by Peter David
“You’re saying it’s none of my business.”
“No. You’re saying that.” S/he paused and then added, “I’m just thinking it.”
Calhoun looked back to Kebron. “Source, Mr. Kebron?”
“Ensign Janos,” Kebron said after a moment’s hesitation. “Felt I should know.”
“Hmmm,” said Calhoun. “Well, he’s certainly a dependable enough man ... or being, I’m never entirely sure what to think of him as, actually.” He scratched his smooth chin thoughtfully, missing the beard that he had shaved clean by popular request. With nothing of substance to do in drydock, the crew had amused itself during copious downtime by taking polls. The only thing the crew of the Excalibur seemed to agree on, nearly to one hundred percent accord, was that he should lose the beard. Calhoun had acquiesced, and a party had been held in his honor. It had been a damned good party and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten quite as drunk. But he was still nostalgic for the whiskers. “How did he find out?”
“He keeps his ear to the ground,” said Kebron.
Burgoyne nodded. “That would certainly explain his odd posture.”
“All right,” Calhoun said. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Kebron.”
Kebron was not one for words or sentiment. He tended to speak directly when he chose to speak at all, and he was not much for expressing sentiments of any sort. The matter-of-fact dismissal in Calhoun’s tone would normally be more than enough excuse for Kebron to depart, since face-to-face discussions and conferences were not his favorite thing. So Calhoun was duly surprised when Kebron moved toward him and rested his massive hands on the edge of Calhoun’s desk. In Calhoun’s imagination, the entire ship actually tipped slightly in Kebron’s direction due to the shift in weight.
“When I first started serving under you, Captain, I had very little patience with you,” Kebron said. “Frankly, I didn’t think much of you.”
Burgoyne and Calhoun exchange bewildered looks. “I think, for form’s sake, one generally prefaces a comment like that with ‘Permission to speak freely,’ ” Calhoun observed. “I invariably grant it, but it’s the thought that counts.”
As if Calhoun hadn’t even spoken, Kebron continued, “That’s changed over time. I’ve come to believe you to be a just individual. What those ... creatures,” and he said the word with more loathing and contained fury than either of them had ever heard from him, “did to this ship ... it must not be countenanced. We must find them. We must make them pay. You will make them pay for what they did to us, won’t you, Captain.” It was not exactly a line drawn in the sand, defying Calhoun to ignore the sentiment under pain of personal retribution. But neither was it posed as a question. Kebron wanted to know right then, right there.
Calhoun’s instinct, based upon protocol alone, was to inform Kebron that he had stepped way over the bounds of personal conduct. Even though Calhoun was extremely elastic in how he allowed his subordinates to address him, there were still rules and limits, and Zak Kebron had clearly exceeded them. He could dress him down, confine him to quarters, put him on report, even stick him in the brig if he was so inclined. Although, truthfully, the spectacle of security guards trying to haul Kebron to the brig if the powerful Brikar was disinclined to cooperate was not a particularly appealing image.
But Calhoun saw the fervency, the anger in Kebron’s eyes. The truth was, Calhoun had always thought that one of Kebron’s few weaknesses was the utter dispassion he brought to all his duties. His blasé nature often made it seem as if he didn’t care whether he did his job or not, although he invariably did it better than anyone else could. So Calhoun was reluctant to do anything that might extinguish these first buds of genuine passion for his work that might be blooming in Kebron.
As a consequence, Calhoun opted to walk a fine line. “On the record, Mr. Kebron,” said Calhoun, although it wasn’t as if he was actually keeping a record of the meeting, “I am not enthused with the manner in which you just addressed me. Another captain would have busted you back to ensign because of it. So keep that in mind. Off the record,” and slowly he nodded, “we’ll get the bastards. No one does that to my crew and my ship. No one. Not even the gods themselves. In this case, whom the gods themselves tried to destroy, they didn’t just make mad; they made fighting mad.”
“Good,” said Kebron with that approximation of a nod, and then he turned and walked out of the ready room.
“Where the hell did that come from?” Burgoyne demanded the moment Kebron was out of the ready room.
“I don’t know. He was never one for fervent discourse.” He tapped his fingers idly on the desk. “Talk to Soleta. She’s known him the longest. Perhaps she can shed some light on this. Oh ...” he added, with a smile. “Dr. Selar informed me of Soleta’s little stunt in sickbay. Officially, I’m required to disapprove of her actions. Unofficially, please convey to her my sentiment that her attempted mind-meld with McHenry took a lot of guts, and I admire her for it. According to Selar, Soleta actually managed to ... come into contact with him somehow. That single action has given us the first real cause for hope since this entire, hideous affair began. Tell her ... I appreciate it. But you didn’t hear it from me.”
“Yes, sir,” said Burgoyne, obviously amused. Then s/he grew serious again. “About Kebron ... about what you said to him ... about the gods making us fighting mad?”
Calhoun rose, smoothing his shirt. “I remember what I said, Burgy.” His sword from his days as a Xenexian warlord was hanging, as always, from its place of honor on the wall. He took it down, removed a soft cloth from his desk, and proceeded to polish the gleaming blade. “We’ve been laid up for weeks, Burgy. Last thing I heard was three days to finish everything up.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is that ironclad?”
“Pardon?” asked Burgoyne.
“Whatever needs to be done, can it be done in transit? On the way to, say, Danter.”
Burgoyne was clearly considering all that needed to be attended to. Then, thoughtfully, s/he nodded. “It’s possible, Captain. I wouldn’t advise it.”
“I wasn’t looking for advice, Burgy. Just a simple yes or no.”
“Yes,” Burgoyne said briskly.
“Good. Inform Chief Mitchell down in engineering to fire up the engines. We’re taking her out for a spin.”
“For a spin, sir?” said Burgoyne with a look of caution in hir face. “Or for vengeance?”
Calhoun was halfway around the desk when Burgoyne spoke, but he paused and leaned against the side. “You disapprove?” he asked, folding his arms.
“It is not for me to approve or disapprove.”
“You disagree.”
“Captain, I had a firsthand view of the threat the Beings pose,” said Burgoyne reasonably. “Believe me, if they had one great heart, I would rip it out and personally devour it.”
“Your sentiments are appreciated, if not your cuisine choices.”
“But,” continued Burgoyne, “I believe there may be issues at work here that you haven’t considered ... not the least of which is that Trident may see this as an encroachment.”
“I’m aware of that, Burgy,” said Calhoun with a mildly regretful sigh.
“And that doesn’t concern you?”
“Yes. It concerns me. But Burgy ... I didn’t trust the Danteri from the get-go. They subjugated my people. They always have other motives. And the Beings were malevolent rather than beneficent. McHenry saw right through them.”
“McHenry said they were not to be trusted, and only then was the assault started,” Burgoyne reminded him.
“What are you saying? That the attack was McHenry’s fault?”
“No. It likely would have come sooner or later anyway. But his sentiments likely triggered it. I’m simply saying, Captain,” s/he continued quickly when s/he saw the increasing clouding of Calhoun’s face. “I’m simply saying that Captain Shelby, considering her lack of personal animus with the Beings, might be the idea
l choice of officer to be on the scene at Danter.”
“You’re right, Burgy. She might be.” Then his face hardened. “But she might not. And I’m not interested in playing the odds. Not when my presence can double them in our favor. Now ... let’s get this boat under way.”
II.
Robin Lefler was seated at her ops station, moving her hands slowly over the totally rebuilt surface of the controls. There was no trace of the damage that had been done during the attack. It was almost as if the assault by the Beings were imaginary. If the evidence was gone, it was just that much easier to sweep the reality away into the farthest recesses of recollection.
Well, that was why she had wanted to get rid of the holoimage of her mother, wasn’t it? As selfish as that had been? By banishing that ... that thing from existence, it would be that much easier for Robin to avoid thinking about her. Just toss her from her mind, erase any feelings of hurt or love or ... or anything. Just be nice and blissfully numb over the loss of the one individual in her life whom she had never known quite how to relate to.
On the screen in front of her was the steady image of Starbase 27 as they continued their leisurely orbit around it. Her gaze wandered from the rather boring view over toward the conn station. Fully repaired, gleaming and new, it nevertheless looked pitifully empty. In addition to McHenry, two backup navigation officers had been killed during the attack of the Beings. Naturally there were crewmen who could fill in in a pinch, but Starfleet had dispatched two new officers to cover the day and night shifts. They were expected to arrive within the next three days.
Devereaux was finishing some work at the tactical station, as Zak Kebron stood near and glowered down at him. It was obviously distracting the hell out of Devereaux, but he lacked the nerve to say anything about it. She couldn’t entirely blame him; Kebron could be a daunting figure when he wanted to be. Or even when he didn’t want to be.
Then Devereaux looked up as the door to the captain’s ready room slid open. “Captain on the bridge,” he barked out.
The rest of the crew had long since given up sending odd looks Devereaux’s way. There were indeed some Starfleet captains who preferred the ceremonial announcement whenever the top-ranked commanding officer set foot on the bridge. But Calhoun’s priorities did not lie in that direction. The first time Devereaux had bellowed the proclamation, Calhoun had told him quite politely that it wasn’t necessary. That everyone in the place had eyes and could see him just fine.
Devereaux, equally politely, had told him that—the way he was raised in a family that had followed a tradition of Starfleet service for two centuries—there was simply no option. He had sworn to Calhoun that he would try to restrain himself. Sometimes he managed to refrain from saying it at all, and other times he said it softly. Every so often, though, he just had to let it out. Calhoun simply shrugged it off. Lefler had even begun to suspect that—on some level—the captain kind of liked it. At the very least, he seemed to get a kick out of the way everyone looked at Devereaux.
Instead of heading to the captain’s chair, Calhoun stopped a few feet from the exit of the ready room and said, “Mr. Devereaux ... three hours ago you told me your work on the computer core would be completed. Because I’m a generous sort of fellow, I’ve given you three hours and two minutes. Where do we stand?”
“We stand completed, Captain,” said Devereaux briskly. “The entire system has been stripped down, flushed out, buffed up, and is ready to go. And without so much as the loss of a single operating system for so much as a minute.”
“There are fewer great satisfactions than that of self,” Calhoun replied solemnly.
For her part, Robin felt a distinct sinking sensation. She felt ... unclean. Ungrateful. Hell, she had to be candid with herself: Even though she knew there was no basis in fact to feel that way, it was as if she had somehow condemned her mother to death with her own hand.
“All right then,” said Calhoun after a moment. “Impress me, Mr. Devereaux.”
“Computer,” Devereaux called.
Without a moment’s hesitation, the computer voice filtered through the bridge. “Working.”
The voice was jolting for Robin. She’d never fully realized, now that Morgan was gone, just how much the computer voice—even under normal circumstances—sounded like her. She’d noted a resemblance in the past, but now ... now it felt as if the same woman was speaking.
Devereaux looked to Calhoun expectantly. Calhoun merely shrugged, waiting. So Devereaux said, “Computer: List all ships currently active in Starfleet registry.”
“Specify order: Alphabetically by ship name, in order of date of registry, or numerically by registration number.”
Devereaux started to respond, but Calhoun cut in and said quietly, “Computer, you choose.”
The computer proceeded to rattle off with crisp, cool, and monotone efficiency every starship, transport, troop ship ... everything that had a Starfleet registration number. It listed them alphabetically, beginning with the Adelphi. By the time it got to the Ellison, Calhoun had obviously heard enough and made a throat-cutting gesture.
But there was something going on that Lefler couldn’t quite understand. She saw a look of quiet contemplation on Calhoun, as if he was comprehending something that was simply not obvious to Robin Lefler at all.
“Computer, begin running diagnostic checks on all systems. Report when completed.” He turned to Calhoun and said, “Satisfied, Captain?” But even Devereaux seemed a bit puzzled by something.
Then Lefler realized what it was, or at least she thought she did. It was exceedingly odd that the computer had responded at all when Calhoun had given it a choice of what order to list the vessels. It really should have said “Unable to comply” or “Specification required.” Still, it was entirely possible that there was simply some sort of default program or setting.
“Computer,” Calhoun said suddenly, “access personnel file,” and his gaze swiveled over to Robin, “Lieutenant Robin Lefler.”
“Accessing,” the computer said without hesitation.
Lefler frowned, not understanding at all what the purpose of this was.
“Captain ... ?” said Devereaux, also clearly bewildered.
Calhoun ignored him. “Computer ... read out the entirety of Robin Lefler’s personal medical history. All details. Then her psych profile. All details. As a matter of fact,” he continued, “access her personal log. Read that out, too. Begin with that.”
Robin’s cheeks flushed bright red. “Captain!” she said in shock.
“Captain Calhoun, I must protest,” said Devereaux. “There’s many other ways to test computer efficiency!”
“Captain, I respectfully agree,” Soleta said, casting a look toward Robin. “This is a most intrusive ...”
But Burgoyne turned and said, “Soleta ... it’s all right.” She looked visibly surprised for a moment in response, but said nothing further.
In the meantime, curiously, the computer had not carried out its ordered function. “Computer,” Calhoun said, and he strolled toward the center of the bridge, arms draped casually behind his back. “Execute orders.”
“Medical records accessible only to chief medical officer. Personal recorded material is under confidential seal,” the computer said after a moment’s more hesitation. “Access denied.”
A sigh of relief escaped from Robin, but Calhoun didn’t appear fazed. “Computer, I am employing command override priority One Zero Zero Zero One. Execute my orders. Let’s all hear Robin Lefler’s most personal, intimate thoughts.”
Robin braced herself.
The computer was silent.
“Computer,” said Calhoun with a warning tone. “Don’t make me come in there. Execute my orders, override priority One Zer—”
“You bastard,” the computer said.
There was startled gasps from throughout the bridge, but Calhoun simply laughed.
“Captain!” an alarmed Devereaux squeaked out. “I ... I didn’t instruct it t
o—!”
“Mr. Devereaux,” Calhoun sighed, walking over to tactical and resting a hand on Devereaux’s shoulder, “you may know computers. But I know people. And one person I knew—Morgan Lefler—was not someone who was of a sort to go gently into that good night. Morgan! Front and center. That is an order, and this one I definitely am expecting to be obeyed.”
The computer screen wavered, and then the image seemed to dissolve into bits and pieces, billions of dots floating on the monitor for a heartbeat before snapping back together and reassembling into a familiar, and somewhat annoyed, visage. Robin jumped back in her seat, her jaw dropping, as her mother looked out at them from the screen.
“With all respect, Captain, you are some piece of work,” she said in obvious annoyance.
“This is impossible!” Devereaux cried out.
“And yet, here we all are,” said an amused Calhoun.
“I could have stayed hidden within the computer indefinitely,” Morgan said. Behind her was a background that was an exact replica of the bridge of the Excalibur. She had obviously conjured it at a whim. It was so realistic that Robin half thought she would be able to turn around and see her mother standing directly behind her shoulder. “Kept things running without a hitch. You’d never have known.”
“Morgan, you masked your presence from me for about two minutes,” Calhoun pointed out. “I don’t think long term would really have been an option, do you?”
“Captain, you don’t understand,” Devereaux said, his voice practically trembling with frustration. “I’m one of the top people from Daystrom! No one alive could have been more thorough than I was. What we’re seeing here, this is ... this can’t be occurring. There’s no way the personality of Morgan Lefler would have been able to withstand the rebooting of the computer.”
“I can see your point, Devereaux,” said Calhoun, sounding quite reasonable. “But I look at it from a different point of view. The way I see it, we haven’t yet developed the equipment that can overcome the sheer force of willpower, human or otherwise. Early man knew beyond question the world was flat and sailing too far would send you off the edge ... yet some explorers found it to be different. Heisenberg would have told you that, by his uncertainty principles, a matter transporter cannot possibly exist ... yet it does. Einstein would easily explain why faster-than-light travel is an absurdity ... yet here we are.
