GEMWORLD: BOOK ONE OF TWO

by John Vornholt

  But there it was, Kelly mused, her frown deepening. And she would get used to it. She would have to.

  The sound of chimes brought her out of her reverie. Kelly turned to the double set of sliding doors that separated her quarters from the corridor beyond and wondered who might be calling on her.

  Maybe it was the engineer she had met earlier, who had gotten lost looking for the mess hall. Or yet another lieutenant j.g., wondering if she had received her full complement of toiletries. . . .

  It couldn’t be a friend. After all, the lieutenant only had one of those on the ship . . . and he was waiting for her on the bridge.

  “I’m coming,” she sighed.

  Crossing the room, Kelly pressed the padd in the bulkhead beside the sliding doors and watched them hiss open. They revealed a silver-skinned, ruby-eyed figure in a uniform as blue as her own.

  “Captain Cobaryn—?” she said, unable to conceal her surprise.

  He inclined his head slightly. “May I come in?”

  Kelly hesitated for a moment. Then she realized she really had no choice in the matter. “Of course. But I should tell you, I’m—”

  “Due on the bridge in ten minutes,” the Rigelian said, finishing her declaration for her. He fashioned a smile, stretching the series of ridges that ran from his temple to his jaw. “I know. I spoke with Captain Shumar before I transported over.”

  “Did you?” the lieutenant responded, getting the feeling that she had been the victim of some kind of conspiracy. I’ll be the first officer in Starfleet to kill my captain, she told herself.

  “Yes,” Cobaryn rejoined. “I wish to speak with you.”

  Of course you do, she replied inwardly.

  After all, Cobaryn had taken every opportunity to speak with her back on Earth Base 14 in the aftermath of the Romulan assault. It hardly came as a shock that he wanted to speak with her now.

  And he had gone to some pretty great lengths to do so. All six of the fleet’s Christophers were supposed to leave Earth orbit in less than an hour, and the Rigelian had a command of his own to attend to. There might even be a regulation prohibiting a captain from leaving his vessel at such a momentous juncture.

  If there was, Cobaryn seemed unaware of it . . . or else, for the sake of his infatuation with Kelly, he had decided to ignore it.

  “Look,” she said, “I—”

  He held up a three-fingered hand. “Please,” he insisted gently, “I will not be long, I promise.”

  The lieutenant regarded her visitor. He seemed to mean it. “All right,” she told him, folding her arms across her chest.

  Cobaryn offered her another smile—his best one yet. “First,” he said, “I would like to apologize for my behavior back at Earth Base Fourteen. In retrospect, I see that my attentions must have been a burden to you. In my defense, I can only state my ignorance of human courtship rituals.”

  An apology was the last thing she had expected. “Don’t worry about it,” she found herself saying. “In a way, it was kind of flatter- ing.”

  The captain inclined his hairless head. “Thank you for understanding. There is only one other thing. . . .”

  But he didn’t say what it was. At least, not right away. Whatever it was, he seemed nervous about it.

  As much as he had annoyed her at the base, Kelly couldn’t help sympathizing with the man. “One other thing?” she echoed, trying to be helpful.

  “Yes,” said Cobaryn. He seemed to steel himself. “If it is not too much trouble, I would like a favor from you.”

  She looked at him askance, uncertain of what he was asking but already not liking the sound of it. “What kind of favor?”

  His eyes seemed to soften. “The kind a knight of old received from his lady fair, so he could carry it with him on his journeys and accomplish great things in her name.”

  Kelly felt her heart melt in her chest. It was far and away the most romantic thing anyone had ever suggested to her, and it caught her completely off guard. For a second or two, she couldn’t speak.

  Cobaryn winced. “You do not think it is a good idea?”

  The lieutenant shook her head, trying to regain her composure. “I . . . I’m not sure what I think.”

  He shrugged. “Again, I must apologize. It seemed like a good solution to both our problems. After all, if I had a favor, I could perhaps feel content worshipping you from afar.”

  Kelly sighed. She hadn’t intended to. It just came out.

  This is crazy, she told herself. Cobaryn was an alien—a being from another world. What did he know of knightly virtues? Or of chivalry? And yet she had to admit, he embodied them better than any human she had ever met.

  “I . . . see you’ve been doing some reading,” she observed.

  “A little,” Cobaryn admitted. He looked sad in a peculiarly Rigelian way. “Well, then, good luck, Lieutenant Kelly. I trust you and I will meet again someday.”

  He extended his hand to shake hers. For a moment, she considered it. Then, certain that she had gone insane, she held up her forefinger.

  “Give me a second,” she said.

  There was a set of drawers built into the bulkhead beside her bed. The lieutenant pulled open the third one from the top and rifled through it, searching for something. It took a while, but she found it.

  Then she turned around and tossed it to Cobaryn. He snatched it out of the air, opened his hand, and studied it. Then he looked up at Kelly, a grin spreading awkwardly across his face.

  “Thank you,” he told her, with feeling.

  She smiled back, unable to help herself. “Don’t mention it.”

  Still grinning, the captain tucked her favor into an inside pocket of his uniform, where it created only a slightly noticeable bulge. Then, with obvious reluctance, be turned, opened the doors to her quarters, and left her standing there.

  As the doors whispered closed again, Kelly had to remind herself to breathe. Come on, she thought. Get a grip on yourself.

  Cobaryn’s gesture was a romantic notion, no question. But it hadn’t come from Prince Charming. It had come from a guy she didn’t have the slightest feelings for.

  A guy from another planet, for heaven’s sakes.

  Now, the lieutenant told herself, if it had been the Cochrane jockey who had asked for her favor . . . that would have been a different story. That would have been unbelievable.

  Chuckling to herself, she pulled down on the front of her uniform and put on her game face. Then she tapped the door controls, left her quarters, and reported to the bridge.

  Where she would, in her own unobtrusive way, give Captain Shumar the dirtiest look she could muster.

  Hiro Matsura got up from his center seat on the Yellowjacket and faced his viewscreen, where the image of Director Abute had just appeared.

  The captain wasn’t required to get up. Certainly, none of his bridge officers had risen from their consoles. But Matsura wanted to show his appreciation of the moment, his respect for its place in history.

  For weeks they had talked about a Starfleet. They had selected captains and crews for a Starfleet. And now, for the first time, there would actually be a Starfleet.

  “I bid you a good morning,” said Abute, his dark eyes twinkling over his aquiline nose. “Of course, for the United Federation of Planets it is already a good morning. More than two hundred of our bravest men and women, individuals representing fourteen species in all, are embarking from Earth orbit to pursue their destinies among the stars.

  “Before long,” the director told them, “there will be many more of you, plying the void in the kind of ships we’ve only been able to dream about. But for now, there is only you—a handful of determined trailblazers who will set the standard for all who follow. The Federation is watching each and every one of you, wishing you the best of good fortune. Make us proud. Show us what serving in Starfleet is all about.”

  And what was it about? the captain wondered. Unfortunately, it was still too soon to say.

  Of course, Matsu
ra knew what he wanted it to be. The same thing Admiral Walker wanted it to be—a defense force like no other. But as long as Clarisse Dumont’s camp had a say in things, that future was uncertain.

  Abute smiled with undisguised pride. “You have my permission to leave orbit,” he told them. “Bon voyage.” A moment later his image vanished, and their orbital view of Earth was restored.

  Matsura didn’t take his eyes off the viewscreen. He wanted to remember how the sunlight had hit the cloud-swaddled Earth when he left on his first Starfleet mission. He wanted to tell his grandchildren about it.

  “Mr. Barker,” he said finally, “bring us about.”

  There was no response.

  The captain turned to his left to look at his helmsman. The blond man ensconced behind the console there was staring back at him, looking a little discomfited. And for good reason.

  His name wasn’t Barker. It was McCallum. Barker had piloted Matsura’s ship when it flew under the aegis of Earth Command.

  The captain had wanted to take the helmsman with him when his ship became Starfleet property. However, he had been forced to adhere to Abute’s quotas, and that meant making some hard decisions.

  “Mr. McCallum,” he amended, “bring us about.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the helmsman.

  The view on the screen gradually slid sideways, taking the clouds and the sunlight and a blue sweep of ocean with it. In a matter of moments, Earth had slipped away completely and Matsura found himself gazing at a galaxy full of distant suns.

  They had never seemed so inviting. “Full impulse,” he told McCallum.

  “Full impulse,” the man confirmed.

  The stars seemed to leap forward, though it was really their Christopher 2000 that had forged ahead. As it plunged through the void, reaching for the limits of Earth’s solar system and beyond, Matsura lowered himself into his captain’s chair.

  McCallum, he told himself, resolving not to forget a second time. Not Barker. McCallum.

  Aaron Stiles eyed the collection of haphazardly shaped rocks pictured on his viewscreen, some of them as small as a kilometer in diameter and some many times that size. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “Mr. Weeks,” he said, glancing at his weapons officer, “target the nearest of the asteroids and stand by lasers.”

  “Aye, sir,” came the reply.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the captain could see Darigghi crossing the bridge to join him. “Sir?” said the Osadjani.

  Stiles turned to look up at him. “Yes, Commander?”

  Darigghi tilted his long, hairless head, his deepset black eyes fixed intently on the captain’s. “Sir, did I hear you give an order to target one of the asteroids?”

  Stiles nodded. “You did indeed, Commander.” Then he turned back to Weeks. “Fire lasers, Lieutenant.”

  The weapons officer tapped a control stud. On the viewscreen, a red-tinged chunk of rock was speared mercilessly by a pair of blue energy beams. Before long it had been transformed into space dust.

  Stiles heard the Osadjani suck in a breath. “Sir,” he said, “are you certain you wish to do this?”

  The captain shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Darigghi licked his fleshy lips. “This asteroid belt is a most intriguing phenomenon,” he replied. “I believe that is why we were asked to analyze it in the first place.”

  “And analyze it we did,” Stiles pointed out. Then he glanced at Weeks again. “Target another one, Lieutenant.”

  The weapons officer bent to his task. “Aye, sir.”

  The first officer licked his lips a second time. “But, sir, it is irresponsible of us to destroy what natural forces created.”

  The captain eyed Darigghi. “Irresponsible, you say?”

  The Osadjani nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  Stiles grunted. “I suppose that would be one way to look at it. But let me offer you another one, Commander. You see, during the war, the Romulans used this asteroid belt to hide their warships. When we finally found them and dug them out, it cost us the lives of three good captains and their crews.”

  Darigghi’s eyes narrowed. “But what—?”

  “What does that have to do with the activity at hand?” Stiles said, finishing his exec’s question for him. “Simple, Commander. No hostile force is ever going to hide in this belt again.”

  The alien didn’t know what to say to that. Of course, that was exactly the result the captain had desired.

  Turning to the viewscreen, Stiles settled back in his seat. Then he said, “Fire, Mr. Weeks.”

  The weapons officer fired. As before, their lasers ate away at a sizable hunk of rock, reducing it to debris in no time.

  Darigghi looked on helplessly, licking his lips like crazy. Ignoring him, Stiles ordered Weeks to target another asteroid.

  Alonis Cobaryn sat at a long rough-hewn table in the gargantuan Hall of the Axe, which was located on a world called Middira.

  By the light of the modest braziers that lined the soaring black walls, Cobaryn could make out the immense crossed set of axes wielded in battle by the founder of Middiron civilization—or so the legend went. He could also make out the pale, hulking forms of his hosts and the mess of monstrous insect parts they considered a delicacy.

  First Axe Zhrakkas, the largest and most prominent member of the Middiron Circle of Axes, offered the captain a brittle, amber-colored haunch. “Eat,” he said insistently.

  Truthfully, Cobaryn had no desire to consume the haunch. However, his orders called for him to embrace local customs, so he took it from the First Axe and sank his teeth into it.

  He found that it was completely tasteless—at least to his Rigelian senses. Considering this a blessing, he ripped off a piece of the haunch with his teeth and began chewing it as best he could.

  “Have you reviewed our proposal?” the captain asked Zhrakkas, speaking with his mouth full in the manner of his dining companions.

  The First Axe’s slitted blue eyes slid in his guest’s direction. “I have,” he growled, spitting insect splinters as he spoke.

  “And what is your reaction?” Cobaryn demanded. After all, he had been told to be firm with the Middirona—firm and blunt.

  “I did not see anything that made my blood run hot,” said the First Axe. “There is that, at least.”

  The Rigelian took another bite of the insect haunch. “Then you understand we mean you no harm? That the creation of our Federation does not portend badly for you?”

  Zhrakkas grunted. “I understand that you say it.”

  “I do more than say it,” Cobaryn assured him, forcing a note of titanium into his voice. “I mean it.”

  The First Axe made a face. “We will see.”

  It was the best response the Rigelian could have hoped for. Pressing the matter might only have made his host wary, so he let it drop. Besides, there was another subject he wished to pursue.

  “I want to ask you something,” said Cobaryn.

  Zhrakkas shrugged his massive, blue-veined shoulders. “Ask.”

  The captain leaned forward. “As I understand it,” he said, “you trade regularly with the Anjyyla.”

  The First Axe lifted his protruding chin. “Among others.”

  “However,” Cobaryn noted, “the area between here and Anjyyl is reputed to be rife with interstellar strings, which, as you know, would he most dangerous to a vessel passing near them. I was wondering—”

  Zhrakkas’s eyes grew dangerous under his brow ridge. “The space between here and Anjyyl is ours—no one else’s. If your Federation has any intention of trespassing in Middiron territory—”

  The captain hadn’t expected such a violent reaction—though perhaps he should have. “You misunderstand, First Axe. We have no intention of trespassing. We merely seek to increase our store of knowledge.”

  The Middirona’s mouth twisted with mistrust. “Why would you need to increase your knowledge of what takes place in our space?”

  By then, Zhrakkas’s fel
low councilors had taken an interest in the conversation as well. They glared at their guest with fierce blue eyes, awaiting his response.

  The Rigelian sighed. Obviously, he had placed his mission here in some jeopardy. He would have to salvage it somehow—and quickly—or be the cause of a potentially bloody conflict.

  Unfortunately he could think of only one way to do that. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his fist back and drove it into Zhrakkas’ shoulder with all the power he could muster.

  Though he was clearly unprepared for the blow, the Middirona barely budged. Then he looked to Cobaryn for an explanation.

  “The First Axe needs to hone his sense of humor,” said the captain, effecting his best human grin.

  Befuddled, Zhrakkas looked at him. “My sense of humor?”

  “Absolutely,” Cobaryn pressed. “I thought when I poked my haft where it did not belong, you would find my impertinence amusing. But, no—you took my question seriously. Admit it.”

  The First Axe looked around the table at his peers. “I did no such thing. I knew it was a joke all along.” He smiled, exposing his long, hollow fangs. “But I decided to turn the tables and play a joke on you.”

  And then Zhrakkas expressed his feeling of good fellowship the way any Middirona would have—by hauling his meaty fist back and returning the captain’s blow with twice the force.

  Cobaryn saw it coming, but dared not try to get out of the way. Not if he wanted to hang onto the respect of the Middirona.

  The First Axe turned out to be even stronger than he looked. His punch knocked the Rigelian backwards head over heels. The next thing he knew, Cobaryn was sprawled on the floor—and his shoul- der hurt too much for him to even contemplate moving it.

  Seeing him lying there, Zhrakkas got up and walked over to him. Then he pulled the captain to his feet.

  “I like you,” the Middirona said. “Your people and mine will be two blades of the same axe.”

  Trying not to wince at the pain in his shoulder, Cobaryn nodded. “I certainly hope so.”

  Connor Dane leaned back in his chair and studied the stars on the screen in front of him. They didn’t look much different from any other stars he had seen, even if they constituted the part of space now known as the Romulan Neutral Zone.