New Frontier

by Peter David

  “They suspect,” muttered Rojam.

  “Do something, then,” snapped Zoran. “We can’t be this close to having Si Cwan in our hands, only to let him slip through our fingers now! I must have his throat in my hands, so that I can squeeze the life from him myself!” The other Thallonians nodded in agreement, which was hardly surprising. Whenever Zoran spoke, the others had a tendency to concur.

  Reactivating the comm channel, Rojam hailed the oncoming runabout. He tried not to sound nervous, apprehensive, or all that eager, although a little of any of that would have been understandable. After all, they were representing themselves as frightened, stranded passengers aboard a crippled science vessel. A degree of nervousness under the circumstances would be right in line with the scenario they were presenting. “Shuttle craft Marquand, is there a problem? You seem to be slowing.” He paused and then added, “Aren’t you going to help us?”

  There was no reply at first and another of the Thallonians, a shorter and more aggressive man named Juif, whispered, “Target them! Target them! Use exterior weapons and blast them into atoms! Hurry, before it’s too late!”

  “They’re at the outer edge of the firing range,” Zoran noted angrily. “We likely couldn’t do them any significant damage, and they’d still be in a position to get away. Hell, their instruments would probably inform them we’re locking on to them. They’d leap into warp space and be gone before we got a shot off.” The edge to his voice became more pronounced as he said in a threatening manner, “Rojam . . .”

  “They’re not responding.”

  “That is unacceptable. Get them on the line.”

  “But if they won’t respon—”

  Zoran’s large hand clamped down on the back of Rojam’s neck, and the latter felt as if his head was about to be torn from his shoulders. “Providence has delivered Si Cwan to us,” snarled Zoran, “and I will not have him escape. Now get them on the line!”

  Never had Rojam been more convinced that his demise was imminent. And then, as if in answer to unvoiced prayers, a gravelly voice came over the speaker. “This is Lieutenant Kebron of the Marquand. Sit tight, Kayven Ryin. We’re just dealing with a communique from our main vessel. Kebron out.”

  “Raise them again!” urged Zoran.

  “I can’t. The channel’s gone dead.”

  “If they get away,” Zoran said meaningfully, “that channel won’t be the only thing around here that’s dead.”

  • • •

  Si Cwan stroked his chin thoughtfully. “The Nelkarites, eh?”

  “You know them?” Calhoun’s voice came over the subspace radio. “Are they trustworthy?”

  “Nowadays, there are few in Sector 221-G whom I would consider absolutely trustworthy,” Si Cwan told him. “Relatively speaking, the Nelkar had been fairly harmless. Never started any wars, more than happy to accept Thallonian rule. However . . .”

  “However?” prompted Calhoun when the word seemed simply to dangle there.

  “Well . . . they’re a scavenger race, by and large. Fairly limited in their design and potential. They tend to cobble their vessels together from whatever they can find, using technology that they don’t always understand.”

  Soleta’s voice was audible over the link as she commented, “That would explain the somewhat haphazard design of their vessel.”

  “Does that answer your questions, Captain?” asked Si Cwan, not quite able to keep the urgency out of his voice. “Because if it’s all the same to you—”

  “Stay on station. Do not proceed to the Kayven Ryin until you hear back from us.”

  “But Captain—!”

  “I want to get matters sorted out on this end before you board that vessel, and I want to know I can get in touch with you. If the comm system on the Kayven Ryin goes out, you’ll be incommunicado.”

  “Captain—!” Si Cwan tried to protest.

  But Calhoun wouldn’t hear any of it. Instead he said preemptively, “Did you copy those orders, Lieutenant Kebron?”

  Without hesitation, Kebron said, “Understood, Captain.”

  “Excalibur out.”

  Making no attempt to cover his anger, Si Cwan sprang to his feet and slammed his fists into the ceiling of the shuttle craft. Kebron watched him impassively. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “I’m getting angry!” snapped Si Cwan. He began to pace the interior of the shuttle craft like a tiger. “Why, don’t you ever get angry?”

  “I try not to,” said Kebron evenly. “If I lose control, things tend to get broken.”

  “Things. What kinds of things,” demanded Si Cwan without much interest.

  “Oh . . . heads . . . backs . . . necks . . .”

  • • •

  Captain Hufmin of the damaged vessel Cambon, along with two of the refugees—a husband and wife named Boretskee and Gary, who had developed into a kind of leaders-by-default—sat in the conference lounge with Calhoun and Shelby. On the screen was Laheera of Nelkar, and it was quite apparent to Calhoun that Hufmin and company were spellbound by her.

  “You understand that we were only concerned about the welfare of your passengers,” Laheera said to Calhoun in that wonderfully musical voice of hers. “Let us not lose sight of one simple truth: This is our sector of space. You are merely a visitor here. It is to our interest to watch out for one another. It is difficult to know whom to trust.”

  “Understood,” Calhoun said neutrally.

  “Captain Hufmin . . . I extend to you and your . . . cargo,” she seemed amused by the notion, “sanctuary on Nelkar. We welcome you with open arms.”

  Boretskee and Gary looked at each other with undisguised joy and relief. “We accept your offer,” they said.

  “Excellent. I shall inform my homeworld.” The screen shimmered and she was gone.

  “Now, wait a minute,” said Shelby. “Are you quite certain about this?”

  “Commander, we are not pioneers,” Gary replied.

  “We are not intrepid adventurers like yourselves. We’re just trying to survive, that’s all. Whether we survive on their world or somewhere outside of the Thallonian Empire, what difference does it make?”

  “Isn’t there an old Earth saying about any port in a storm?” Hufmin reminded them.

  “Yes, and there’s also one about fools rushing in,” said Calhoun.

  Boretskee bristled a bit. “I can’t say I appreciate being considered a ’fool,’ Captain.”

  “I didn’t say that—”

  Gary cut in. “We are grateful to you for all you’ve done for us. You saved our lives. For that our next generation of children will be named for you. But, Captain,” and Cary gestured as if trying to encompass the whole of the galaxy, “this environment you sail through—space—you’re comfortable in it. You’ve made your peace with it. But myself, Boretskee, the others in our group . . . we’re not space-faring types. This vacuum . . . it presses on us. Intimidates us. We almost died in it. If the Nelkarites offer us safe escort and a life on their world, we’ll happily embrace it.”

  Hufmin took in both Shelby and Calhoun with a bland shrug. “Look . . . I’m just a hired gun here. They’re the passengers. Barring desires that run contrary to the safety of my vessel, I’m obligated to take them where they want to go.’’

  “Perhaps. But I’m not,” Calhoun said.

  They looked at him, a bit appalled. “Captain . . . you wouldn’t,” said Boretskee.

  “I have to do what I think is right. And I’m loath to thrust you into a potentially dangerous situation . . .”

  “We’re already in a potentially dangerous situation,” Gary pointed out. “We’re in the depths of space. That’s dangerous enough as far as we’re concerned. It almost killed us once. We have no desire to give it a second opportunity.”

  “With all respect, Captain, this shouldn’t be your decision,” Boretskee said.

  “With all respect, sir . . . that is precisely what it is,” replied Calhoun. He rose from his seat and turned aw
ay from them, his hands draped behind his back. “I’ll let you know what I decide presently. That will be all.”

  “Now wait one minute—”

  “I believe, sir, that the captain said that would be all,” Shelby said calmly, her fingers interlaced on the table in front of her. “Temporary quarters have been set up to house you and your fellow passengers. Perhaps the time could be well spent discussing your options with them . . . just in the event that you’re not all of the same mind.”

  “Apparently what we decide is irrelevant,” said Boretskee challengingly. His fists were tightly clenched; it was clear that he was a bit of a scrapper, just waiting for Calhoun to react in some aggressive manner. When Calhoun did not even turn, however, Boretskee continued angrily, “Wouldn’t you say so, Captain?”

  Calhoun turned to look at him, and his purple eyes were as sympathetic as a black hole. “Yes. I would.” The air turned more frigid with each word.

  To his credit, Boretskee didn’t seem inclined to back down. But Gary headed off any continuing hostility as she tugged on Boretskee’s arm and he allowed himself to be led out of the room. Captain Hufmin paused at the door long enough to say, “Look, Captain . . . I don’t give a damn either way. I’m making almost no money on this job as it is. But for what it’s worth, these are people who have lost everything. Be a shame if they lost their self-respect, too.”

  Shelby waited until the moment that Hufmin was gone and out of earshot, and then she said to Calhoun, “It’s not your choice, you know.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Pardon?”

  “Regs are clear on this. These people know where they want to go. You don’t have any conceivable grounds upon which to overrule their desire.”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “That being?”

  “Mygut.”

  She leaned back, arms folded. “Your gut,” she said, unenthused. “Funny. I don’t remember reading about that in my Intro to Regs class back at the Academy. Guts, I mean.’ “

  “Nelkar smells wrong.”

  “First your stomach, now your nose. Are you a Starfleet captain or a gourmet?”

  And to her utter surprise, he slammed the conference table with an iron fist. The noise startled her and she jumped slightly, but quickly composed herself. And just as quickly as she reined herself in, so did Calhoun. “I’m dealing with subtleties, Commander. Regulations aren’t created for subtleties. They’re created as sweeping generalizations to handle all situations. But not every situation.”

  “And it can’t be that every situation, you do whatever the hell you want. Nor can it be that you let your frustration get to you so quickly and so easily.”

  “I’m not frustrated,” Calhoun said. “I simply know what I know. And what I know is that Nelkar seems off. I don’t trust Laheera.”

  “Be that as it may, Mac . . . do you want to be a dictator? With your history, do you feel comfortable with that label?”

  He smiled thinly. “You always know just what to say.”

  “Long practice.” She sauntered toward him, stopping several feet away. “Look, Mac . . . for what it’s worth, I respect your gut, your nose . . . all your instincts. But that has to be balanced against conducting ourselves in an orderly fashion. We’re the only Starfleet vessel out here. We’re here at a time of disarray. We have to stand for something, and we can’t simply come in and throw our weight around. It’s patronizing; don’t you see that?”

  “Yes, I see that. By the same token, should I deliberately allow people to go into a dangerous situation when I can prevent them from doing so?”

  She was silent for a long moment. “You mean like with the captain of the Grissom?”

  With a deep sigh, Calhoun told her, “Eppy . . . you know I admire you. Respect you. Still have deep feelings for you, as much as I hate to admit it . . . although certainly not romantic, God knows . . .”

  “Of course not,” she quickly agreed.

  “But so help me, if you bring up the Grissom again, I may become violent.”

  “Really. Try it and I’ll kick your ass. Sir.”

  And he laughed. “You know . . . I’ll bet you could, at that.” But then he became serious again. “Very well, Commander. But this will be done on my terms.”

  “Your terms being . . . ?”

  For reply, he tapped his comm unit. “Bridge . . . open a hailing frequency to the Nelkar ship. Pipe it down here.”

  Within moments Laheera was smiling at them in that beatific manner she had. “Greetings,” she said. “Are you preparing to transport your charges over to our ship?”

  “Actually,” replied Calhoun, “I was anticipating that we would transport them ourselves, if it is all the same to you.”

  Shelby looked from Calhoun to Laheera, trying to get some hint of her state of mind. But if Laheera seemed at all disconcerted by Calhoun’s statement, she did not give the slightest sign. “That would be perfectly acceptable. I will send you the coordinates for our homeworld. Laheera out.”

  When she blinked out, Shelby asked, “What about the Cambon? We can’t haul it along at warp speed.”

  “We’ll cut her loose and leave her here to drift until we come back for her,” he said after a moment’s thought. “Considering the condition she’s in, I hardly think we have to worry about scavengers.”

  “Bridge to Captain Calhoun,” came McHenry’s voice.

  “Calhoun here.”

  “Captain, we’ve gotten coordinates for Nelkar.” He paused. “Were we expecting them?”

  “Yes, we were. Warp five would get us there when, Mr. McHenry?”

  “At warp five? Two hours, ten minutes, sir. They’re not all that far.”

  Shelby commented, “Considering their own vessel isn’t exactly the most advanced I’ve seen, I can’t say I’m surprised. That still leaves us with one outstanding problem.”

  “Yes, I’m quite aware of that. McHenry, set course for Nelkar, warp five. Then have Mr. Boyajian patch me through to the Marquand. Let’s make sure we’re not leaving them in the lurch.”

  “You’re making the right decision, sir,” said Shelby.

  “I’m so relieved that you approve, Commander.” He grimaced. “My only problem is . . . you know that unpleasant feeling I’ve got about the Nelkarites?”

  “Yes?”

  “Well . . . now I’m starting to get it about the Marquand and its rendezvous with the Kayven Ryin. I hope that wasn’t a mistake as well.”

  “Captain, if you keep second-guessing your judgments, you’re going to make yourself insane.”

  “Why, Commander . . . I thought you decided I was insane the day I broke off our engagement.”

  And with a contemptuous chuckle, she said, “Captain . . . I hate to inform you . . . but I broke it off. Not you.” She strode out of the conference lounge, leaving an amused Calhoun shaking his head. But then the amusement slowly evaporated as the reality set in.

  He didn’t like the situation. Not at all.

  For years he had basically been his own boss. He had answered to no one except, in a very distant manner, Admiral Nechayev. He had been bound by no rules except those of common sense, and made decisions that were answerable only to himself. It had been an extremely free manner in which to operate.

  But now . . , now he had rules hanging over him whichever way he turned. He had operated under rules before, yes . . . but he had been the one making the rules. Back when he’d been a freedom fighter on his native Xenex, his wiles and craftiness had earned him the respect of those around him and they obeyed him. They obeyed him unthinkingly, unhesitatingly. Had he told them to throw themselves on their swords, they would have done so with the firm conviction that there was a damned good reason for it.

  But that wasn’t the case here. Yes, he was captain. Yes, he was obeyed. But that obedience came as a result of a long tradition and history that dictated that obedience. They answered to the rank, not to him. When it came to he himself, he could sense that there were still double-takes or
second thoughts. His crew—Shelby in particular—gave thought to his orders, questioned him, challenged him. It irked him, angered him.

  And yet . . . and yet . . .

  Shouldn’t that really please him? Shouldn’t that be something that made him happy rather than disconcerted him? After all, he had lived in an environment where blind obedience was expected as a matter of course, and punished if not given. The Xenexians had lived under the thumb of the Danterians, and during that time the Danterians had not been exactly reluctant to show who was boss at any given moment. They had unhesitatingly used the Xenexians as their objects, their toys, their playthings to dispose of at a whim or exploit as they saw fit. Young M’k’n’zy of Calhoun had seen those activities and a cold fury had built within him. Built and built until it had exploded into rebellion, and through sheer force of will he had brought an entire race with him.

  Yes, he had indeed seen firsthand the dangers of requiring unquestioned obedience. At the same time, he was frustrated that the same rules under which he oftentimes felt constricted were what guaranteed that his own people would do what he told them to. He wanted more than that.

  Time, a voice in his head consoled him. These things required time. He had always been impatient, always wanted everything at whatever moment he wanted it. It was an attitude that had, in the past, stood him in good stead. When tribal elders had told him that someday, someday in the far future, the Xenexians would be free, young M’k’n’zy had not settled for that. “Someday” was too ephemeral, too useless a concept for him. He wanted “someday” to be right then and there. He would make his own “somedays.”

  He smiled at the absurdity of it all. Despite everything he’d gone through, everything he’d seen, there was still an impatient young Xenexian within him who did not understand the need for patience. A young Xenexian who wanted everything immediately, and who had no use whatsoever for “someday.”

  He tapped his comm badge. “Calhoun to Shelby.”

  “Shelby here,” came the prompt reply.