering. “But you know what the oldest one is, I assume.”

  “Presumably,” said Gleau, “you are referring to the school of thought that says that some sort of cosmic being was responsible for it all. It’s a quaint fairy tale.”