by Tony Daniel
Kirk was up from his chair and stalking around the outpost conference room as he attempted to think through the situation he must deal with. This conference room was three times larger than the Enterprise one—so Kirk had plenty of room for his pacing.
The captain noticed some of his assembled senior officers getting nervous. Scott was pulling at the tight collar of his own dress tunic and fiddling with the edge of the ancestral tartan sash he wore on such occasions. The sight of an agitated captain was never a welcome sign, Kirk mused, but there were larger issues to deal with at the moment. Besides, walking helped Kirk think.
“All right, our mystery man who seems to be the leader of a group of fifty-eight other mystery men and women says he’s Excalbian,” Kirk said. “And that he’s a replica of George Washington. Is he telling the truth? What else could he be? Opinion, Mister Spock?”
“I have no other hypotheses that do not involve preposterous assumptions or extremely unlikely occurrences,” Spock replied evenly.
“Speculate, Spock.”
“Captain, conjecturing that there may be, for instance, a Guardian gateway playing with the fabric of space-time in this sector does not seem a very helpful speculation.” Spock shook his head. “The fact is, I currently possess insufficient data. Commander Contreras has not been particularly forthcoming, given her security instructions from the Federation Council.”
“Which she claims limit what she can tell us,” said Lieutenant Graves, who had led the security team that had thoroughly scanned and cleared the three captured L’rah’hane vessels, preparing them for regular personnel to come aboard. It had been a grim assignment, for there were dead bodies to evacuate, both L’rah’hane and human, and Kirk had been impressed with the professionalism with which Graves carried out his duties. “But don’t we have to believe her? She is under Federation directive, sir.”
“Indeed. Lacking more data, that we continue to consider these beings to be Excalbians would seem to be our best working theory,” the first officer replied.
Kirk turned to McCoy. “I want you to give each and every one of those characters a thorough physical. I want to find out what makes them tick.”
“All right,” McCoy said. “I’ll start as soon as they arrive. One thing we know: they seem to have no issue with beaming down to the planetoid surface. Their bodies behave as humanoid in that respect.”
Although Kirk and his senior staff were on the surface of Zeta Gibraltar, they were thankfully inside the pressurized, gravity-abated science station. A security team had beamed down first to clear any booby-traps left by the L’rah’hane, and the mines that had almost claimed Spock had been swept as well. Graves had placed young Ensign Thibodeaux in charge of that operation, and from all reports the young officer had scoured the area with a metaphorical toothpick before he was satisfied all was clear.
The Enterprise senior officers had beamed down next, met by the security team.
Kirk had called the conference immediately, but it was clear his officers needed more information before they would be able to provide the answers Kirk wanted. “All right, people,” he said. “Let’s go meet the science crew and the Excalbians.”
They left the conference room and assembled near the outpost’s small, two-person transporter platform where Commander Imelda Contreras and her second-in-command were due to materialize any moment.
Scott went to work the console.
Kirk had not only ordered full dress uniforms for the occasion, but he had ordered security provided with bosun’s whistles for pomp and flourish. Kirk had ordered an official welcome for the returning prisoners complete with color guard—exactly as he had welcomed the Excalbian Abraham Lincoln two standard years before. That had taken place thousands of parsecs away, however—on the other side of the galaxy and outside Federation space.
How these Excalbians had gotten so far from their origins was something Kirk was very interesting in determining.
Mostly I just want to know what the hell is going on at Zeta Gibraltar, Kirk thought. And why it is such a big secret that it had to be withheld from a Starfleet captain sent on a life-and-death search-and-rescue mission.
There were too many unanswered questions here, and if there was one thing Kirk knew about Excalbians, it was that they commanded technology far greater than anything available in the Federation, and in the past they’d had no compunction in using it to kill. They claimed not to be evil, per se. In fact, they claimed not to know the difference between good and evil.
To Kirk’s way of thinking, the particulars of good and evil might be culturally or individually determined in specific cases, but there was a sense of universal justice that stretched across the galaxy and reached into every corner into which Kirk had ever ventured. Somewhere, deep inside, the Excalbians, a highly intelligent species, must know that what they had done to the Enterprise and her crew was wrong.
And yet . . . because of the Excalbians, he had personally met Abraham Lincoln. He’d spoken with Surak, the ancient philosopher who had brought peace to Vulcan by replacing barbarism with logic.
They had been simulations, of course, but so complete, so compelling, as to defy his logical thought processes. His heart, his intuition, told him that those men were Lincoln and Surak, no matter that his rational mind knew better.
But the very same creatures had placed him and Spock on a cruel game board purposely set up to conduct an archetypal contest merely for the so-called edification of the haughty Excalbians who were presumably looking on.
Surak, Lincoln, Kirk, and Spock had been pitted against Kahless, the founder of the Klingon Empire, murderess Zora of Tiburon, ancient conqueror of the Earth’s Far East, Genghis Khan, and Colonel Phillip Green, who operated during the Eugenics Wars on Earth and ordered the slaughter of hundreds of thousands of people deemed genetically unworthy.
The game the Excalbians wanted played was life and death. Each side had access to the same primitive resources: rocks that could be used to crush, cane easily shaped into spears, and vines suited for building a man-trap or a gladiator’s net.
And that is exactly what the Excalbians had staged: gladiatorial games. Good versus evil to prove nothing more than a philosophical point. Then, when Kirk and his allies refused to participate in the farce, the Excalbians had upped the stakes.
Refuse to fight and the Enterprise and all its crew, trapped in orbit around the planet, would be destroyed. Fight and lose and suffer the same consequences. The only way to save the ship and her crew was to fight and win. “Good” must defeat “evil,” or 430 people would needlessly die.
Kirk had done what he had to do. Surak, true to his nature, had refused to fight and tried to reason with Green and his cronies. He’d been slaughtered for his efforts, then used as bait to capture, torture, and kill Abraham Lincoln.
When Lincoln fell with a spear in his back, Kirk felt as if a piece had been torn from his own heart—a portion of his spirit that would always feel the loss. It had been that moment, perhaps, that had driven Kirk to the final showdown and the defeat of the evil characters. When faced with a show of greater force, they had turned and run.
Excalbian impostors had turned and run, he must remind himself. Would Colonel Green, Genghis Khan, or any of the others have done the same?
Kirk doubted it. Evil people did not necessarily lack in courage, although good people tended to have more of it, in his experience.
No, the Excalbians had proved nothing with their nasty little show, except to learn that good people fight for reasons of self-sacrifice and altruism rather than personal gain or power. This was a truism that Kirk could have told them in a moment of conversation. It didn’t need to be acted out with real lives in the balance—or even the lives of a false Lincoln and Surak.
I’m surely not the best representative of good, but lucky for the Excalbians I’m not particularly evil, Kirk thought. If I had been, I’d have found a way to destroy those arrogant silicon monsters and send their whole cursed planet aft
er them into hell.
And yet . . . he’d met Abraham Lincoln. The man who led a great, flawed democracy through one of the darkest periods in human history. The man who did all he could to free the slaves and preserve the Union.
It had been a Lincoln of Kirk’s own creation, yes, and so designed to meet his every expectation. As Spock had reasoned, the Excalbians must have scanned his mind and those of the crew to create such a perfect simulation. Spock had conjectured they had similarly drawn Surak from his own psyche.
In some deep part of himself, Kirk had to admit that the nasty episode with the Excalbians had almost been . . . worth it.
“I hope we aren’t going to treat them like you did before,” McCoy said, “knowing what we know now.”
“So you think they’re Excalbians, too, Bones?”
“Unless there’s a Guardian gateway, like Spock speculated, or something worse. Frankly, I prefer those scoundrel Excalbians to that.”
“Amen, Bones.” Kirk nodded his agreement. McCoy had nearly ended the history of the known galaxy at one point in the presence of the Guardian. Maddened by the accidental overdose of a stimulant drug, the doctor had leaped through the portal into Earth’s past and temporarily altered the entirety of human history.
Bones was right: even the resurfacing of the Excalbians was not the worst fate one could imagine.
It’s a dangerous universe out there.
A beep from the transporter panel indicated an incoming signal.
“Stand by, gentlemen. We’re about to meet them, whoever or whatever they are,” Kirk said. “We are giving all the returnees full flourish. The outpost team deserves it after what they’ve been through.”
McCoy nodded. “I’ll go along with that sentiment.”
The transporter platform shimmered, and Contreras and her chief of station materialized. They took a moment to gaze around before stepping down from the platform, a look of relief on their faces.
“Never thought I’d see this place again,” Contreras remarked. She descended from the platform, and Kirk stepped forward to meet her. The bosun’s whistles piped a welcome.
“Welcome home, Commander Contreras. I’m pleased to report that the outpost is clear of danger, quarters are cleaned and put back in good order, and I am able to officially turn the facility back over to you.”
“Thank you, Captain.”
“I would appreciate the opportunity to meet those charges before the Enterprise departs.”
“There are Federation security concerns in play here that I am not at liberty to discuss,” said Contreras. “But considering the circumstances, I will personally authorize you to do so.”
The forty-three outpost personnel returned first. The injured arrived on stretchers. Most seemed eager to get to their quarters and begin reassembling their lives, and a few returned to duty immediately.
Five were dead, killed by the L’rah’hane, and two others were missing and presumed dead. Two of the bodies of the dead would be beamed down to the planet for burial. A third had been the wife of a scientist, and he had requested cremation for her, as per her wishes.
After a ceremony, her ashes had been beamed into deep space from the Enterprise transporter room.
Finally it was time to bring down the Excalbians from the L’rah’hane vessel.
Kirk nodded and turned to Scott. “Mister Scott, lock onto the L’rah’hane temporary transporter Sulu has set up. Let’s bring down the Excalbians, two by two,” Kirk said. For maximum efficiency and accuracy, Sulu had had transporter components ferried over to create a makeshift transporter room in a storage hold of the L’rah’hane ship. “Energize.”
“Aye, sir.”
Without nebular interference, the transporter worked perfectly. “I’m certainly glad to be back to normal conditions,” Scott commented.
“If by normal you mean having your atoms torn apart and flung across thousands of miles of space,” McCoy added.
The Enterprise officers stiffened to attention as George Washington and James Watt materialized before their eyes.
The Excalbian Washington was dressed in American colonial garb from head to toe. He wore a wig, but now that he was closer, Kirk could see that he had a ruddy complexion. If he remembered correctly, Washington’s real hair had been reddish-brown in his younger days.
The bosun’s call ended when George Washington stepped down, followed close behind by Watt.
Abraham Lincoln, now George Washington. Am I going to work my way through all the American presidents down to Millard Fillmore?
“It is with deep gratitude and the greatest sense of personal obligation that I present myself and my people to you, Captain Kirk.” Washington made a formal bow. “Your servant, sir.”
Kirk played along, returned the bow. “I doubt you have ever been the servant of any man, Your Excellency,” he replied with a smile.
“I am most honored, Captain,” Washington said. “Please, no need to use the honorific. Although I did adopt it during my first term, I soon grew tired of the title. Cincinnatus is my model, not Caesar.”
Kirk couldn’t help but smile. Now he began to understand why Washington was considered charming. This was not the stern, seemingly haughty figure from the portraits, but a lively, intelligent—and subtly self-effacing—man.
He was also, reportedly, the victim of heartbreak in his younger days when his romantic attachment to the wife of his best friend had come to naught.
Kirk did not extend his hand for a handshake. Washington had never been a shaker of hands. The captain had read how much Washington disliked being casually manhandled and backslapped by his fellow officers and, especially, by politicians. There was a famous story of someone’s doing just that to Washington on a bet—and living to regret the jest when the general gave him a look of complete disapproval.
It was said that George Washington’s icy stare had been worth three battalions during the American Revolutionary War.
“Allow me to introduce my companion. May I present Mister James Watt.”
Watt was a shorter man. He wore a rumpled tweed suit. He did extend a hand to shake, and Kirk did so.
“The man who invented the first truly functional steam engine and ushered in the industrial revolution,” Kirk said. “Very pleased to meet you, sir.”
Watt blushed and spoke. “Standing on the shoulders of the giants who came before me, as Doctor Swift once said.” Kirk had to strain to understand him. Scott’s Aberdeen brogue may have been thick, but Watt had grown up in a small coastal town on the Bay of Firth, and his speech was as Scottish as could be without actually being spoken in the ancient Celtic tongue of that land.
“This is the chief engineer of the Enterprise, Lieutenant Commander Montgomery Scott,” Kirk said, motioning to Scott, who had left the transporter console and quietly but firmly pushed his way between Kirk and Spock.
“What a great pleasure it is, sir,” said Mister Scott. “You were a hero of mine when I was a boy.” Scott turned to Kirk. “And it wasn’t just the steam engine, Captain. Mister Watt was a mechanical genius, you know. He invented carbon paper and was an expert scientific instrument maker at the University of Glasgow.”
“Montgomery Scott? You wouldn’t happen to be the Montgomery Scott who is the author of the groundbreaking article on the properties and uses of transverse-g type dilithium in warp engines?”
Scott’s face flushed with pleasure, but, as usual, the chief engineer was a bit tongue-tied when he was at his happiest. “Ah, it’s nothing. Just a wee thing I wrote up during my shore leave on Hamish D.”
“A pleasure planet, and Scott insists on touring the dilithium mines and studying the processing equipment instead of gambling at the casino,” Kirk said.
“Sounds like a man after my own heart,” Watt replied. “I hope we have time for a bit of conversation on warp upsilon variances over a drink, Commander Scott. I trust you like Scotch?”
Now Scott’s contentment turned to pure delight. “Like Scotch? Mister
Watt! I do believe we’ll have lots to discuss in many regards.”
“All in good time,” Kirk put in. “First, Mister Scott, we have need of you at the transporter controls.”
Scott straightened to attention. Duty called. He took on a serious mien and replied, “Aye, sir,” before returning to his post at the console.
* * *
There were forty-two “personages” in all. That was the way Kirk had begun to think of them. Most were impressive historical figures, but there was no Surak or Kahless. All were of human origin—most had been famous, although some more obscure. There was not one whom Kirk did not recognize.
Which seems very odd in itself, Kirk thought. Not a Vulcan among them.
Among military leaders, there was, indeed, a Napoleon. There was Sir Francis Drake, General Philip Sheridan, and samurai Oda Nobunaga. Scientists included Galileo Galilei, Johannes Kepler, Michael Faraday, and Marie Curie. Among the civilian leaders were Harriet Tubman, Gandhi, Queen Elizabeth I, and, interestingly, her nemesis, Mary, Queen of Scots. There was Confucius, Marco Polo, and Leonardo da Vinci.
Although these personages were famous, most were well-known within a certain sphere of action. Kirk was relieved to find that there were no universal religious figures included. He didn’t know what he’d do if it became his duty to order around Jesus of Nazareth or the Buddha.
Spock greeted each Excalbian with appropriate ceremony, but Kirk knew his first officer and it was clear that Spock’s mind was working overtime—evaluating the circumstances, engaging with various hypotheses—
Probably computing a couple of partial differential equations on the side for practice, too, Kirk thought.
It was only when the last of the personages was presented that Spock showed real interest. When Benjamin Franklin spoke to Spock, he could tell his first officer was quite intrigued.
