by Peter David
“Clerical error. I see.”
“I’ll be discussing this with my senior officers,” Calhoun told Si Cwan. “You will remain here until the decision is made. Understood?”
“Your sentiments seem clear enough. And Captain . . .”
“Yes?”
“Thank you for your consideration. And thank you, Commander,” he said to Shelby with a small smile, “for not permitting me to be broken in half.”
“Don’t mention it,” she told him generously.
Zak Kebron stepped out and reactivated the force-field as Shelby and Calhoun headed down the hall. As soon as they were out of earshot, Shelby told him with confidence, “I’m feeling a bit better.”
“Are you.”
“Yes. Because although our three years together gives us a degree of emotional baggage, it also means we can be in synch on some things without a lot of preplanning.”
“Such as?”
“Well, just before. When we slipped into that ’tough cop, nice cop’ routine.”
He stopped and stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“’Cop.’ Old Earth slang for a law-enforcement official. When they would question someone, two of the law officials would work in tandem, one being threatening, the other conciliatory, in order to manipulate the person being questioned. Tough cop, nice cop.”
“Never heard of it.” He started to walk away but she put a hand on his upper arm, stopping him.
For a moment she felt the hardness of his muscle and thought, Well, he’s certainly kept working out. Out loud, though, she said, “You weren’t really going to have Kebron break him in half.”
Calhoun smiled in a manner so mysterious that even the Mona Lisa would have been hard-pressed to find fault with it, and then he walked away, leaving Shelby shaking her head before heading up to the bridge.
• • •
“So he ’covered’ for me,” Soleta said. It was not a question; it was as if she knew ahead of time.
“You don’t sound surprised,” Calhoun said.
“I try never to sound surprised. In this instance, though . . . I simply am not.”
Soleta, Calhoun, and Shelby were in the captain’s ready room. Calhoun was leaning slightly back, his feet up on his desk. “Why not?” asked Shelby.
“His desire was to get aboard the vessel. He accomplished that. There would have been no advantage at all in informing you of my duplicity, Alleged duplicity,” she amended.
Shelby looked to Calhoun for an answer that she already knew. “So Soleta came to you with her dilemma, and you approved her ’sneaking’ him aboard.”
“That’s correct. Problem with that?”
“Several, the most prominent being your not telling me beforehand. But putting that aside—I am going to make the educated guess that you intend to let him remain aboard.”
“It is a logical assumption,” Soleta agreed. Although the remark was addressed to Shelby, her gaze remained fixed on Calhoun. “After all, I warned the captain before we loaded the hidden Si Cwan onto the ship. We could just as easily have left him behind.” Calhoun inclined his head slightly to indicate his concurrence with her astute observation.
“All right, then,” Shelby said readily. “That being the case, why in the world did you go through all the subterfuge? Why did you act surprised? Why did you go through this entire song and dance?”
Calhoun draped his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I know Si Cwan’s type, Commander. Hell, I’ve fought his type. The first and foremost consideration is ego. The second is pride. He’s part of a ruling class, and is accustomed to doing things his way, even if that way is tremendously involved. In a way, Commander, you should be able to appreciate his point of view.”
“How so?”
“Because he cared about two things: the chain of command, and settling a matter of honor. He did not wish to undercut superior officers, but he felt that Soleta owed him a debt since he helped save her life back on Thallon years ago. And you, Lieutenant, were correct to come to me with this situation.”
“I saw no logical alternative. Basically, he was correct . . . I did owe him a debt of gratitude. By the same token, I owe my allegiance to Starfleet.” She paused a moment. “Do you think that he knew I’d go to you and ’arrange’ for him to sneak on, knowing all the time that it would be a setup?”
“Lieutenant, you can lose your mind if you try to think these things through too much.”
“So what do we do, Captain? Do we let him stay?” asked Shelby.
“Of course we let him stay. As Soleta pointed out, I wouldn’t have allowed him on, subterfuge or no, if I didn’t intend to let him stay put.”
“But why?”
He leaned back in his chair. “Because I’ve heard good things about him through the grapevine. Despite his position as part of the ruling family, he was—is—a man of compassion. One doesn’t encounter many of those, and if nothing else, I’m intrigued enough to want to study him close up. I figure that he may give us some degree of insight into the Thallonian mind-set, if nothing else. The bottom line is, he may be an officious, arrogant ass, but he’s a well-regarded officious, arrogant ass. So I reasoned that he might as well be our officious, arrogant ass.”
“We can’t have too many, I suppose,” replied Shelby.
He opened his mouth to continue his train of thought, but the train was abruptly derailed as Shelby’s comment sunk in. “Meaning?”
“Nothing, sir,” deadpanned Shelby. “Simply an observation.”
“Mm-hmm.” He didn’t appear convinced. But he allowed it to pass, and turned to Soleta. “All right, Lieutenant. Seeing as how he’s your pal and all . . .”
“Pal?” She turned the odd word over in her mouth.
“ . . . go spring him from the brig, on my authority. Coordinate with Lefler and get him set up in quarters.”
“Diplomatic?”
“Like hell. Crew quarters will suffice. We wouldn’t want him to get any more of a swelled head than he’s already got. Inform him, however, that he is on parole. We’ll be keeping an eye on him. If he tries anything the least bit out of kilter, he’s going to wind up as smear marks on Zak Kebron’s boots. That will be all, Lieutenant. Oh, and Lieutenant,” he added as an afterthought, “schedule some time for department heads to meet. I want a scientific overview of Thallon. I intend to make that our first stop.”
“Straight to the homeworld?” Soleta raised an eyebrow. “Do you expect trouble with achieving that rather incendiary destination?”
“Expect it? No. Anticipate it? Always.”
She nodded, an ever-so-brief smile playing on her lips and then quickly hidden by long practice, as she exited the ready room. When she was gone, Shelby folded her arms and half-sat on the edge of Calhoun’s desk. “May I ask how you think Admiral Jellico will react to this development? He was the one who originally forbade Si Cwan from joining the mission.”
“I imagine that he will be quite angry.”
“And out of a sense of morbid curiosity, was this anticipated reaction part of your motivation in allowing Si Cwan to remain?”
“A part? Yes. A major part? No. The good admiral caused me grief in the past, and I certainly don’t mind tossing some aggravation his way. But if I didn’t think Si Cwan could be useful on this voyage, I wouldn’t have allowed him on the ship just to annoy Jellico. That’s simply . . .” He paused and then, for lack of a better word, he said, “ . . . a bonus.”
• • •
Si Cwan surveyed his quarters with a critical eye. Soleta and Zak Kebron stood just inside the doorway. After what seemed an infinity of consideration, Si Cwan turned to them and said, “I assume your captain did not give me diplomatic quarters because he did not wish to aggrandize my sense of self-importance.”
“He didn’t phrase it quite that way, but that is essentially correct.”
Si Cwan nodded a moment, and then he looked at Kebron. “I would like a moment’s privacy w
ith Soleta.” Kebron’s gaze flickered between the two of them with suspicion. “Kebron, you’ll have to leave me on my own sooner or later,” Si Cwan reminded him. “Unless you were planning to make guarding me your life’s work.”
“It’s my life,” Kebron replied.
“We’ll be fine, Zak,” said Soleta, placing a reassuring hand on Kebron’s arm. Kebron leaned slightly forward and Si Cwan realized that that was how Kebron nodded, since his neck wasn’t the most maneuverable. The Brikar stepped back out of the room and the door closed.
“You and Kebron seem to share a certain familiarity with one another.”
“We studied together at Starfleet Academy.”
“And study was all you did?”
“No. We also saved one another’s lives on occasion. You see the world rather oddly, Si Cwan. May I ask why you wished to speak privately?”
“I,” and he cleared his throat. “I wanted to thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.”
“I hope I did not force you to compromise yourself in any way.”
“It’s a bit late now to be concerned about that,” Soleta told him.
“That’s valid enough, I suppose. Still I,” and for a second time he cleared his throat. “I would like to think that perhaps the two of us could be . . . friends.”
“Yes . . . I am sure you would like to think that.” And she turned and left him alone in his quarters.
BURGOYNE
VIII.
BURGOYNE 172 PROWLED Engineering in a manner evocative of a cheetah. The Excalibur had only been out of drydock for a little over twenty-four hours, and Burgoyne had already established a reputation for perfection that kept hish engineering staff on their collective toes. Burgoyne stopped by the antimatter regulators and studied the readouts carefully. “Torelli!” s/he called. “Torelli, get your butt down here and bring the rest of you along for the ride!”
Engineer’s Mate Torelli seemed to materialize almost by magic at Burgoyne’s side.
“Yes, shir,” said Torelli.
“I thought I gave you instructions that would improve the energy flow by five percent, and I asked for them to be implemented immediately.”
“Yes, shir.”
“Did you implement them?”
“Yes, shir.”
“Then may I ask why I’m only seeing an improvement of three percent?”
“I don’t know, shir.”
“Then I suggest you find out.” At that moment, Burgoyne’s comm badge beeped. S/he tapped it and said, “Chief Engineer Burgoyne here.”
“Chief, this is Maxwell down in sickbay. Dr. Selar would like a word with you.”
“Can it wait?”
“It’s been waiting for a while, shir. She was most emphatic.” Maxwell sounded just a touch nervous.
“In other words, we’re definitely in the realm of not taking no for an answer, correct?”
“A fair assessment, shir.”
Burgoyne sighed. S/he’d been expecting this, really. S/he’d had hish head buried down in Engineering, overseeing every aspect of the refit. Burgoyne would have preferred another two weeks to complete the refit to hish satisfaction, but Starfleet had seemed bound and determined to get them out into space. It was Starfleet’s call to make, of course, but Burgoyne couldn’t say that s/he was happy about it.
And now the doctor, whom Burgoyne had barely had a chance to take note of in passing, wanted to see hir about some damned thing or other.
“On my way,” said Burgoyne, who then glanced up at Torelli and said, “Be sure that’s attended to by the time I get back.”
“Yes, shir.”
“By the way . . . first thing I’d do is make sure that the problem isn’t in the readings rather than in the actual tech. If an object measures a meter long, and the meter stick is wrong, then that doesn’t make the object a meter, now, does it.”
“No, shir.”
“Get on that, then,” said Burgoyne. “And don’t disappoint me. I don’t take well to it. Last person who disappointed me, I ripped their throat out with my teeth.”
“You certainly like to joke, Chief,” Torelli said.
“That’s true, Torelli, I do,” Burgoyne agreed. S/he headed for the door and paused there only long enough to say, “Of course, that doesn’t mean I was joking just now.” And s/he flashed hish sharp canines and walked out.
• • •
Soleta and Zak Kebron stepped out onto the bridge to find that all attention was on navigator Mark McHenry.
He was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed. He didn’t seem to be breathing. Lefler was staring at him, as was Shelby. Calhoun was just emerging from his ready room and he looked to see where everyone else’s attention was. He blinked in mild surprise. “Is he dead?” he inquired in a low voice.
“We’re trying to determine that,” said Lefler.
Shelby looked extremely steamed, but then Calhoun waggled his finger to his senior officers, indicating that they should convene in his office. Within moments Robin Lefler found herself alone on the bridge, staring in wonderment at the apparently insensate astronavigator.
Calhoun, for his part, was wondering if he was ever going to get the hell out of his ready room and onto the bridge. Just to be different, he leaned on the armrest of his couch as Shelby said impatiently, “This is insane. We can’t have a navigator who falls asleep at his station . . . if that’s what he’s doing . . .”
“He’s not asleep,” Soleta told Shelby with authority. “He’s just thinking. He’s very focused.”
“Thinking?” Shelby couldn’t believe it. She looked to Calhoun as if she needed verification for what she was hearing. “Captain, it’s absurd . . . !”
“I was warned McHenry was somewhat unusual,” admitted Calhoun. “I thought he’d fit right in on that basis. But even I’m not sure now . . .”
“Lieutenant Soleta is right,” Kebron said, backing her up. “McHenry was like this back in the Academy. Actually, he was even more extreme. It’s nothing to be concerned about. As the lieutenant said, McHenry’s just thinking.”
“About what?” demanded Shelby.
“Anything,” said Soleta. “Everything. McHenry devotes exactly as much of his brain power as is required for routine duties. If there’s an emergency, he’ll devote that much more. And he devotes the rest of his brain to other things. Most humans can only concentrate on one thing at a time. McHenry is multifaceted. What you perceive as aberrant behavior is nothing more than what I would term an . . . eccentricity.”
“His eyes are half-closed! We can’t have a man at helm who’s not alert!”
“He’s alert, Commander,” Soleta said confidently. “He’s one hundred percent alert. If you walked over to him and spoke his name, he’d snap to instantly.”
“Responding to his name isn’t what concerns me,” Shelby replied.
“Nor I,” admitted Calhoun. “We need someone at that post who can respond to developing situations on his own, not a man who has to wait for someone to tell him what to do.”
“May I suggest a simple test?” asked Soleta. When Calhoun gestured for her to continue, she said, “I can have Lefler reroute guidance through the ops station. Then we’ll have her make a change in course. Nothing major. A simple alteration.”
“What will that prove?” Shelby asked.
“A great deal, if I am correct,” Soleta replied.
“You’re not saying that he’ll detect, without instruments, a deviation in ship’s heading.”
“That is precisely what I’m saying, Commander.”
“That’s impossible,” Shelby said flatly. “That is completely impossible.”
“Captain,” Kebron spoke up, “Commander . . . I fully admit that I had the same initial reactions to McHenry when I met him years ago as you are currently having. I recommend you do as Lieutenant Soleta suggests.”
Calhoun shrugged. “Sounds like a plan.”
“Captain—?!”
“Calm down, Shelby. Soleta has something to prove. Let’s let her try and prove it.”
Soleta exited the captain’s ready room and went straight over to Lefler. The others emerged and watched, fascinated in spite of themselves. Soleta bent in close to a puzzled Lefler and whispered in her ear. There was no sign of comprehension on Lefler’s face, but she wasn’t about to dispute a straightforward instruction. Within moments she had rerouted the navigations systems, and then made a course adjustment that would take the Excalibur eighteen degrees off course.
The moment the ship began to move in the new direction, the reaction from McHenry was instantaneous and stunning. He snapped forward, his attention completely focused—not on his instrumentation, but on the starfield in front of him on the screen. He then looked to his instruments, but clearly it was only to confirm that which he already knew. All business, he demanded, “Lieutenant, did you take us off course?”
Shelby was thunderstruck. “I don’t believe it,” she said. McHenry looked over to her, clearly not sure what Shelby was talking about.
“She changed headings at my direction, Lieutenant McHenry,” Soleta informed him.
He switched his focus to Soleta, his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. “Why?”
“Why do you think?”
He considered the question a moment. “Because there was concern that I had zoned out and you decided to prove otherwise?”
“Correct.”
“Ah. Okay.”
“Without looking at your instruments, Lieutenant,” Calhoun said, descending down the ramp to the command chair, “would you mind telling me how far off course we are?”
“I don’t know, sir. Ballpark . . . nineteen degrees.”
“Eighteen,” Robin Lefler acknowledged in wonderment.
“Fairly close ballpark, I’d say,” Calhoun said. “Would you agree, Commander?”
Shelby sighed. “Damned close.”
“Lieutenant McHenry, bring us back on course.”
“Aye, sir.”
Shelby sank into her chair. Calhoun sat next to her. “You all right, Commander?”
“Fine,” she sighed. “I’m fine. I swear, though, this is like no other ship I’ve ever served on.”
