New Frontier

by Peter David

  “We assign a starship to enter Thallonian space. A single starship . . . hardly a fleet,” he said, the latter comment directed at Ryjaan who already seemed to be bristling. “That ship will serve to report to the Federation about what they find within Thallonian space . . . but will also have the latitude to lend humanitarian aid where needed. Furthermore, if the races in question turn to the captain of this starship for aid in rebuilding their empire through whatever peaceful means are available,” and when he emphasized the word he looked straight at Si Cwan, “the starship would basically do whatever is necessary—within reason—to try and make Sector 221-G a going concern again.”

  “And who decides what is ’within reason’?” demanded Jellico.

  “The captain, of course.”

  “You want to send a starship into a potentially incendiary position, with possible enemies all around them, any of whom might want their help one moment and then turn on them the next.” Jellico shook his head. “Putting aside the battering the fleet took in the last Borg engagement . . . forgetting for a moment that it would simply be sloppy planning to put a ship on such a detail for the benefit of a non-Federation member, and for an indefinite period of time . . . the bottom line is that Sector 221-G is a powder keg and Commander Riker is suggesting that we ask someone to stick their head into the lion’s mouth.”

  “I would have phrased it without mixed metaphors, but yes, that’s correct,” said Riker.

  Jellico looked unamused; it was an easy look for him. “It’s sloppy thinking, Commander. It is a completely unnecessary risk.”

  And Ambassador Spock fixed Jellico with a dead-eyed stare and said, “Risk . . . Admiral . . . is our business.”

  Jellico opened his mouth, but there was something in Spock’s gaze that caused him to snap it shut again. There was silence in the room for a long moment, and then Admiral Nechayev turned in her chair and said, “Captain Picard . . . what do you think?”

  He tapped his fingertips on the table thoughtfully and then said, “I agree with Commander Riker.”

  “Oh, there’s a surprise,” snapped Jellico.

  “With all due respect, Admiral, you know me well enough to know I would not speak from some sort of knee-jerk loyalty,” Picard informed him archly. “I have respect for the chain of command, and for personal loyalty, but first and foremost I do what I feel to be right. Might I point out that if that were not the case, the Enterprise would never have joined the fleet in the recent Borg invasion and you would have far greater problems to deal with than what to do about Sector 221-G.”

  Jellico’s face reddened slightly. Nechayev seemed unperturbed as she said, “Point well taken, Captain Picard. Admiral . . . I believe the idea has merit. It may take a bit of doing, but I’m reasonably certain I can sell the notion to the Federation.”

  “Admiral,” began Jellico.

  But Nechayev was making it quite clear that she was not looking for further discussion. “Do you have a recommendation for an available starship, Admiral?”

  “I . . .” He started to protest again, but then he saw the look of steel in her eyes. He came to the realization that further dispute on his part was simply going to provide amusement for Picard and Riker, and he’d be damned if he gave them the satisfaction. So instead he switched mental tracks and began running through available ships in his mind. Finally he said, “One comes to mind. The Excalibur.”

  “Wasn’t she damaged in the recent Borg invasion?” asked Picard.

  “Yes, and her captain killed. Korsmo. A good man.”

  “We came up through the Academy together,” Picard said. “And I had the . . . honor of battling at his side in an earlier Borg incident. He was . . . a brave man.”

  “Yes, and his last act was to get his ship clear. Otherwise the damage could have been a lot worse. She’s currently being refit and repaired. The crew has been reassigned . . . all except the first officer. She’s awaiting a new assignment; she’s angling for command.”

  “Aren’t they all?” smiled Riker.

  Jellico fixed him with a stare. “Not all,” he said snidely. And Jellico took some small measure of satisfaction in watching Riker’s face fall. “The Excalibur should be ready to go in approximately three weeks. Push comes to shove, we can probably have her ready in two.”

  “Very well,” said Nechayev. “Admiral, Captain . . . under the circumstances, I would look to you for recommendations as to the appropriate captain for this assignment. We shall reconvene in your office, Picard, in two hours. Gentlemen,” and she looked at Ryjaan and Si Cwan, “it is our hope that this decision will meet with your approval. It is, to my mind, the best we can offer at the present time.”

  “My government will be satisfied,” Ryjaan said evenly.

  All eyes turned to Si Cwan as he sat there for a moment, apparently contemplating empty air. When he spoke, it surprised all of them as he said, “I will, of course, be on this vessel as well.”

  The Starfleet personnel looked at each other in mild confusion. “Why do you make that assumption, Lord Cwan?” asked Nechayev.

  “It is my right,” he said. “It is my people, my territory. As you say, you thrust yourselves into a dangerous situation. I still have many supporters, and my presence will give validity to your own. I must be there.”

  “We protest!” shouted Ryjaan, thumping his fist on the table.

  “Save the protest,” Jellico said. “Lord Cwan, it’s not possible. You’re not Starfleet personnel.”

  “The idea has merit,” Picard said slowly. “We are talking about an unexplored, unknown area of space. His presence could offer advantages . . .”

  “I said no, Picard. What part of ’no’ don’t you get?”

  “I’m simply saying you should not dismiss the idea out of hand. . . .”

  “Look, Captain . . . perhaps some of us are so lax about the presence of non-Starfleet personnel that they’ll let teenage boys on their bridge to steer the ship,” Jellico snapped. “Others of us, however, know what is and what is not appropriate. Si Cwan has no business serving in any sort of official capacity on a starship, and I won’t allow it.”

  Now it was Picard who was beginning to get angry at Jellico’s digs, but Nechayev stepped in before the meeting could escalate in hostility. “Captain, I must agree with the Admiral. Lord Si Cwan . . . I must respectfully reject your request. I am sorry.”

  Si Cwan rose from his chair and loomed over them. “No,” he said. “You are not sorry. But you will be.”

  He headed for the door and Nechayev called after him, “Is that a threat, Lord Cwan?”

  He walked out without slowing as he called over his shoulder. “No. A prediction.”

  III.

  “CALHOUN?!”

  In Picard’s office, Jellico was making no attempt to hide his astonishment. He said again, “Calhoun? You don’t mean Mackenzie Calhoun?”

  “I most certainly do,” said Picard, unflappably sipping his tea.

  Jellico looked to Nechayev for some sort of confirmation that he was hearing a notion that was clearly insane. Nechayev was also surprised, but she hid it better. “I must admit, Captain, that I was under the impression you were going to recommend Riker for the position. That’s the reason I didn’t ask him to be here for this meeting.”

  “If Riker were interested, he would have let me know,” Picard said reasonably. “Besides, I think Calhoun would be far more appropriate for the assignment.”

  “Picard, in case you haven’t noticed, the man resigned. Calhoun is no longer a member of Starfleet. He hasn’t been for . . . what, five years? Six?”

  “Officially, he took leave.”

  “Officially? The man told me to go to hell! He stormed out of my office! He’s floated from one job to another, some of them exceedingly shady! Do those sound like the actions of a man who has any intention of, or interest in, coming back to Star-fleet?”

  “’Shady?’” asked Picard.

  “There have been rumors,” Jellico said.
“I’ve heard dabbling in slave trade . . . gun running . . .”

  “That’s absurd. We can’t be guided by rumors and innuendo.”

  “True enough,” Nechayev said, “but we must be cautious.”

  “Face it, Picard, he was a troublemaker even when he was in the Academy. The fact that he was your protege . . .”

  “He was not my ’protégé,’” Picard replied. “He was simply a damned fine officer. One of the best we ever turned out.” He put down his cup and began to tick off reasons on his fingers. “He knows that region of space. His homeworld, Xenex, is right up against the Thallonian frontier, and he did some exploration of the territory after he left Xenex, but before he came to the Academy. Furthermore, he knows the Danteri, in case they are involved somehow with the fall of the Thallonian Empire . . . and, Ryjaan’s indignation aside, I believe that may very well be the case. Above all, Admirals, let us not delude ourselves. If the Thallonian Empire is falling apart, you’re talking about planets at war with each other. Angry factions at every turn. You need someone who can pull worlds together. Calhoun has done that. He was doing it when he was still in his late teens. We need that strength and skill now, more than ever before.”

  “He’s unpredictable,” Jellico said.

  “So are the circumstances. They’ll be well suited.”

  “He’s a maverick. He’s a troublemaker, he’s—”

  “Admiral,” said Nechayev, “instead of complaining, may I ask whom you recommend?”

  “The first officer of the Excalibur,” Jellico replied promptly. “Commander Elizabeth Paula Shelby.”

  “Shelby?” said Picard.

  “You are familiar with her, as I recall.”

  “Oh yes,” Picard said with a thin smile. “It is probably fortunate that Commander Riker isn’t here; he’d be chewing neutronium about now. They did not exactly hit it off when she served aboard the Enterprise . . . particularly when he was busy trying to clean her footprints off his back.”

  “Shelby is a solid, aggressive officer,” continued Jellico. “She learned a good deal from Korsmo. She deserves her own command.”

  “She very likely does, but I do not feel that this is it,” said Picard. “The unique situation, the challenges it presents . . . Calhoun is simply better suited.”

  “You’re trying to put a cowboy in the captain’s chair,” Jellico told him.

  “Absolutely,” Picard replied. ’This is a new frontier. Who better to send in to try and ride herd on it than a cowboy?”

  “All right, gentlemen,” said Nechayev. “I’d like formal proposals on my desk back at Starfleet within forty-eight hours. I’ll review the specifics of your candidates’ records, and consider other options as well. I’ll render a decision as quickly as I can.”

  The meeting clearly over, Jellico began to head for the door, but then he slowed when he realized that Nechayev wasn’t following him. He turned and looked at her questioningly.

  “I need to talk with Captain Picard regarding another matter,” she said. “If you wouldn’t mind, Edward . . . ?”

  Jellico tried to look indifferent as he shrugged and walked out, but Picard could tell that Jellico was annoyed. Then again, Riker had once observed that it was easy to tell when Jellico was annoyed: he was awake.

  Nechayev turned to face Picard, her arms folded, and she said, “Regarding Calhoun . . .”

  “I would hope, Admiral, that you haven’t permitted Admiral Jellico’s antipathy to prompt a hasty decision. . . .”

  “Picard,” Nechayev said slowly, “you have to understand that I’m about to tell you matters of a delicate nature.”

  The change in her tone puzzled Picard. “Delicate in what respect?”

  She began to pace Picard’s office. “There have been rumors, as Jellico mentioned, of Calhoun engaging in some shady dealings.”

  “As I said before, I would hope rumors wouldn’t—”

  “They’re not rumors, Jean-Luc.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  “Oh, the exact nature of Calhoun’s activities may have been exaggerated in the retelling. These things always are. But Calhoun has engaged in some extremely questionable activities. I know because I assigned them.”

  “You—?”

  “There are certain departments in Starfleet that prefer to keep a low profile, Captain. Offices that attend to matters which require a—how shall we say it—a subtle touch. Matters where general knowledge of Federation or Starfleet involvement would be counterproductive.”

  Picard couldn’t quite believe it. “Are you saying that Calhoun has been acting as some sort of . . . of spy?”

  “ ’Spy’ is such an ugly word, Captain,” Nechayev said, sounding a bit amused. “We prefer the term ’specialist.’ Mackenzie Calhoun has managed to establish a reputation for himself among certain quarters as a renegade Starfleet officer who will take on any assignment if the price is right. In doing so, he has both rooted out brewing problems and served our needs on certain occasions. You might say he is ’deep undercover.’”

  “So he didn’t leave Starfleet . . .”

  “Oh, he left, all right. The incident involving the Grissom which prompted his departure was entirely genuine. But then he wound up getting himself into some trouble, and my office stepped in with a proposition that he couldn’t exactly turn down. In short, we bailed him out of a situation from which he likely wouldn’t have gotten out in one piece, and in return . . .”

  “He’s worked for you clandestinely. I see.”

  “It served both our needs, really. Mackenzie Calhoun is a man who needs challenges. He thrives on them.”

  “I know that all too well,” acknowledged Picard.

  “Well, we were able to provide him with that. It served the needs of all concerned.”

  “So what you’re telling me is that Calhoun is out of the running. That you wish to reserve him for your . . . ’special needs.’”

  Nechayev gazed out the window, her hands draped behind her back. “Not . . . necessarily,” she said slowly. “I agree with you that Calhoun may be one of the best that the Academy ever turned out. Part of the reason for my recruiting him—under duress, I admit—was that I didn’t want to lose him. I’m concerned that we may be on the verge of losing him now. He’s been ’under’ for too long, I think. Moving through disreputable, unsavory circles for so long that it’s getting to him, bringing him down. Poisoning the essential goodness that is within him.”

  “He gazes into the abyss, and it gazes back.”

  “Exactly, For the purpose of achieving our own ends, doing what needs to be done . . . I’m beginning to fear that we may have damaged the man’s soul. If we don’t do something about it soon, the damage may be irreparable. If I simply ’fire’ him from the department, though . . . God knows what will happen to him. He needs a purpose in life, Picard. He needs Starfleet, even if he doesn’t fully accept that.”

  “With that in mind, do you feel he’s still capable of resuming a place of command in Starfleet?”

  She turned and looked back at Picard. “At this moment, yes. This would be the ideal time. A year from now, perhaps even six months . . . it might be too late. He might be dead . . . or worse.”

  “Can you bring him in to Starfleet Headquarters? Talk with him?”

  “I’m not entirely certain he would listen to me,” she said. “Not about the subject of coming back to Starfleet. And as for bringing him in, well . . . I think, in this instance, it might be easier for the mountain to go to Mohammed . . . if you catch my drift.”

  IV.

  KRASSUS STARED APPRAISINGLY at the cards in his hand, and then across the table at the insufferably smug face of the Xenexian who was his main opponent. Moments before, a Tellarite and an Andorian had also been in the game of Six-Card Warhoon, but they had folded their hands and were watching the duel of wills between Krassus and the Xenexian with some interest.

  The Xenexian wasn’t giving the slightest indication of what he ha
d in his hand. His hair was long, and there was a fierce scar down the right side of his face. His purple eyes were dark as storm clouds, yet they looked at Krassus with a sort of bland disinterest. As if there weren’t a fortune in latinum currently sitting in the pot.

  Krassus knew little about the Xenexian beyond that he apparently had some involvement in the slave trade. It was something that Krassus was comfortable with, what with slavery being his stock-in-trade as well. Krassus was an Orion, though, and had never had the opportunity to wander all that close to Xenexian space. But he’d heard through sources that Xenexians could be fairly tough customers, and this one seemed to be filling that bill admirably.

  Krassus stroked his green chin thoughtfully. From nearby he heard a low chuckle. Zina was looking over his shoulder. “Stop breathing on me,” he told her.

  The scantily clad Orion slave girl took a step back, but she grinned in a manner that bordered on savage pleasure. Krassus had acquired Zina the previous year and had intended her for a quick resale, but he had taken a fancy to her. Even though he’d had a buyer lined up, he decided to keep her. The buyer had lodged a protest with Krassus. Krassus had, in response, lodged a dagger between the third and fourth ribs of the buyer, and that had put an end to the protest (and, for that matter, the buyer).

  The reaction of the girl had not gone unnoticed by the Xenexian. “Seems to me like you’ve got a fairly good hand,” said the Xenexian, “judging by your girlfriend’s reaction. Perhaps I should fold right now.”

  In response, Krassus turned and cuffed Zina, knocking her back. She fell to the floor but landed like a panther, and she hissed fiercely at Krassus.

  “Or perhaps,” the Xenexian continued, “the two of you are working together to try and make me doubt myself. In which case . . .” He considered it, then nodded. “Yes. Yes, I believe that’s probably it.” He reached down into a case at his feet and pulled out two more bars of gold-pressed latinum, and dropped them onto the table. The table legs creaked slightly from the weight.