by Peter David
“And he’s angry because it occurred to others.” Ryjaan made a dismissive wave. “It is far more his problem than it is yours.”
D’ndai heard the words, but somehow they did nothing to take the sting out of the recollections . . . recollections that he had thought he had long since managed to bury. M’k’n’zy, tall and straight and proud, looking contemptuously at D’ndai. Accusing him of selling out his people’s interests, of becoming that which they had fought against. Telling him that Xenex was free in name only; that Danter had managed to sink its interests into Xenex in a far more insidious manner. And that this time, those who had fought for Xenex’s freedom had virtually given it away again.
And all during that confrontation, D’ndai had barely said anything. He had withstood M’k’n’zy’s tirade because, deep down, he had known it to be true. It had only been after his brother’s departure that D’ndai had allowed his anger to build, had thought of everything he could have, or should have, said.
Ryjaan was silent for a brief time, and then he said, “However . . . even though it is his problem . . . it now becomes mine. I had hoped that I could count on you to control him.”
“Ryjaan . . . if the entire Danterian government was not able to control him . . . what hope would I have?”
Ryjaan nodded thoughtfully. “A good point. But let us be blunt here, D’ndai,” and his tone grew harsh. “We Danteri have, for the most part, been rather generous with you. We have asked little in return. As of this point, however, our interests are such that we need to ask a great deal. We need to ask you to exert whatever influence you have to convince your brother that our interests are his as well.”
“And if I may be as equally blunt,” replied D’ndai, “I don’t think I have a prayer in hell of accomplishing that. I am curious, though, as to just what those Danterian interests might be. It would certainly help bring the larger picture into better perspective.”
Ryjaan looked up toward the stars, as if he were capable of picking out the exact location of the Thallonian homeworld and fixing it with a gaze. “I have been candid with you thus far, D’ndai. I have no reason not to continue to be . . . do I?” He watched D’ndai’s reaction, which amounted to nothing more than a strongly held poker face. “The planet Thallon,” he continued, “in all of our most holy books, is a source of great power. The most learned and mystic of the Danteri elders call it the Rest World.”
“Rest World? Why?”
“The reasons are somewhat lost to obscurity. It is our guess, however, that centuries ago, great fleets may have used the Thallon homeworld as some sort of a resting and refueling point. Why, we don’t know. As I noted, it is merely conjecture. The point is, however, that we have waited a long, long time to have the opportunity to explore the secrets that Thallon possesses, whatever they might be. Perhaps some new source of limitless energy. Perhaps weaponry left behind by tremendously advanced races which could be of use to us. The possibilities are infinite . . . provided that the Danteri need not worry about interference from the Federation.”
“From my understanding, it is the Starfleet mandate that there be no interference.”
“Mandates are one thing. However, the simple fact is that we have to deal with a starship being captained by a Xenexian. A Xenexian, moreover, who was key in disrupting Danterian interests in the past, even when he was a know-nothing teenager. And he is quite far removed from that relatively lowly status. Now he is a knowledgeable adult with the power of a starship at his fingertips and the authority of the Federation covering his backside. If he desires to make life difficult for us, he can do so very, very easily. We will have to skulk about and proceed with extreme caution as it is, and that will be a major inconvenience. We wish to make certain that our inconveniences are limited to their current status. The fall of the Thallonian government is the ideal time for the Danteri to consolidate power. Your brother should not—must not— get in the way of that, both for his good and for our own. Are we clear on that?”
“Perfectly clear, Ryjaan. But I do not, as of yet, know exactly how to proceed.”
“Then I suggest you find a way, D’ndai.” He returned to his desk, sat behind it, and then in a great show of confidence which he didn’t exactly feel, he brought his feet up and placed them on the desktop. “Because if you do not find a way, then we shall have to. And that would be most unfortunate for all concerned.” He paused and then repeated for emphasis, “Most unfortunate.”
Captain’s Log, Stardate 50924.6. We have launched from drydock and are on course as ordered.
• • •
First Officer’s Log, Stardate 50924.7. We have achieved launch from drydock with a minimum of difficulty, and are proceeding toward Sector 221-G at warp six. I noticed in the captain’s public log that he did not, as is Starfleet custom, enter the text of his launch speech. The launch speech is a long-standing Starfleet tradition. Some ship commanders read a prepared text, and some even read the same text on whatever ship they helm. Captain Calhoun chose to speak extemporaneously. In the interest of historical completeness, I am hereby entering it into the official log of the Excalibur via this entry. The speech was delivered via intraship audio at precisely 1120 hours on Stardate 50924.5:
“Gentlemen . . . ladies . . . this is Captain Cal~houn. I welcome you all aboard the Excalibur, and look forward to the adventure in which we have been . . . thrown together, for want of a better phrase.
“For many of you, this is your first time aboard a starship. It may seem vast, even intimidating to you at first. It is not. I would wager that our little populace of six hundred and three, in comparison to the cities in which you likely grew up, is rather small. Furthermore, when we are measured against the vastness of the void we are about to hurl ourselves into . . . we are barely more than a speck.
“I have followed a rather . . . roundabout path to becoming your captain. I’m sure you all have your own stories, your own histories, your own reasons for joining Starfleet. I’m telling you now: They are all irrelevant to the job at hand. In the days of old Earth, I am told, there was an organization called the Foreign Legion, which men of questionable backgrounds could join in hopes of starting new lives for themselves. In a way . . . you are starting new lives here. Who you are, what you may have accomplished before . . . these are the elements that led you here. But from now on, anything you do will be, first and foremost, as crewmen of the Excalibur. It is to that ship, to that name, and to your fellow crewmen, that I expect you to give your first allegiance.
“We are all we have. There are no families, no ’civilians’ aboard the Excalibur. That is a luxury that I am afraid is left to larger vessels. Those of you who do not have families back home—and even those of you who do—look around you. The people to your left and right, behind you and in front of you . . . they are your family now. You will confide in them, depend on them, laugh with them, love them, hate them, and be willing to put your lives on the line for them. Nothing less than that level of dedication will do, because only under those circumstances will we be able to survive . . . and more . . . to triumph.
“All right. What are you all doing standing around, listening to your captain chatter on as if he is saying something you didn’t already know. Back to work.”
• • •
Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 50924.7. Our launch was proceeding perfectly well until my first officer insisted I get on the loudspeaker and make a fool of myself to the crew. I don’t even remember what I said: some sort of over-the-top, cloying, “Go get them, boys and girls” oration. Damnation, is this what modern-day Starfleet members need to bring them together? It was much easier on Xenex. All I needed to do was raise my sword over my head, shout “Death to the Danteri!” and the huzzahs would roll. Had I been wise, I would have informed Eppy that if she wanted a speech, she could damned well make it. But everyone looked to me as she stood on the bridge and suggested it; I didn’t wish to seem a coward. It has been many years since I cared overmuch how I seem
ed in the eyes of others, and it is a disconcerting feeling. At the very least, I must take care to make certain that Eppy not put me in that sort of position again.
• • •
First Officer’s Personal Log, Stardate 50924.7. The captain made a stirring and moving speech upon launch, which he would not have done had I not urged him into it. Although Calhoun’s strategic skills and starship knowledge are indisputable, his people skills are in need of honing. It is my belief that, although Captain Calhoun has some rough spots to him, with my guidance he will develop into a thoroughly adequate leader. However, I do feel I need to discuss the contents of his off-the-cuff remarks, for the purpose of making certain that mixed messages are not sent to the crew.
V.
SI CWAN FLOATED in a point of consciousness between wakefulness and sleep. As he attained this state, his heart rate had slowed down to a point where it was almost undetectable. His breathing was incredibly shallow. He could have stayed that way indefinitely.
The darkness in the storage container was complete. But it did not bother him. He wasn’t even aware of it.
In his semiconscious state, images floated in front of him. Images of his father, mother, uncles, all floated past him. All dead or missing, and even in his dreamlike haze, he didn’t care overmuch. He had never liked most of them, had never gotten on with any of them. For they had tended to think of the Thallonian people as far beneath them, not only in their social status, but in their rights as sentient creatures. It was a philosophy that Si Cwan had never shared, and as a result he had gotten into any number of angry disputes over it. Although to the public they presented a united front, behind closed doors it was a very different story. Si Cwan had worked behind the scenes to get every consideration for the outlying regions of the Thallonian Empire.
And slowly, word had spread throughout the channels that such things always did. If there was a grievance to be filed, if there was a request to be made, it gradually became known that Lord Si Cwan was the one to make it through. For a time this had a beneficial effect, but soon word of Si Cwan’s growing reputation reached the wrong ears in the palace. As a result, Si Cwan found every suggestion of his meeting with greater resistance than ever.
In the floating darkness of his semiconsciousness, Si Cwan saw himself arguing, warning, threatening. The fall of the Thallonian Empire was coming, any fool could see that. Why would they not open their eyes? Why would they not listen? But he could see the answer to that question in their faces. See the arrogance, the overwhelming self-confidence which would cost them dearly in the long run.
And there she was. There was Kallinda. Her arms outstretched, her face pleading, and in his mind’s eyes she was mouthing the words Help me. Damn him for being off-planet when the trouble started. He, who had seen it coming, was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Of course, some would say that when an empire is collapsing, not being in the thick of it was the best position for someone at risk. But Si Cwan had precisely the opposite sentiment. If he had been there, he might have saved those close to him. Or, worst came to worst, he would have died with them.
Instead he now felt as if he were in limbo, floating, floating . . .
. . . floating . . .
And suddenly, brutally, Si Cwan was dragged back to reality.
He was jolted out of his meditative haze, light flooding him from everywhere. Caught completely off guard, he had no time to mount a defense as he was lifted bodily out of his hiding place.
His “hiding place,” in this instance, consisted of a shining silver crate which was situated in one of the secondary cargo bays of the Starship Excalibur. It was relatively small, the ostensible contents being “Foodstuffs.” Because of its limited space, Si Cwan was practically forced to fold himself in half in order to fit.
Under ordinary circumstances, it should have been many minutes, if not hours, before Si Cwan could possibly offer any sort of physical protest. He had brought minimal food and water into the container with him, since space had been at a premium and he wasn’t exactly able to pack bathroom facilities in with him; furthermore, he had been exceptionally judicious in its use since he had not been entirely certain when he was going to be getting out of his hiding place. He had spent most of the time carefully regulating his bodily requirements, and as a result all the muscles in his body should have been completely slack. Furthermore his heartbeat had been slowed almost to nonexistence, and so getting adrenaline pumping so that he could attack should have been flatly impossible.
But circumstances, when it came to Si Cwan, were never ordinary.
As Si Cwan was being hauled out of the container, he barely had time to register the nature of his assailant. Whatever it was, it was a race unlike any that Si Cwan had ever seen before. His skin looked like thick, dark leather, and he was clutching Si Cwan with a massive three-fingered hand. He didn’t know what this creature was capable of, and he didn’t want to take the time to find out. Furthermore, despite the fact that he had stashed himself away in a very humble manner, he still possessed enough of his dignity to take umbrage at such treatment.
“I am Excalibur security chief Zak Kebron, and you are under—” Kebron began to say. And then Si Cwan’s legs, which by all rights should have been immobile, lashed out. He drove both heels squarely into Kebron’s face, staggering him by a grand total of an inch and a half. Kebron shook it off so quickly and easily that the blow might as well not have landed at all. “—arrest,” he finished. There were several crewmen standing nearby, but all of them were general-maintenance crew. None of them were Security. Apparently Kebron considered himself all that was required to handle the present situation.
“Put me down,” snarled Si Cwan, his feet dangling a meter above the ground.
“You are hardly in a position to bark orders,” Kebron replied evenly. He seemed like someone who never lost his temper. It was entirely possible he never needed to.
Si Cwan, however, was not of similar temperament . . . particularly so considering the present situation. His body should have been unable to respond to the orders his brain was conveying, but through sheer force of will, Si Cwan struck back much faster than Kebron would have thought feasible.
His long legs scissored upward, and Si Cwan snagged Kebron’s head firmly between his knees. Kebron staggered slightly, apparently more from confusion than from actual pain or even discomfort. And then, in an astounding display of physical control, Si Cwan twisted at the hip while in midair, achieving enough leverage to send Zak Kebron tumbling to the floor. At the last second Si Cwan leaped clear and Zak hit the ground with a sound and vibration not unlike that of an avalanche.
“I demand to see your captain!” Si Cwan announced as he scrambled to his feet.
Kebron did not seem in the mood for bargaining. “All you’re going to see is the inside of the brig,” he shot back as he clambered to his feet.
Si Cwan opted for discretion being the traditional better part of valor. For all he knew, the process of “due trial” on the Excalibur might be nothing more involved than this monstrous security guard unilaterally stashing him in a cell until he rotted. He had to find the captain. Certainly a man who lived his life in a position of command would be able to understand Si Cwan’s predicament and accord him the courtesy to which his station in life entitled him.
It would have been impossible for any observer to guess that Si Cwan had been nearly paralyzed mere seconds before. He spun on his left heel, his right leg lashing out, and it squarely connected with the lower part of Kebron’s face. A shuddering impact ran the length of his leg. It didn’t manage to hurt Kebron any more than the first blow had, but it at least served to knock him off balance and send him down to the floor again. Si Cwan came to the quick and dismaying realization that, at least with matters the way they currently were, there was absolutely no way he was going to be able to defeat Kebron for any length of time. Kebron could afford to hit the floor. He could be knocked down a dozen times or more; it didn’t matter. Because h
e would keep getting back up, as strong as ever and probably angrier each time.
Si Cwan bolted.
Two of the crewmen who had been watching the altercation tried to get in the way. Si Cwan leaped high, slammed out with both feet, and knocked them both flat. He landed lightly and was about to get out the door when it slid open moments before he got there. Someone else was about to enter.
Si Cwan didn’t slow down, driving a fist forward so quickly that—to any onlooker—it would have been a blur.
And that was to be the last thing that Si Cwan remembered. That and a shouted word which sounded like, “Later!”
• • •
“Captain, a moment of your time, please,” Shelby said as she spotted Calhoun exiting his quarters and heading toward the turbolift.
“Walk with me, Commander,” he said briskly as he stepped into the lift. She followed him in, fully expecting that he was going to tell the lift to take them to the bridge. Instead he said, “Deck twelve.”
“Deck twelve?” she said in mild surprise.
“Luggage problem,” he replied. Her blank expression made clear that she had no idea what he was referring to, but before she could pursue it, he continued, “You have the moment of my time, Commander. What is it?”
“It’s about your speech, sir. The ’welcome aboard’ launch speech.”
He nodded. “Brilliant oration, I thought.”
“Yes, absolutely, there’s just—”
“Just?” He eyed her skeptically. “Is there a problem?”
“Well, it was the part about the crew’s first loyalty being to the ship and the ship’s name and to each other.”
“You disagree?”
“I don’t dispute that those are important elements. But don’t you agree that, first and foremost, loyalty should be to Starfleet and the ideals it teaches?”
He studied her levelly. “Of course,” he said in a neutral manner. “Well-phrased. I agree, of course. Excuse me.” The turbolift door slid open and Calhoun strode out, leaving Shelby behind. She was about to let the door slide closed when, with a frown, she ordered it to remain open and followed Calhoun out. He was walking with a brisk pace down the corridor and Shelby was hard-pressed to keep up, but she’d be damned if she asked him to slow down.
