New Frontier

by Peter David

  “I’ve found that human nature . . . or, for that matter, Brikar or Thallonian nature . . . doesn’t generally respond well to . . .”

  And then his voice trailed off, and he frowned.

  Shelby watched in confusion. “Mac?” she said after a long moment. “What—?”

  “We’re in trouble,” he said.

  “What do you mean? What kind of—”

  “Captain!” It was Lefler’s voice, and there wasn’t panic in it, but there was extreme concern. “We’ve got company!”

  Instantly Calhoun was out on the bridge, his attention on the screen. Soleta had moved to the tactical station to cover for the absent Kebron, and she said, “It just dropped out of warp.”

  The vessel on the screen was approaching them rapidly. It was large and black with silver markings. As a result it almost seemed to be one with the starry background behind it.

  “Go to yellow alert. Beam the repair crew off the Cambon this instant and then raise shields. Scan it for weaponry,” said Calhoun.

  “Scanning,” she confirmed as the yellow-alert klaxon sounded.

  In a low voice, Shelby asked Calhoun, “How the hell did you know?”

  “I usually know. It’s a knack.”

  Before she could inquire further, Soleta said, “Scan complete. They possess front- and rear-mounted phase/plasma cannons. Primitive but effective. If we get into a pitched battle, we could be hurt.”

  “Captain,” said Shelby, “They’ve made no hostile move. With all respect, you can’t go into any situation assuming that every vessel you’re going to encounter may open fire . . .”

  And Lefler suddenly called out, “Captain, they’ve opened fire!”

  • • •

  The silence was thick in the runabout Marquand. Kebron was taking great pains not to look in Si Cwan’s direction.

  “Lieutenant,” Si Cwan finally said, “would you mind telling me what your problem is?”

  “Problem? I have no problem,” said Kebron with exaggerated formality.

  “Lieutenant, dissembling ill suits you.”

  “Are you calling me a liar?” inquired Kebron.

  Si Cwan studied him a moment more, and then unstrapped himself from his seat and moved to the aft section of the ship. “All right,” he said. “Let’s go. Come on.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I know what this is about. This is about the fact that, in your very first assignment as security chief of the Excalibur, you were beaten up.”

  “I was not beaten up.”

  “Yes, you were. I should know. I was the one who did it.”

  Kebron tried to get up so quickly that he almost knocked his chair backward . . . which was a formidable feat, considering that it was bolted down. “Knocking me off balance is hardly the same as ’beating me up.’ “

  “Well, now you’ll have the opportunity to prove it.” Si Cwan stood in a limber, prepared fashion, his arms poised, his legs slightly bent. “Come on. Take a shot at me. Let’s settle this once and for all.”

  “We’re on a mission,” Kebron told him angrily. “This is not the time for pointless displays of combat.”

  “I see. Perhaps you’re afraid, then.”

  “Of you?” Kebron laughed contemptuously. “In a true, honorable fight, you would not stand a chance against me.”

  “Then let’s find out right now.”

  “No.” And Kebron sat back down again.

  Si Cwan strode forward. “Why not?”

  “Because,” he said reasonably, “if your sister is aboard the vessel, do you wish to greet her with your face bruised and battered? I would think she would be frightened to see you in such a state.”

  Si Cwan laughed curtly. “My being disfigured would not be a factor.”

  “Your confidence is misplaced.”

  “As is your hostility. We’re on the same side, Kebron.”

  Keeping his gaze fixed resolutely on the stars streaking past them, Kebron said, “I dislike dictators. I dislike stowaways. And I dislike those who feel they are superior to others. You fall into all three categories. As I’m sure you can surmise, then . . . I dislike you.”

  For a time, Si Cwan said nothing. And then he drew very close to Kebron and said in a quiet voice that seemed filled with pain, “I’ve noticed that those who are the most confident that they know another person are the most likely to know the least.”

  And with that, he sat back down in his seat in the cockpit, and said nothing more for a full hour. Until their sensors told them that the science vessel Kayven Ryin was just ahead. Immediately, Kebron began hailing on the subspace radio again, and as he did so, Si Cwan said nothing. Kebron became aware that Si Cwan was holding his breath, and it was an awareness that annoyed him tremendously. For Si Cwan’s concern over his sister was going a long way toward “humanizing” Cwan in Kebron’s eyes, and it was so much easier to dislike someone when you could find nothing redeemable in their character.

  And then a voice came over the radio. Si Cwan jumped so unexpectedly at the sound that he banged his head on the ceiling of the runabout as a voice said, “Incoming vessel . . . this is the Kayven Ryin. Are you here to aid us?”

  “This is the Marquand, dispatched by the Starship Excalibur,” Kebron responded. “We are here to provide whatever temporary aid we can, and then report back to the Excalibur. In a short time, however, we’ll be able to offer you the full services of our main ship.”

  “Kallinda,” Si Cwan was whispering urgently. “Ask them about . . .”

  “Your passenger manifest listed a Thallonian named Kallinda,” Kebron said. “Is that Kallinda of the deposed royal family of Thallon?”

  There was a hesitation on the other end. “We don’t generally discuss private matters of our passengers, Marquand . . .”

  “You have nothing to fear from us, Kayven Ryin. We’re from Starfleet. We’re here for humanitarian aid and,” he glanced at the agonizingly eager Si Cwan, “if she is the Kallinda in question . . . I have her brother here.”

  There was the briefest of pauses. “Si Cwan is there?”

  “That is correct, yes.”

  “Tell him . . . tell him his sister never stops talking about him, and is looking forward to seeing him.”

  It was all Si Cwan could do to steady himself. Kebron gestured toward the console, silently indicating that if Si Cwan wanted to say something, he could. And Kebron was surprised to see that Cwan clearly could not do so because apparently he didn’t trust himself to speak, so choked was he with emotion. “Consider the message passed along. We’ll be there within five minutes. . . .”

  “We’ll be ready for you, Marquand. . . .”

  • • •

  , . . and aboard the Kayven Ryin, several Thallonians were grouped around the communications board. “We’ll be ready for you, Marquand,” one of them said. Then he snapped off the comm unit, and turned to the most powerfully built of the group, who was sliding a fresh energy clip into the barrel of his plasma blaster. “We will be ready for them . . . won’t we, Zoran.”

  “Oh, yes,” said Zoran. “And finally I’ll have that reunion with Si Cwan I’ve so been looking forward to.”

  And he slammed the clip tightly into place. . . .

  BOOK THREE

  THE TWO-FRONT WAR

  MACKENZIE

  Captain’s Log, Stardate 50926. 1—The Excalibur has been endeavoring to provide humanitarian aid to the stranded vessel Cambon and its four dozen passengers presently in sickbay. However, we now find ourselves face-to-face with an unexpected intruder, who has opened fire on us.

  • • •

  First Officer’s Log, Stardate 50926. 1—Our attempt to effect repairs on a stranded private crew ship, the Cambon, populated by refugees from the fallen Thallonian government, has been interrupted by the appearance of an unknown vessel, which is reacting in a hostile manner to what is undoubtedly perceived as our trespass. Ideally, Captain Calhoun should be able to handle this matter in
a calm and reasonable manner.

  I.

  “I WANT TO BLOW THOSE BASTARDS out of space.”

  The Excalibur had just been rocked by the opening salvo from the black-and-silver ship that hung 100,000 kilometers to starboard. The phase/plasma cannons had pounded against the starship’s shields, firing specially created “phaser/plasma” essentially designed not to smash shields apart, but instead to determine the wave harmonics of the shielding and basically eat through them with violent force. The first of the blasts went a long way toward cracking through the primary shields, and the Excalibur was jolted by the impact.

  Nonetheless, even though the starship had been subjected to this most undignified and unprovoked attack, Captain Calhoun’s angry order prompted a startled gasp from Commander Shelby. “Captain—!”

  “Save the indignation, Commander. I didn’t say I would . . . merely that I wanted to. Still, the day’s young,” and Calhoun rose from his chair, looking energized and confident. “Lefler, damage report.”

  “Some damage on primary shields,” Robin Lefler reported from ops. “No structural damage. Forward shields at eighty percent and holding.”

  “McHenry . . .” began Calhoun.

  And to his surprise, the normally laid-back helmsman said in staccato fashion, “I’ve angled the ship to protect the damaged shields, sir. Taking evasive action.” He caught Lefler’s look from the corner of his eye and turned to glance at the captain. “Was that jumping the gun, sir?”

  “Yes, but I’ll let it go this time,” replied Calhoun, who had in fact been about to issue exactly those orders. “Mr. Boyajian, have you raised them yet?”

  “Not yet, sir.” Boyajian, a tall, black-haired tactical specialist, had stepped in to cover for Zak Kebron while the security chief was off-ship.

  Calhoun spoke briskly and forcefully, yet in a manner so unhurried that it gave the impression he felt fairly unthreatened by the present situation. Whether that was truly the case or not was impossible to tell. “Keep trying, but meantime see if you can determine where their key points of vulnerability are and target them.”

  “Trying, Captain. Tough to scan them through their shields.”

  “Do your best.” He turned toward the science station. “Lieutenant Soleta, any thoughts on the ship’s pedigree?”

  “Although the vessel bears passing similarities with Kreel vessels, it is not of that race,” she said as she checked her scanners. “It will take time to make a full analysis.”

  “Fine, you’ve got twenty seconds.”

  “I appreciate the leisure time, sir.”

  “They’re coming around again,” warned Shelby.

  “Firing again!” Boyajian warned.

  Two phase/plasma bolts streaked out from the underside of the black-and-silver ship. Mark McHenry’s eyes seemed to glitter with an almost demented glee as his fingers flew over the controls with such speed that Lefler, sitting not ten feet away, couldn’t even see them.

  The twin blasts arced right for the front of the saucer section, and would have struck it cleanly had not the Excalibur suddenly—with alacrity and grace—executed a forty-five-degree roll on her horizontal axis. Terms such as “sideways” had no meaning in the depth of space when there was no other body, such as a planet, to relate it to. Nonetheless, “sideways” was what the Excalibur suddenly was as the plasma blasts shot past her, bracketing her on either side.

  “Excellent!” Shelby called out. McHenry had had no more vocal critic or detractor than Shelby when she had first seen him at his post, apparently unfocused and uninterested. But faced with a crisis, McHenry had reacted with ingenuity and full capability.

  McHenry’s response to Shelby’s spontaneous praise was to turn and grin at her.

  Soleta, who appeared oblivious to McHenry’s maneuvering, glanced up from her science station. “Sir, I believe that bulge to their aft section is the key to their propulsion system . . . some sort of a concentrated ion glide.”

  “Mr. Boyajian, target it, ready phasers for a three-second shot at full strength. Then put me on ship-to-ship.”

  “Aye, sir, but I can’t promise they’re listening.”

  “I’ll take that chance. Oh, and the moment I get to five, fire.”

  “You’re on intership, Captain,” said Boyajian, “but what did you mean by—?”

  Calhoun didn’t give him the opportunity to finish the question. Instead, in a no-nonsense tone, he said, “Attention alien vessel. This is Captain Calhoun of the Federation starship Excalibur. Your attack is unprovoked. We will give you to the count of five to back off, or we will open fire.”

  Understanding the earlier order, Boyajian’s finger hovered over the firing control.

  And Calhoun, without hesitation, said, “One . . . two . . . five.”

  Boyajian fired the phaser reflexively upon hearing the command, acting so automatically that the phasers had already been unleashed before he realized that a few numbers had been missing in the countdown.

  The phasers lashed out, striking the attacking vessel directly in the section that Soleta had suggested. The attacker rocked wildly, the phasers coruscating off the shields.

  “Direct hit,” Boyajian reported. “Their shields held, but I don’t think they were particularly thrilled.”

  “I didn’t expect to damage them,” said Calhoun. “Not with a three-second burst.”

  “A warning shot,” Shelby realized. “To let them know that we’ve targeted a vulnerable area.”

  Calhoun nodded, and that was when Boyajian said, “We’re getting an incoming hail, sir.”

  “Good. Let them sweat a few moments before putting them on.”

  In a low voice so as not to sound openly questioning of her superior officer in front of the rest of the bridge crew, Shelby murmured, “If you wanted to warn them, you could have fired at half-strength. Perhaps even fired across their path rather than an invasive direct strike.”

  “If I have a bow and arrow, Commander, I don’t shoot a padded shaft to my target’s left in order to express my annoyance. I fire a steel-tipped arrow into his leg. That’s my idea of a warning shot.”

  “You’re the Gandhi of the spaceways, Captain.”

  He smiled and then said, “Put me on with them, Boyajian.”

  “You’re on, sir.”

  ’This is Captain Calhoun of the Excalibur,” he said. “Identify yourselves and prepare to stand down from hostilities. Otherwise I can assure you that you will not leave this confrontation in one piece.”

  The screen shimmered for a moment, and the commander (presumably) of the opposing vessel appeared.

  Although distinguishing gender was frequently a bit problematic in any first encounter, the Excalibur’s opponent looked distinctly female. Moreover, by Earth standards she appeared almost angelic. She was hairless, her skin golden, her brow slightly distended in a manner that was—amazingly enough—still attractive. It was difficult to make out the color of her eyes, but when she tilted her head they seemed to glow with an almost purple sheen. When she spoke, her voice had a vibrato to it that gave it a somewhat musical quality.

  “I am Laheera of Nelkar,” she replied. “Do you wish to discuss terms of your surrender?”

  “Surrender?” Calhoun cast a skeptical glance at Shelby as if to say, Do you hear this? He looked back to Laheera. “You expect me—a Starfleet captain—to surrender my vessel on our maiden voyage to the first opponent who looks to pose a challenge? Sorry. That’s not my style.”

  “And is your style trespass, then? We know your type, Calhoun,” said Laheera. Her voice was such that, even when annoyed, she had a tone of amusement to her. “Our once-orderly sector is now subject to the attentions of scavengers and pirates. People who will take every opportunity to ravage us, to feed on helplessness. We must protect ourselves.”

  “I can appreciate that,” replied Calhoun, “but you’ve misjudged us. We’re here only to help.”

  “How do we know? Why, there is a transport vessel right n
ext to you that is empty and damaged. How do we know you haven’t picked it clean of whatever it might have had to offer?”

  “The transport vessel’s crew is aboard this ship. We were lending humanitarian aid. If you wish, I can have you speak to its captain and a delegation of its crew.”

  Laheera glanced to the side of the screen and murmured something, as if consulting with someone unseen. Then she looked back and said, “That would be acceptable.”

  “Give us five minutes. Calhoun out.” He didn’t even wait for the screen to blink off as he said, “Bridge to sickbay.”

  “Sickbay, Dr. Selar here,” came the crisp response.

  “Doctor, I’d like you to get Captain Hufmin and a couple of representatives of the Cambon passengers up here immediately. Whoever is healthiest and is qualified to speak on their behalf. And make it fast.”

  “Will three minutes suffice?”

  “Make it two. Calhoun out.” He promptly turned to Boyajian and said, “Can you raise the Marquand?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  “Good. Get me Si Cwan on subspace. I want to see what he knows about these ’Nelkar’ people.”

  He looked to Shelby and he knew what she was thinking. She was musing that if Calhoun hadn’t let Si Cwan and Zak Kebron head out in the runabout for the purpose of rendezvous with the ship Kayven Ryin, then he would be aboard the Excalibur now, in a position to be of some use. Shelby, however, was far too good an officer to voice those thoughts . . . at least, while other crewmen were around. So instead she nodded noncommittally and simply said, “Good plan, sir.”

  • • •

  “Zoran, it’s slowing down!”

  Aboard the Kayven Ryin, a group of Thallonians had been watching the approach of the Marquand with tremendous interest and smug excitement. For what seemed the hundredth time, Zoran had checked over his disruptor, making certain that the energy cartridge was fully charged. But with the alarmed shout from one of his associates, Rojam, Zoran tore himself away from his preoccupation with his weapon.

  Rojam was correct. The Marquand, dispatched by the Excalibur and bearing the unknowing target of Zoran’s interest—named Lord Si Cwan, former prince of the Thallonian Empire—had been proceeding at a brisk pace toward the Kayven Ryin.