by Peter David
“I leave that to you and your resourcefulness.”
“But if we speak to the captain . . .”
“He could say no. He very likely will. I expect that he will march in lockstep with his Starfleet associates.”
“Even if I could somehow get you on board without anyone knowing,” she said doubtfully, “you couldn’t hide indefinitely.”
“I’m aware of that. Once we’re in Thallonian space, I’d make my presence known to your captain. By that point, it will be too late.”
“Ship captains are historically not especially generous when it comes to stowaways, Si Cwan. In extreme cases, the captain would be authorized to punt you out of the ship in an escape pod with a homing beacon and no further obligation to see to your welfare. And since the captain is the one who defines what constitutes ’extreme,’ he’d have a lot of latitude.”
“I would deal with it.”
“This is not a logical plan, Si Cwan. If you truly wish to go back into Thallonian space, you can hire a private vessel. As you well know, Sector 221-G is no longer forbidden territory.”
“It is to some.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Meaning?”
He dropped back into the chair opposite her, and with barely controlled anger, he said, “Understand me, Soleta. I still have followers. Many followers. At the risk of sounding self-aggrandizing . . .”
“A risk I’m sure you’ll take,” Soleta said dryly.
If he picked up on the sarcasm, he didn’t let it show. “ . . . I was one of the most popular members of the royal family. The mercy I showed you and Spock was not an isolated case. I helped out others from time to time, when such judicious displays could be performed without undue attention. In certain quarters, I was known as compassionate and fair, a reputation that was, quite frankly, deserved.”
“My congratulations.”
“By the same token, I also had enemies. One in particular, a man named Zoran, was almost insane in his hatred for me. I never knew quite why; only that Zoran would have done anything to see myself and the rest of my family wiped out. In any event . . . there were supporters who helped me and other members of my family to escape when the empire collapsed. And we were . . .”
His voice trailed off, as if he was recalling matters that he would rather not be thinking about. Soleta waited patiently.
“We were supposed to meet at a rendezvous point,” he continued moments later, as if he hadn’t lapsed into silence. “Meet there and get out together. I was the only one to make it to the rendezvous point. I heard secondhand that most of the others were caught and executed.”
“Most?”
The entire time she had been watching him, he had maintained an imperious demeanor. But now it almost seemed as if he were deflating slightly. A great sailing ship, becalmed, its mighty canvas sagging. “I have heard nothing of Kallinda.”
She was about to ask who that was, but then she remembered something. She remembered when she first met Si Cwan, seen him sitting on his mount, proud and regal. And next to him was a young girl, laughing, clearly adoring the man next to her.
“The little girl who was with you?” she asked. “When I was first caught?”
“Yes. My sister. My little sister, who never did harm to anyone. Who was filled with joy and laughter.” He looked at Soleta, his dark eyes twin pools of sadness. “Kallinda. I called her Kally. I have been unable to determine what happened to her. I don’t know whether she is alive and in hiding, or . . .”
As if he was suddenly aware of, and self-conscious over, his emotional vulnerability, he pulled himself together quickly. He drew his regal bearing around him like a cloak. “It is galling to admit, but I need the protection that only a starship can provide. Protection from enemies such as Zoran. The influence such a vessel could provide. And a means through which I can search for my sister. None of these could be garnered through the hiring of some small, one- or two-man ship.”
“Lord Si Cwan, I wish I could help you, but . . .”
“No,” he said sharply. “There will be no “but’s in this matter. I have need of your help, and you will help me. Once we are in Thallonian space I will more than prove my worth, but I need your assistance in getting me there. You owe me your life, Soleta. Not all the logical arguments, all the rationalizations in the world, are going to change that simple fact. If it were not for me, you would be dead; some rotting corpse in an unmarked Thallonian grave. If you have a shred of honor, you will acknowledge your indebtedness to me and do as I ask.”
“I would be putting everything at risk, Si Cwan,” she warned him. “If my complicity in such an endeavor were discovered . . .”
“It would not be discovered through me,” he told her in no uncertain terms. “That much, at the very least, I can promise you. Do not take this wrong, but you would be merely a means to an end. But you are a means I must take advantage of, for I see no other way at this point. I cannot command you to help me, obviously. But I ask you now, for the sake of your own life, which you owe me . . . for the sake of my sister’s life, which might possibly yet be saved . . . help me.” And then he added a word that he could not recall using at any time in his life.
“Please.”
And from the depths of her soul, Soleta let out a long, unsteady sigh, and wondered just who she should get to represent her at her court-martial.
III.
CALHOUN GLANCED UP from the computer screen as the door to his ready room slid open. Dr. Selar entered and, with no preamble whatsoever, said, “Dr. Maxwell’s performance is unacceptable. Please dismiss him from the crew complement immediately.”
“Computer off,” said Calhoun as he rose from behind his desk. He gestured for Selar to sit. The Vulcan doctor merely stood there and, with a mental shrug, Calhoun sat back down again. “His performance is unacceptable?”
“That is correct.”
“Did you have sex with him?”
Selar seemed taken aback, although naturally she did not let her surprise become reflected in anything more than a raised eyebrow. “I beg your pardon?”
“Did you have sex with Dr. Maxwell?”
“No, of course not. Nor do I—”
“Is Dr. Maxwell an actor? Does he tend to burst into monologues or soliloquies?”
Selar was completely lost. “Not to my knowledge. I do not see how—”
“Does he play a musical instrument?”
Giving up trying to understand where her captain was going with the conversation, Selar said simply, “It does not appear on his resume. If he does, he has not done so in my presence.”
“Well, I was wondering. You see, you come in here complaining about his performance, and since I know perfectly well that no patients have come through sickbay yet, I assumed you couldn’t possibly have evaluated his performance as a doctor . . . which is, last time I checked, the reason he was here.”
She tilted her head slightly. “Captain Calhoun, are you always this circumloquacious?”
“No, not really. Generally I simply tell people whom I feel are wasting my time to get the hell out of my office. But we haven’t even left drydock yet, so I’m trying to be generous.” He came around the desk. “Look, Selar . . .”
“I prefer Doctor Selar.”
He smiled. “I heard a joke once. What do you call the person who graduates at the bottom of their medical class?” Without waiting for her to respond, he answered, “ ’Doctor.’ ”
She stared at him.
“Do you get what I’m saying?” he asked.
“I believe so. You seek to diminish the title to which I am due, based upon years of study and work, by implying that quality of scholarship may not be reflected in that title.”
He rubbed his temple with his fingers and tried to remember why in God’s name he’d let Picard talk him into this. “Look, Dr. Selar, it’s your sickbay. If you want Maxwell out, he’s out. I’m not going to argue. Perhaps you’ve perceived some potential trouble spots, or perhaps it’s simp
ly a personality clash. . . .”
“Vulcans do not ‘clash,’ ” she informed him.
Keeping his voice even and calm, Calhoun said, “All I’m saying is that you are in charge of sickbay. The lineup for everyone working under you came from the Starfleet surgeon general’s office. I okayed it based upon their recommendation, and I leave it to you to fine-tune it. Maxwell works under you. Use him, don’t use him, blow him out a photon-torpedo tube for all I care. But I’ll tell you right now, any changes in personnel have to be followed up with a formal report. I cannot put sufficient emphasis on this: I care very much about reports and following procedure. And you damned well better be ready to give concrete explanations for Maxwell’s termination, because I think you should know that ’I felt like it’ doesn’t fly with Starfleet Central.”
“I see.”
“Now, if you want my recommendation—and the joy of being captain is that you get my recommendation whether you want it or not—I suggest you sit down and speak with Maxwell about those areas in which you find him lacking. See if you can come to some sort of accord. That would be something that I’d very much like to see.”
“Are you offering your services as mediator, Captain, in order to facilitate matters?”
“Good God, no. I’d sooner stick my head in a warp coil. To be blunt, it sounds to me as if you’re reacting out of some sort of core irrationality . . . which would be, to say the least, disturbing, considering who you are. Now, do your damn job and I’ll do mine, and we’ll both be happy. Or at least I’ll be happy and you’ll be,” he gestured vaguely, “you’ll be whatever Vulcans are. Now get the hell out of my office.”
She headed for the door, stopping only to say, “You use more profanity than any other Starfleet officer I have encountered.”
And with a wry smile, Calhoun replied, “I’m an officer. I’m just not a gentleman.”
• • •
Burgoyne 172 was working with Ensign Yates, overseeing the recalibrating of the Heisenberg compensators in Transporter Room D when the signal beeped on hish comm badge. S/he rose quickly, narrowly avoiding bumping hish head on the underside of the control.
The Hermat was of medium build, quite slender and small-busted. S/he had a high forehead, pale blond eyebrows, and two-toned pale blond hair that s/he wore in a buzz cut, but that was long in the back. S/he tapped hish comm badge and said, “This is Burgoyne. Go ahead.”
“Burgoyne? This is Shelby.”
“Commander!” Burgoyne was genuinely pleased. S/he’d always gotten on well with Shelby, having worked with her on the Excalibur during the captaincy of the late, lamented Captain Korsmo. “How are you? For that matter, where are you?”
“I’m on a shuttle approaching drydock. They were kind enough to route this message through from the bridge. Tell me, Burgy, how long would it take you to get to a transporter room?”
Burgoyne smiled, displaying hish slightly extended canine teeth. “Well, let’s see . . . allowing for the size of the ship, the measurement of my stride, the—”
“Burgoyne . . .”
“I’m in a transporter room, Commander, as it so happens.”
“Perfect. I was hoping you could beam me aboard.”
“That’s against regulations.” Burgoyne frowned. “Why not just dock in the shuttlebay? I’ll inform the captain to meet you and—”
“That’s what I was hoping to avoid.”
“Avoid? I’m not following, Commander.”
“I wanted to meet with the captain privately before I met with him publicly, if you catch my drift.”
“I guess I do. You want to surprise him.”
“In a manner of speaking. It’ll be on my authority. Any problems with that?”
“None whatsoever, Commander. You’re still technically my first officer until we leave port. If it’s what you want, that’s good enough for me. Just give me a moment to lock on to your signal,” and hish long, tapered fingers fairly flew over the transporter controls, “and we’ll bring you right on board.”
Moments later the transporter beams flared to life, and Shelby appeared on the pad. She stepped down and stuck out a hand, which Burgoyne shook in hish customary extremely firm manner . . . so firm, in fact, that Shelby had to quietly move her fingers around in hopes of restoring circulation. “Good to see you, Commander.”
“And you too, Lieutenant Commander.”
“Shall I have Yates escort you to the bridge?”
“Oh, I think I can find the way.”
And as she headed for the door, Burgoyne asked, “Are you going to be staying with us awhile, Commander?”
“That,” said Shelby, “is what I’m going to try and find out.”
• • •
Shelby stepped out onto the bridge and nearly walked straight into a mountain range.
At least, that’s what it seemed like. She stopped dead in her tracks. She didn’t really have much choice in the matter; her path was blocked. She looked up, and up.
The being who faced her was powerful and muscled, his skin a dusky brown with ebony highlights. Either one of his arms was bigger than both of hers put together, and he had three fingers on each hand: Two of the fingers in a [V]-shape, rounded out with an opposable thumb. His (assuming it was a he) head was squared off, like a rough diamond, and he had small earholes on either side of his skull. His nose consisted of nothing more than two vertical, parallel slits between his eyes that ran to just above his mouth.
“You’ve got to be a Brikar.” She’d never seen one of the gargantuan beings before, but she’d heard them described. If what she’d learned about them was true, this behemoth could withstand phaser blasts that would kill a human . . . hell, kill a squad of humans.
He was wearing a Starfleet uniform that seemed stretched to its maximum, and all she could think was Thank God he’s on our side.
“And you are?” he rumbled. His voice seemed to originate from somewhere around his boots.
“Commander Shelby. I’m here to see Captain Calhoun.”
“I was not aware of your arrival, Commander.”
“It’s,” and she bobbed her head from side to side slightly, “it’s a bit of a surprise.”
“I, with all due respect, sir, don’t like surprises.”
“Let me guess. You’re in charge of security.”
His eyes glittered down at her. She had a feeling he was eyeballing her quickly to see if she had weapons hidden on her. Apparently satisfied, at least for the moment, he said, “Wait here, Commander.” The Brikar moved off toward the captain’s ready room and entered. Shelby mused that it was fortunate the door opened fast enough. Otherwise the Brikar would likely have just walked right through it.
“Commander Shelby?” Shelby turned to see a pert young woman with a round face and dark blond hair, piled high on her head, standing near her. She had her hand extended and Shelby shook it firmly. “Lieutenant Robin Lefler. Ops. Burgoyne told me you were on your way up.”
“I wish s/he’d told the walking landmass over there.” She chucked a thumb in the direction that the Brikar had just gone.
“Wouldn’t have mattered even if s/he had,” said Lefler. “Zak is pretty single-minded. If the word doesn’t come down from the captain, then as far as he’s concerned, the word isn’t given.”
“Zak?”
“Zak Kebron. He’s quite a piece of work, Zak is. I helped outfit him with a small gravity compensator he wears on his belt. The Brikar are such a heavy-gravity race that, if he doesn’t wear the compensator, it makes it almost impossible for him to move. As it is, if he’s in a hurry, you can hear him running from three decks away.”
“I’d believe it.”
“We have a few holdovers from when Captain Korsmo was in charge,” continued Lefler. “They all had nothing but good things to say about you.”
With a slightly mischievous air, Shelby said, “Well, they know better than to say anything bad.”
Then Shelby heard a soft, rhythmic snoring nois
e. She looked for the source . . . and couldn’t quite believe it. There was a lieutenant sitting at navigation, his feet propped up on the controls. His arms were folded across his chest, his head rising and falling with the rhythm of his snoring. He had short-cropped red hair and—curiously—freckles. Curious because Starfleet officers, not being exposed to tremendous amounts of sunlight in their insular adult lives, tended to be fairly freckle-free. Shelby turned to Lefler, an unspoken question on her face.
“He knows his stuff,” Lefler said optimistically. “Really.”
The door to the ready room slid open and Zak Kebron was standing there. “The captain will see you, sir,” he said in a voice that sounded like the beginnings of an avalanche.
Shelby nodded briskly and headed into the ready room. Kebron stepped aside, allowing her to pass. The door slid shut behind him and Zak walked over to his station. Robin sidled over to Kebron and leaned over the railing. “Did the captain have any kind of reaction?”
“ ’Reaction?’ ” He looked at her blankly.
“When he found out that the commander was here.”
“Should he have?”
“I’m not sure. I was getting the impression that she was expecting . . .” Her voice trailed off. “I’m not sure what she was expecting. That’s why I was asking you.”
His face was immobile.
“Come on, Kebron. Did he smile? Frown? Did he seem tense, curious, excited, tepid . . . stop me when I hit a word that’s accurate.”
Nothing. Zak Kebron simply stared at her.
Lefler grunted in annoyance. “Lefler’s newest law: Getting information out of you is like interrogating a statue.” She turned away from him.
“Good,” muttered Kebron.
• • •
Dr. Selar entered sickbay and went straight to her office. But she quickly became aware that Dr. Maxwell was following her with his gaze. He’d known fully well that Selar had been dissatisfied with his prep work in sickbay, and he had been perfectly candid about the fact that he thought Selar was being too hard on him. He had suspected, correctly, that Selar had gone to the captain to discuss the situation.
