by Peter David
Kebron looked around with faint impatience, having finished his drink some minutes ago and not having seen the waitress since. “Perhaps you could work here. They’re apparently short on help.”
“Thank you for your suggestion, Kebron,” said Si Cwan, controlling his mirth with relative ease. “And what will you do during your ‘downtime.’ A shame paper is a thing of the past in your society; you could serve as a weight for stacks of it.”
“I have my plans,” he said vaguely.
“And they would be—?”
“Mine.”
They all knew better than to try and pursue that line of conversation. “Well, the truth is, my mother will be thrilled,” said Lefler. “She said she wouldn’t mind having some nice time off. And she also said that she thought it would be a good chance to reestablish mother/daughter bonds. For us to get to really, truly get to understand each other.”
“Do you think she’s right?” asked Shelby.
Lefler shrugged. “Who ever knows what’s going through that woman’s head?” She turned to McHenry. “What about you, Mark?”
“I don’t know what’s going through her head.”
“No, I mean what are you going to do? In the off time?”
“Oh.” He spread his hands wide and said, “I’m just going to be a bum. Not do anything of consequence. Not think about anything.”
“Is that possible for you?” asked Soleta. “Your mind always seems to be moving, whether you want it to or not. I’ve known you for nearly two decades and I don’t believe you’re capable of not thinking about anything.”
“Thanks, I’m flattered . . . I guess. Perhaps,” he said thoughtfully, “I’ll catch up on cartoons.”
“On what?” Soleta looked at him blankly. There were puzzled expressions on the part of just about everyone else.
“Cartoons. Ensign Janos showed some to me. He managed to find some ancient holovids, some transfers that were done. Drawings that are given a semblance of life via slight variance of drawings in—”
“I know technically what they are, McHenry,” said Shelby. “I’m just not sure how and why they’d be of interest.”
“I like to think about the universe, Commander,” McHenry said with a wry grin. “Think about how it all fits together. But a cartoon universe opens up a whole new world of possibilities. The laws of physics don’t seem to be terribly involved. Is it because they exist in a world of chaos . . . or is it that there are indeed laws, but they’re different ones? And if one believes in those laws, can they be applied to the real world? Are laws and rules physical absolutes . . . or are they all in the mind? It’s an intriguing notion to pursue, don’t you think?” When Shelby stared at him blankly, he turned to Soleta. “Don’t you think so, Soleta?”
“No,” she said.
He looked at her with pity. “And you call yourself a scientist. So what are you going to do that’s so wonderful, then?”
“I will be going home,” said Soleta. “It is the fifth anniversary of my mother’s passing. I think it would be best if I were with my father at this time.”
There were murmurs of sympathy from around the table. Soleta inclined her head slightly. “Your condolences are appreciated, although not particularly essential. I have long since come to terms with her death. My being with my father will simply be a matter of courtesy.”
“Vulcans are very fortunate,” said Shelby. “That you can compartmentalize that way. Just . . . decide to move on and do so. Humans aren’t quite that tidy. We can’t control how long we mourn.”
“Yes, you can. You simply choose not to,” said Soleta.
Shelby looked at her curiously. “You’re telling me that you can just . . . decide when to stop missing someone? You’re saying that you can simply decide that you won’t miss . . . him,” and she indicated the empty chair with a tilt of her head. “Just take that initiative, make that call. Decide that today you will mourn, tomorrow you won’t? You can really do that?”
“You sound surprised, Commander,” Selar stepped in. “You must comprehend relative perceptions of such matters. To us, our ability to do just as you describe is not at all difficult to understand. What is difficult to understand is why you cannot do the same. Mourning is not like a disease that must be treated and has a life of its own. You do it until you decide not to, and then you move on.”
“It’s not quite as easy as that,” Shelby said quietly.
“Yes. Actually, it is.”
And suddenly Shelby felt a hot flash of temper as she looked at the Vulcan doctor’s complacent expression. Her infant had fallen asleep in her arms and looked serene and peaceful, and for some reason the sight in its entirety angered Shelby tremendously.
“Tell me, then, Doctor, precisely how long you chose to mourn your husband? Was that a conscious, carefully prescribed period of mourning? Or did you just forget him seconds after he died, or minutes, or what—?”
“Oookay, this is getting out of hand,” Burgoyne said immediately, and it was clear that the others were starting to look uncomfortable.
“No,” Selar said to Burgoyne and the others. “No . . . it is a fair question. The answer, Commander, is precisely eight months, two weeks, and one day.”
Shelby stared at her. Selar’s Vulcan demeanor was utterly inscrutable.
And Shelby, in spite of herself, laughed. The others weren’t quite sure how to react, and then Selar shook her head but there seemed to be—just ever so slightly—the barest hint of upturned amusement at the edges of her mouth. Immediately there was a collective sigh of relief from around the table as Shelby said, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”
“You felt it was necessary to say. Therefore it was called for.” She didn’t seem especially perturbed. Then again, being a Vulcan, that should not have been a surprise.
“I guess I should envy you.”
“Envy is illogical. But I can see the reasoning for it,” Selar told her.
From then on, things proceeded more calmly. There were no more flare-ups, no outbursts, no exhibitions of temper. Instead there was simply a group of people, talking about this and that, occasionally laughing or kidding one another. It was a good feeling, a relaxed feeling. For a time, Shelby even felt as if she was with family. It was a sensation that she found most disconcerting, and she shoved it away because it represented to her something with which she simply did not want to deal.
After a time, conversation turned once more to Captain Calhoun. They began to trade stories and recollections, sometimes correcting each other, other times embellishing. On several occasions “improvements” were made upon tales that they already knew very well, and they were all perfectly aware that the add-ons had been made. But no one said anything at those times. Instead they would just look with reverence at the empty chair.
Finally Selar announced that it was time for her to leave, claiming fatigue. Burgoyne naturally departed with her, although Shelby could have sworn that Selar looked vaguely uncomfortable. And once they had left, it was as if a plug had been pulled from a drain. One by one, or occasionally in pairs, they departed. No one said anything about the likelihood that this was the last time they would all see each other. It was as if no one wanted to deal with it. So instead there were murmurs of “Later,” or “See you around,” or “Stay in touch.”
Shelby knew the routine all too well. There had always been other crews, other departures, and other promises that this time—this time—they would stay in touch. And they always meant it, really, truly, absolutely. There would even be efforts initially before—invariably—time passed and the communiqués from the old crew members stopped coming. Why? Out of sight, out of mind, that was why. There was a reason that old Earth sayings became old; it was because they were true.
There was no question in Shelby’s mind that she was going to be the last one out. What surprised her was that it came down to her and Soleta. For a time the young science officer sat in contemplative silence opposite her, and then she said, “Th
ose were interesting stories. About Captain Calhoun.”
“Yes. They were.”
“Many of them were not as I recalled them. There seemed to be a tendency to exaggeration.”
“I know,” Shelby said, smiling. “That’s how you build legends. You make them bigger and bigger, because people don’t like to believe in real life. They’re surrounded by real life; they don’t need regurgitation of what’s already around them. Legends are to give you something to aspire to. So you have to make them bigger than life.”
“I see. So that is to be the legacy of Captain Calhoun? Impossible exploits?”
“Well,” said Shelby thoughtfully, “the interesting thing is that, in Mac’s case, some of the things he did for real were so much bigger than life, that it doesn’t need all that much building up. His reality was . . . well . . .” She shrugged. “Surreal. Or maybe superreal. I don’t know. I’ve probably had too much to drink.” She swirled some liquid around in the bottom of her glass and came to the startled realization that she had forgotten what it was that she had poured for herself.
“Probably,” agreed Soleta. She gave it some more thought. “So do you approve of the truth or don’t you?”
“It’s not that simple, Soleta.”
“Sometimes it is, yes.” Her eyes narrowed. “You weren’t truthful with us.”
“I already explained. Talking about Mac, it—”
“Not about that. About why you do not wish to keep the command crew together . . . or at least, not together with you. The fact is that you do not like us.”
At first Shelby couldn’t say a word. Her mouth was moving, but nothing was coming out. Finally she relocated her voice and, mustering as much hurt as she could manage, said, “Soleta! How can you say that?”
“It is not difficult.”
“After all we’ve been through, how can you say that . . . I mean, it’s absurd.”
Soleta finished out the last of her own drink. “Commonality of experience, even purpose, does not dictate commonality of personalities. I do not think the less of you; you could not help it. The situation virtually dictated your frame of mind.”
“I’m not following . . .”
“You were brought aboard in order to make certain that the more maverick Captain Calhoun would act in a manner consistent with Starfleet protocol. His command style was different. His command choices were different. ‘Eccentric,’ to put it delicately. They were not the crew that you would have chosen. Therefore, by definition, you had a natural antipathy for them.”
“I think you’re way overstating it, Soleta.”
“Am I?”
She started to speak, then looked down, unable to meet Soleta’s gaze. “Well . . . maybe not too way overstating it. But somewhat. Besides, it became moot. I learned to accept the crew for all its strengths as well as any perceived weaknesses on my part.”
“Nevertheless, your antipathy did not simply disappear. Rather, it was something that you had to work to overcome. If you climb a mountain, that does not cause the mountain to disappear. It simply means that you are able to get over the obstacle if you truly dedicate yourself to it. The obstacle, however, remains, and it was something with which you had to struggle constantly. Face it, Commander . . . the crew of the Excalibur was not exactly your dream crew. You held yourself separate from us. Your hesitancy and lack of comfort were quite evident, even though your ability to hide it became so polished that you succeeded in fooling those who desired to be fooled.”
“Really,” said Shelby, unamused. “And who would that be? Those who desired to be fooled, I mean.”
“Everyone but me. Well . . . and perhaps Selar. But Selar does not seem to like anyone, so perhaps that’s not a fair comparison.”
“So you and you alone decided that I didn’t like the crew.”
“No, you decided that, Commander. I simply observed it. That’s my job, you see. To observe the natural world and draw conclusions about it. People are part of that natural world, so of course I observe them and draw conclusions.”
“And your conclusion was this antipathy you say I have.”
“You are a lover of regulations, Commander. A lover of order. You embrace the more arcane military aspects of Starfleet with more zeal than any officer under which I’ve served,” Soleta told her. “The Excalibur did not have a spit-and-polish crew. That is what you are hoping to assemble on the Exeter. Believe it or not, I certainly wish you the best of luck. I hope that you are able to put together a crew that Admiral Jellico would be proud of.”
“I’ll put together a crew that I’ll be proud of, and I couldn’t give a damn what other people think.” Feeling the drink swirling about in her head, Shelby stabbed a finger at Soleta and demanded, “What are you saying? That I care more about regs than I do about people?”
“I had not been saying that, but I wouldn’t disagree with that assessment.”
“Then you couldn’t be more wrong. Then you haven’t been paying the least bit of attention to the person I am and the person I’ve become. What I care about most, though, is the interaction between the people and the regulations. Rules were created for specific reasons, and most of the time, those reasons involve the protection of others. When you toss aside the rules, you risk the safety of all concerned. That’s something I never entirely got Mac to understand.” She shook her head, looking discouraged. “He was so used to being self-reliant . . .”
“He led armies, Commander, in his youth,” Soleta pointed out. “Someone who has legions of men backing him up is very much aware that no one person can carry the day by himself. You may be underestimating his capabilities.”
“Well, that’s certainly a mistake I won’t have the opportunity to make again, will I,” shot back Shelby.
“You sound upset, Commander.”
“You’re damned right I’m upset! Dammit, Soleta, I haven’t slept in weeks. Every time I start to drift off, I can see Mac in my head. I haven’t strung more than an hour or two of sleep together since we lost the ship. I’m coming off the loss of one ship and I have to overcome all my apprehension as I vie to be commander of another. And you sit here now and tell me that, hell, I never really liked the Excalibur crew to begin with. Maybe this is just some weird trick of logic so that you don’t have to admit to missing me when I’m gone, or to try and vilify me in your own mind so that you won’t have to wonder why I’m not bringing you along as science officer. Hmmm?” Shelby laughed in what sounded remarkably like triumph. “No, you didn’t think of that at all.”
“You, Commander, have had a bit to drink.”
“I, Lieutenant, am perfectly fit, thank you very much. And I don’t appreciate being insulted by—”
“Insult?” An eyebrow arched. “Did you perceive insult? My apologies. I simply thought I was stating fact.”
“No. It was opinion; opinion that I don’t happen to agree with.”
“You are saying that you do not value regulations and procedure over people.”
“That is exactly and precisely what I am saying.”
“I am half-Romulan.”
Shelby felt as if she had just been whapped with a mental two-by-four. All of the pleasant buzzing she’d been feeling from the alcohol was dispelled in an instant. “Wh-what?”
“I am half-Romulan,” Soleta said again. “My mother was Vulcan, but my father, Romulan. I did not inform Starfleet of this.”
She felt as if all the color was draining from her face. “But . . . but you have to. Regulations clearly state—”
“That anyone with blood ties to a race considered actively and aggressively hostile to the Federation must offer full disclosure of those ties or face being discharged from Starfleet.” Soleta was amazingly calm. “I did not know of the ties at the time that I enlisted in Starfleet. I since discovered the truth, but have chosen not to apprise Starfleet of it. I am concerned that the delayed revelation could have a negative impact on my career. That I would be relegated to minor duties and be subject to
such intense monitoring and scrutiny that I would find it intolerable and be forced to depart Starfleet anyway.”
“Soleta, this . . . this is crazy . . .”
“Furthermore,” continued Soleta as if Shelby had not spoken, “any officer who learns of any undisclosed blood ties to an actively and aggressively hostile race is obligated to report those ties immediately to Starfleet.” She tilted her chin toward Shelby’s comm badge. “You can use that, I imagine. Someone must be on duty somewhere. You can call it in.”
“Soleta, I . . . I don’t understand why you’re telling me this. Is this supposed to be some sort of test or something . . . ?”
“The Excalibur blew up. We all know the cause. But what if that cause was not what we thought it to be? What if I was a saboteur? What if I was in fact responsible for the loss of the ship? Should that not be investigated? Doesn’t Starfleet have a right to know?”
“What are you saying, Soleta? That you were partly responsible? That you were part of some . . . some Romulan plot?”
“I’m not saying that,” Soleta told her. “In fact, I’m saying I’m not. But are you going to inform Starfleet and have them investigate?”
“Soleta, I don’t know why you’re playing this ridiculous game . . .”
“This is not a game. This is a scientific inquiry. It’s a test, no different than any other test I conduct upon an unknown.”
“I’m not an unknown, dammit. It’s me. Commander Shelby. We served together.”
“We served on the same vessel, yes. Was there anyone on the ship with whom you ever really felt together? Or did you keep us all at arm’s length for all the reasons that seemed right at the time?”
For a moment, Shelby thought briefly of Kat Mueller, the night-shift executive officer with whom she’d felt at least a measure of comfort . . . up until she’d discovered that Mueller and Calhoun had had an affair, at which point all she could envision was Mac in Kat’s arms. Mueller providing Calhoun with something that she, Shelby, was unable to.
