by Peter David
“Trust me, the odds of my thinking that are minuscule at best.”
She nodded and then said, “From all accounts, some sort of massive surge of energy leaped out of the conn station and lanced through Mr. McHenry. Morgan Primus ...”
“Also known as Morgan Lefler ... Robin Letter’s mother.”
“I know who she is, Captain,” said Selar with raised eyebrow. “Morgan Lefler endeavored to intercept the energy surge, and was killed instantly. I could not say for certain, however, that McHenry was killed as well. I do not know whether the blast of energy drove his life from his body ... or if his life was pulled from his body before the blast struck.”
Calhoun shook his head in confusion. “Isn’t that just semantics?”
“I do not know,” she said, and pushed a strand of stray hair from her face. She was actually starting to look as if the pressure of the situation was weighing upon her. “I simply ... feel as if I am missing something.”
“What are you missing?”
“If I knew the answer to that, Captain, then I would no longer be missing it,” she replied matter-of-factly, and with the air of someone who did not suffer fools gladly. “All I know is that something is not right with McHenry’s body. It is as if ...”
“As if time has frozen around it somehow?”
She considered that, looking as if she wanted to dismiss the notion out of hand owing to its inherent absurdity, but at the same time finding a measure of explanation there. “Somewhat ... yes. The effect is not dissimilar from a medical cellular stasis field. But such things cannot be generated by nature.”
“Doctor,” Calhoun said tiredly, “we are part of nature. You and I and everyone on this ship. Nature made us. We are capable of generating it. Therefore, nature can generate it. It’s just that, until now, it’s been done with mechanical aids. But if something can be done with mechanical aids, then it stands to reason that the possibility exists it could be done without them as well.”
Selar considered that. “Interesting, Captain. There are times where you would make a passable Vulcan.”
“Thank you.”
“There are some who would not consider that a compliment.”
“I choose to take it in the spirit it was meant. So ... what do we do with Mr. McHenry?”
“I will be moving him to a separate, private observation room,” Selar said, studying him thoughtfully. “Nothing is to be gained by having him continue to remain here. It is disconcerting to the other patients.” She eyed him. “Captain, you may want to consider some rest for yourself.”
“I’m fine,” he said dismissively. “What are you doing?”
She was holding up a medical tricorder and aiming it in his direction. “In addition to my observations of your having sustained multiple contusions and lacerations, you have also a broken rib, a hairline fracture of the clavicle, and a mild concussion ...”
“I’m Xenexian, Doctor,” said Calhoun. “I can take a lot more punishment than humans ... or Vulcans, for that matter.”
“I think it would be wise,” she said, “if you did not inflict an excessive amount of punishment upon yourself in order to prove that point.”
“What does that mean?”
“I believe the statement speaks for itself.”
Before he could push it further, his combadge beeped. He tapped it. “Calhoun here.”
“Captain, this is Burgoyne,” came the voice of the Hermat first officer. “You wanted a shipwide status meeting as soon as we had in reports from all decks and departments. If you would—”
“Burgy?” said a puzzled Calhoun, firing a look at Selar. Her face was impassive. “What the hell are you doing on duty? You have a broken leg. You should be up here. Why isn’t s/he up here?” he demanded of Selar.
Before Selar could reply, Burgoyne said, “Selar treated me and I felt it imperative I return to duty.”
Calhoun let out an impatient sigh. “Fine. Department heads in the conference lounge in—”
“The conference lounge was badly hit, sir. Recommend the team room.”
“Fine. Team room in twenty minutes. And after that, Burgy, bed rest for you. That’s an order.”
“Aye, sir. Burgoyne out.”
Calhoun ended the connection and shook his head. “Running around with a broken leg. What is s/he thinking?”
“Have you considered the likelihood, Captain,” Selar pointed out, “that my mate is using you as a role model for how s/he is expected to conduct hirself.”
Calhoun looked at her in surprise. “You know, Doctor ... I could be wrong, but I believe that’s the first time you’ve ever referred to Burgoyne as ‘your’ anything.”
“I still make certain, Captain, that it does not recur,” she said archly.
He turned away, but instead of heading to the team room, he crossed the sickbay and returned to a bed he’d visited when he’d first arrived there.
Moke, his adoptive son, was lying there, staring up into space. Calhoun’s heart went out to the boy, seeing how banged up he was. Apparently he had taken a spill down a Jefferies tube during all the commotion when the ship had been under attack. The boy had been brought into the sickbay convinced that he was never going to walk again, and Calhoun’s heart had been in his throat until it had been discovered that he’d just pinched a nerve in his spine. It hadn’t taken Selar long to set things right, but she was keeping him there a few hours more for observation.
The boy was staring fixedly up at the ceiling, and didn’t even seem aware that Calhoun was standing there. That concerned the captain greatly. He took Moke’s hand, listening to the steady thrum of the monitoring devices. “Moke? You’re going to be fine. Remember, I told you earlier, you’re going to be fine?”
Moke said nothing. Just continued to stare. Calhoun started to worry that, despite Selar’s earlier assurances, the boy had sustained some sort of brain damage. Then Calhoun caught a glimpse of his own reflection in the metal surface of the monitor. He looked as bedraggled as Selar had said. He hoped that hadn’t scared Moke. Doing his best to be of comfort, he squeezed Moke’s hand even more tightly. “Moke ... I know you had a scare. But really ... everything’s fine now.”
“No. It’s not.”
It was a very, very faint whisper that escaped from between the boy’s lips. He spoke with the air of someone who knew without reservation that matters were going to go from bad to worse, and was only trying to figure out just how to impart this information to others. “It’s not going to be fine. It’s going to be worse. A lot worse.”
“Who told you that?” Calhoun said with a faint tone of scolding.
Moke looked as if he wanted to answer, but wasn’t able to bring himself to do so. Prodding a bit more determinedly, Calhoun repeated, “Come on, Moke. Who told you that, huh?”
“Nobody. I just know. The Dark Man wouldn’t be here if everything was going to be all right.”
Calhoun had no idea what the boy was talking about. He leaned in closer to Moke. “What Dark Man? What are you talking about ... ?”
But Moke would not respond, and not all the urging from Calhoun could get him to do so. So it was that Calhoun left sickbay feeling as if he knew even less than when he’d arrived ... and with the uncomfortable sensation that something he didn’t understand could turn out to prove very, very dangerous.
II.
Robin Lefler paced the shattered bridge of the Excalibur, watching in mounting frustration as Ensign Beth labored under the still-sparking remains of the conn station. The monitor screen, which had gone on and off line repeatedly since the battle had concluded, was back on at the moment. However, the view of the starfield before them was still a bit fuzzy, as was the view of the Trident.
She still couldn’t quite believe the timing of it. When she’d been aboard the Trident, on her way back to the Excalibur, she had thought nothing could distract her from the foul mood enveloping her since Si Cwan had elected to remain on Danter. The entire voyage back, she had done nothing
but dwell on his lack of gratitude, on his frustrating inability to realize her interest in him, and now ... this? To try and restore the Thallonian Empire? Had he learned absolutely nothing in his stay aboard the Excalibur? Well, obviously not. Obviously not.
But she had been startled from her ennui by the call to battle stations that had been sounded in the Trident upon her approach to the Excalibur. Since she’d been aboard merely as a passenger rather than an officer, she didn’t have a battle station per se. Consequently, she’d felt an overwhelming sense of helplessness, particularly when she’d realized that it was her home ship that was under attack. She’d stood at the deserted Ten-Forward (since the recreation area obviously wasn’t heavily populated at times of crisis) and stared out the window in fixed astonishment as she’d witnessed the Excalibur, punctured, battered, saucer separated from the main hull and both of them badly injured, under attack by ...
She still couldn’t wrap herself around it.
And then the call had come in ... the call about ...
She looked at the ops station, which had been occupied by her mother such a short time ago, and all she could think of was how she had resented Morgan because of it. Her mother had subbed in for her, and it had angered her. All she could reflect upon was the time wasted through harsh words and ...
She pushed it away, unable to deal with it, and instead focused her irritation on the hapless Ensign Beth. “What’s the problem here?” she demanded finally.
“I’m working on it,” Beth said testily, craning her neck out from under the unit. Her face was as smeared with grime and soot as anyone else’s, and her normally curly hair had flattened out from the sweat that was dripping off her. There was an array of tools to her right.
“That’s what you keep saying. That’s what you’ve been saying .... !”
The others on the bridge were going about their tasks as best they could, but the dispute over by the conn station was starting to catch their interest. “You think you could do better?” demanded Beth.
“I think a trained chimp could do better!”
Beth, infuriated, threw down the spanner she’d been holding and started to rise, but managed to strike her forehead on the underside of the conn station. She fell back as a thin stream of blood began to trickle down the side of her face. “Dammit!” she snarled.
“Oh, that’s perfect!” snapped Lefler. “That’s just—”
“That’s enough.”
Lefler didn’t have to turn to know that it was Soleta’s sharp voice that had intervened. The Vulcan science officer was approaching, moving with impressive grace over the debris, stepping around maintenance crew members who were in the process of clearing it away. “Do we have a problem, Lieutenant?” she demanded evenly of Lefler.
“ ‘We’ are less than satisfied with the speed that the repairs are being accomplished,” Lefler replied.
Beth was about to respond, but Soleta silenced her with a look. “That’s as may be, Lieutenant,” she said. “Ensign Beth, however, does not answer to you. She answers to Chief Engineer Mitchell. If you have any concerns—”
“But—”
Soleta spoke right over her. “—then I suggest you bring them to Mr. Mitchell, who will, I assume, give your complaint the deepest consideration right before he tells you to go to hell.”
Robin stepped in close, fuming, and the two women faced each other just before a loud, high-pitched whine filled the bridge and sent them clapping their hands to their ears. Soleta was the hardest hit, staggering, as her sensitive ears sent the science officer to her hands and knees. “What in the world is that?!” she called out.
Trying her best to shake it off, Robin made it over to the ops station. “It’s the ship’s computer!”
“Shut it down!”
“I can’t shut down the ship’s computer from ops! It has to be done at the computer core in engineering!”
“I know that!”
“Then why did you tell me to shut it down!”
“Because I can’t think!” shouted the obviously exasperated Soleta. “Bridge to enginee—”
And then, just like that, the noise stopped.
Robin sagged against ops, waiting for the ringing in her head to cease. Soleta eased herself into the command chair, putting her hands out to either side in a way that indicated that the world was whirling around her. “I did not need that,” she announced. “Beth ... run a systems analysis and full diagnostic immediately. If we have another virus in the computer, I will personally use the Vulcan death grip on whomever put it there.”
From over at the tactical station, apparently unfazed by the earsplitting sound that had been emanating from the computer moments before, Zak Kebron rumbled, “There’s no such thing as a Vulcan death grip.”
“I’ll invent one for the occasion,” replied Soleta.
Drawing in air unsteadily, Robin turned to Soleta and said, “Why have Ensign Beth run the systems diagnostic? I can do it ...”
“No. You cannot. Not in your current state of mind.”
Robin’s face colored; she felt the sting of blood rushing to her cheeks. “I don’t see who you are to ...”
“Robin,” Soleta replied, her voice imperturbable, “I am that deadliest of combinations: I outrank you, and I am your friend.”
“You’re my friend?” Robin said dryly.
Soleta seemed to shrug with her eyebrows. “In the sense that we see each other every day and I do not find your presence repulsive, yes.” Then, more softly, and with what seemed genuine sympathy, she said softly, “We’ve helped each other in the past, you and I. Believe it or not, I’m helping you now by telling you to get off the bridge and take some time. Take as much as you need.”
“I don’t—”
“You do. Go to your quarters. Go to the holodeck.”
“The holodeck. This is hardly the time for recreation.”
“Perhaps it’s exactly the time. Just ... go. Be anywhere but here. If a situation arises, I promise you that you will be summoned instantly.”
“But Soleta, I don’t think that ...”
“Robin,” sighed Soleta, “leave before I have Mr. Kebron carry you out bodily.”
“Can I?” inquired Zak. “I’m bored.”
“Fine,” Robin said in exasperation. Maintaining as much of her dignity as she could, she crossed quickly to the emergency stairs, since the turbolift had been unreliable at best. She clambered down and out of sight of the bridge ...
... and for a moment, she almost lost her grip on the ladder.
She wondered what could possibly have caused her to do so, and it was only at that point that she realized her body was seized with great, racking sobs. Desperate not to slip off, she threw her arms around the ladder, clutching it like a lover, and she dissolved into tears while chewing on her lower lip so as not to let her sobs echo up and down the passageway.
III.
Elizabeth Shelby was shocked at how wan and exhausted her husband, Mackenzie Calhoun, appeared.
She’d been sitting in the team room, along with Dr. Selar, Commander Burgoyne, Lieutenant Soleta, and Chief Engineer Mitchell. They all looked tired and shaken by what they’d been through, but that didn’t surprise the Trident captain particularly. They were all fine officers; she knew, having served with all of them. They’d had a hell of an experience, though, and she couldn’t blame them at all for looking tired, even a bit forlorn.
She was not expecting it from Calhoun, however. It wasn’t simply that he was her husband and therefore she anticipated a certain level of performance from him. It was because, in all the years she’d known him, he was one of the most unflappable people she’d ever encountered. Not only did stress and difficulty not impede him, but he actually seemed to thrive on it.
Not this time, however. When Calhoun entered, there was a haunted look in his face, in his eyes, such as she had never seen. He covered it very quickly; when the others began to rise in response to his entrance, he gestured for them to remai
n seated with as much calm and control as he always displayed. They’d never have known there was anything wrong. But Shelby did.
“Thank you for coming, Captain,” he said with impressive formality. She’d been expecting his typical, offhand “Eppy,” his abbreviation for “Elizabeth Paula.” He knew she hated it and derived perverse delight in employing it whenever possible. “And I should add,” he continued, “that the thank-you is on behalf of everyone aboard this ship ... or what’s left of this ship,” he added ruefully. Immediately he turned to Burgoyne and Mitchell. “Damage report.”
They proceeded to give him a blow-by-blow description of everything that was wrong with the Excalibur. It was a staggering list. The Beings had done an astounding amount of damage, up to and including punching a hole in the saucer section that was sealed off by automatic forcefields. “With all of that,” Mitchell commented, shaking his head, “it’s a miracle we were able to rejoin the saucer and hull sections as smoothly as we did.”
It had seemed a good idea, a smart tactical move. Separate the saucer from the main hull and then fly both into battle, with Calhoun (and Morgan Lefler assisting) employing a new holographic technology that enabled them to be on both the saucer section and the battle bridge of the main hull. Unfortunately, it had backfired ... or else it simply had not been enough. The damage sustained by both vessels had shorted out the holotech, and things had gone downhill from there. ...
Maybe it wouldn’t have if you’d been there.
As Mitchell and Burgoyne continued their report, it was all Shelby could do to banish such thoughts from her mind. Calhoun was a brilliant captain, leader, and tactician. There was no reason whatsoever to think that, if she’d been along for the ride, she would have been able to accomplish what he hadn’t.
Except you did. They ran when you showed up. ...
“Only because I had another starship,” she said.
That brought conversation screeching to a halt as they all look at her in bewilderment. “I ... beg your pardon, Captain?” asked Burgoyne.
