by Peter David
Shelby stood awkwardly by, staffing one of the bridge engineering stations, feeling in the admiral’s presence the same confidence that greeted her every morning and watched over her every night. He had barely noticed her, except for the introduction made by the captain and to commend her on the report her team had developed. Hanson had ordered the U.S.S. Melbourne out to D5 to be on hand personally, to witness the final proof, positive or negative, regarding the test.
There wasn’t much to it. The Yosemite’s main dish had been modified to simulate a smaller version of the Borg tractor, using the same phase differentials and subspace variances recorded by the Enterprise’s scans. Also, Twellum had managed to rig a cargo transporter to simulate Borg pattern signatures, though their shield-penetrating capability was far beyond Federation technology. Their two best working theories, about to be put to the test.
“Lieutenant Shelby, commence test procedure one,” Blackswan ordered.
“Yes, Captain.” She tapped the console screen, and the preprogrammed test series used the modified tractor beam to grapple up a section of mountainside from D5. “Beam engaged,” she read from the panel, “and released. Ready for second test.”
“At your command, Lieutenant.”
A second set, this time more complicated and run by Twellum in the lower cargo bay. “Energize,” she said, passing the order along.
When Twellum let her know that the transport was complete, Shelby relaxed. All that was left now was a thumbs-up or thumbs-down. Yes or no. And then dealing with the consequences. Engineers rarely dealt with consequences. “We’ll have data in a few moments, Admiral, Captain. Ensigns Davidson and Rocha were standing by to sample for our low-end quantum footprint.”
“Fascinating work,” Hanson said to the captain, eyes on the main viewscreen, on which D5 turned slowly, oblivious of the Starfleet testing. “You’ve got a good crew, Patricia.”
“And then some, Admiral.”
Davidson was first, his scratchy voice relayed directly over the bridge coms. Shelby imagined him down there on the planet, flicking his teeth as the data finally came back. “Lieutenant, we have no—zero—high-spectrum flux. Whatever caused it, it wasn’t the tractor itself. Maybe some related part of the Borg systems.”
A related part…That meant—
“Your low-end quantum footprint is right in front of me, Lieutenant. Call it proof positive.”
“Times two,” Rocha followed up before anyone had the chance to thank Davidson or remark on the findings. “Same thing on the transporter site. We can’t prove how they did it, Lieutenant. But I think this is beyond coincidence now. They did it.”
Admiral Hanson slapped the arm of his chair. Not in victory, but in certainty. Shelby knew the feeling. Proving a Borg incursion did not leave much room for the thrill of a job well done. Instead, a chill shook its way down her spine as she imagined a repeat of D5 on any of a hundred Federation planets. On Earth itself.
“Fine work, Patricia.” Admiral Hanson was up on his feet, full of energy and restless. “I’ll want to get your test results in front of teams back at Starfleet Tactical right away, to see what they can do with it. If nothing else, though, we can close the file on D5.”
Captain Blackswan had followed the admiral to her feet, and accompanied him to the turbolift door. “I’ll see you back to the Melbourne,” she said.
“No. No need. You have a ship to run and I want repeated tests conducted as soon as possible.” He looked curiously at a padd handed him by the captain a moment, then said, “Yes, of course,” and encoded his signature over the readout before stepping up to the turbolift.
Captain Blackswan came right over to Shelby, who was verifying all data as it came back from Rocha and Davidson. Down in engineering, Chief Pako would already be tearing it apart, running comparisons, and adding to the ship’s library on the Borg. “We’ve got a lot to do,” she said to the captain. “Where would you like me to start?”
Patricia Blackswan handed over the padd. “With this.”
The amber-lit screen held everything she needed to know:
U.S.S. Yosemite, NCC-19002, Stardate 43117.2
Effective immediately, Lieutenant Elizabeth Paula Shelby is advanced to the rank of lieutenant commander. She is to complete all duties pursuant to her current station, but report to Starfleet Tactical no later than Stardate 43328.8.
It was authorized by the thumbprint of Admiral J.P. Hanson.
“Tactical?” Shelby nearly stammered the duty station. “Not engineering?”
Blackswan smiled thinly. “As formidable as your talents are, Commander, they would be wasted as an engineer.”
“But the command-grade test. I haven’t taken it.”
“That is at my discretion, and from what I saw in engineering, I’d say you passed.” Blackswan glanced toward the turbolift, after the departed admiral. “That, and maybe a great deal more.”
Tactical. Command. Shelby had all but given up on that dream, deciding to blend her desire for command and gifts in engineering here on the Yosemite. To have it come after all, and now…Now she would be able to embrace her engineering skills, and make them part of her ability to command. “It’s really happening, folks.”
Blackswan nodded, and clapped her chief engineer on the shoulder. “Don’t forget to put your team in for commendations, Commander. But first, go find a new uniform. Gold looks good on you, but you are due for a change.”
Yes, Shelby considered. She supposed that she was.
ZAK KEBRON
Waiting for G’Doh
or
How I Learned to Stop
Moving and Hate People
David Mack
The first Brikar in Starfleet, Zak Kebron met his future Excalibur crewmates Soleta and Mark McHenry while attending Starfleet Academy. The trio went on to different postings after graduating, and Kebron found himself assigned to security on the U.S.S. Ranger. “Waiting for G’Doh” takes place during the first year after Kebron’s graduation from the Academy and assignment to that ship.
David Mack
David Mack is a writer whose work spans multiple media, from books and television to comic books and computer games. His credits include two episodes of the TV series Star Trek: Deep Space Nine and, more recently, the critically acclaimed and best-selling two-part eBook Star Trek: S.C.E.: Wild-fire. Mack currently resides in New York City, where he is hard at work on a pair of Star Trek: The Next Generation novels.
Captain Yuri Danilov, commanding officer of the Starship Ranger, sat and looked at his reflection on the pristine, mirror-perfect black surface of his crescent-shaped desk. His face was full and round, and his chin had lately been doubled by the unfortunate combination of advancing age and the sedentary lifestyle of a starship captain saddled with an overachieving first officer who commanded all the away missions.
On the other side of his desk sat Lieutenant Commander Raka, his serious-looking young Trill chief of security, who drummed his fingers on Danilov’s desk. Danilov had named Raka security chief last month, after the Ranger’s former security chief—with no warning whatsoever—retired, married a nice Bajoran woman, and began a new career in aquatic farming.
“He’s late,” Raka said. Danilov checked the chronometer. Ensign Kebron’s orders were to report here to Danilov’s ready room at 1330 hours. It was 1329 hours and ten seconds. Raka was the sort of person who believed that if one wasn’t early for an appointment, one was late. Danilov sighed and reached for his coffee, then saw a tremor ripple disturb the surface of his French roast.
Danilov felt the vibration through the floor. The items on his ready-room shelves trembled, settled for a split second, then were shaken again. Thud. Thud. Thud.
The captain sipped his coffee and watched the chronometer. At precisely 1330 hours his door chime sounded.
“Enter,” he said. The door swished open to reveal what at first looked like a hastily erected stone barricade dressed in a Starfleet uniform. Danilov blinked, then realized t
hat, through the narrow doorway, he could see the ensign only from the chin down. He noted that both of the man’s shoulders were beyond the outer edges of the doorframe.
The enormous young officer stooped, turned sideways, and inched his way into the ready room, his every step vibrating the deck. Danilov noted that Kebron wore a gravity compensator on his uniform belt—for all the good that it did.
After nearly fifty-five years in Starfleet, Danilov had seen his share of impressive sights. Regardless, he still was awed by the sheer presence of the young Brikar who snapped to attention in front of him and caused a minor earthquake as he did so. “Ensign Zak Kebron reporting, Captain.”
“At ease, Ensign,” Danilov said. After several seconds, he realized that Kebron remained motionless in front of his desk. “That means you can relax.”
“I did,” Kebron said.
Danilov blinked, then opened Kebron’s service record on his desk console. The young Brikar had joined the security detail of the Ranger less than two months ago, which made the reason for this meeting all the more puzzling to the captain.
“I see you’ve asked Lieutenant Commander Raka for a transfer out of security,” Danilov said as he scrolled through the information on the screen. Kebron stood in front of the desk, silent and grim as a golem. Danilov waited for him to respond, then realized that he hadn’t actually asked the ensign a question. “Please tell me why.”
“Security seems…” Kebron paused and looked at Raka before he finished: “Limited.”
“But it was the specialty you trained for at the Academy,” Danilov said. “Why train for a job you didn’t want to do?”
“No one ever asked me,” Kebron said.
“What options would you like to consider?” Raka asked.
“Astrometrics,” Kebron said. “Maybe engineering.”
An incredulous look passed between Raka and Danilov, who both then looked back at Kebron. “Well, I’m sure Commander Krueger will miss you on future away missions,” Danilov said. “But before we process your transfer, Starfleet Security has one more mission for you.” Danilov nodded to Raka.
The Trill security chief turned his chair toward Kebron. “Ensign, are you familiar with the planet Iban?”
“Neutral,” Kebron said. “M-class. Four-point-two billion mixed humanoids. Located between the Federation and Cardassia.” Kebron paused, then added, as an afterthought, “Mostly harmless.”
“Correct,” Raka said. “We’re sending you there.” The security chief picked up a padd from the captain’s desk and handed it to Kebron. The tiny Starfleet display device seemed to vanish into Kebron’s massive palm.
“Starfleet Intelligence has learned that a Federation bureaucrat named Erril G’Doh has been selling military and scientific secrets to the Cardassians,” Raka said. “G’Doh is scheduled to meet his Cardassian contact tomorrow morning in a public park in the middle of the planet’s capital city, to hand off an unspecified number of data chips. When he does, you’re going to be there to take them both into custody until agents from Starfleet Intelligence arrive.”
Kebron studied the information on the padd. Danilov was amazed that the Brikar could work the padd’s controls without pulverizing the device. Though Kebron’s expression seemed never to change, Danilov sensed that the ensign was puzzled.
“Won’t they notice me? I’m…conspicuous.”
“You’ll be undercover,” Raka said.
Kebron stared blankly at Raka for several seconds. “Undercover? Me? How?”
“As a park statue,” Danilov said, beating Raka to the punch line. “You’ll be concealed inside a polymer shell crafted to look exactly like the statue under which G’Doh and his contact plan to meet. You’ll be swapped in with a transporter.”
“Most important,” Raka added, “the shell will conceal your life signs from G’Doh’s tricorder. He’s become extra cautious since spotting a Starfleet Intelligence operative tailing him last month. SI also has reason to suspect that G’Doh’s contact can identify most of their field agents in this sector, so they need to keep all other Starfleet personnel out of the park. When G’Doh hands over the data chips to his contact, you’ll grab them and be beamed out.”
Kebron looked at Danilov, then back at Raka. He handed the padd back to Raka. “Will this take long?”
“You leave immediately,” Raka said. “We have just enough time to get you to Iban via high-warp transport, and swap you for the statue, before G’Doh and his contact meet. They tell me you’ll be back here in less than two days.”
Kebron was silent for a moment; then he said, “I understand.” Danilov stood up. He was about to extend his hand to shake Kebron’s, then looked at the Brikar’s massive fist and thought better of it. “Good luck, Ensign,” he said with a courteous nod, then watched all his office furnishings quake as Kebron turned and lumbered out of his ready room.
Kebron made the jaunt to Iban via high-warp transport in just over sixteen hours. He had spent most of the trip asleep.
After arriving on Iban, he’d been fitted for the polymer shell that Starfleet Intelligence had created in advance of his arrival. As soon as the technicians had begun fitting pieces of the shell around his legs, they had begged him not to move, lest he shatter the brittle polymer.
That, of course, was the key to the plan: When it came time for him to grab G’Doh and his accomplice, Kebron would simply flex his muscles, shatter the shell, and seize the spies.
The officer in charge of the operation was Lieutenant Commander Sotak, a gaunt and weathered-looking humanoid man with webbed fingers. Sotak briefed Kebron as the technicians sealed the young Brikar inside the shell, stopping short of his face.
“You won’t be able to speak to us while you’re in the shell,” Sotak said. “We’ll communicate with you through a pair of encrypted transceivers. We’ll implant them near your ears before we encase your head.”
“You did put in breathing holes, right?” Kebron said. Sotak looked at the grotesquely detailed minotaur headpiece, which was suspended from a harness attached to tracks on the ceiling.
“We weren’t told that’d be a requirement,” Sotak said. “I hope that’s not a problem.” Kebron was still crafting the perfect sarcastic reply when Sotak’s poker face broke and revealed a grin. He patted Kebron’s shoulder.
“Just kidding. We took care of it, you’ll be fine.” Sotak took out a tricorder and scanned the lower half of the shell.
“Question,” Kebron said.
“Shoot,” Sotak said. He adjusted the tricorder’s settings.
“Why a statue?” Kebron asked. “Why not a hologram?” Sotak chuckled and shook his head.
“G’Doh would detect a hologram’s energy signature a kilometer away,” Sotak said. He turned off the tricorder. Kebron eyed the web-fingered man with suspicion.
“Why me?” Kebron said. “Why not a regular agent?” Sotak put away his tricorder and looked Kebron in the eye.
“Because G’Doh and his accomplice will probably be armed, and whoever we put out there is going to be all alone with them for up to twenty seconds before we can beam them out,” Sotak said. “We need someone who can hold two suspects and not worry about getting shot at point-blank range. And that brings us to you.” Sotak motioned to the technicians. “Okay, let’s finish up. We have to make the swap in twenty minutes.” He nodded to Kebron. “Good luck, Ensign.”
“Whatever,” Kebron said.
The technicians—two human men who appeared to be twins, a Vulcan woman with a helmet of hair shaped to an unflattering point in the middle of her forehead, a young Orion man who looked barely old enough to shave, and a Bolian woman with a dramatically pronounced cranial ridge—snapped into action. They moved the headpiece into place above him and began lowering it. As it met the shell that surrounded his massive torso, the binary resin on the headpiece and the body segment fused the two elements into a single, unbroken shell.
The artisans congratulated one another on their fine work and exi
ted together. The Bolian woman was the last one out. She turned off the lights and closed the door behind her.
Kebron stood in the darkened room, entombed in a polymer shell and forbidden to move or to speak.
You’ve got to be kidding me, he thought. Tell me they didn’t just leave me here. The least they could do is put on some music, or a newsfeed. Kebron sighed. Where does Starfleet get these people? The Starfleet Corps of Engineers’ special top-secret sculpture division?
A sickening notion occurred to him. What if there is no assignment? What if this is just some kind of bizarre prank by McHenry? He quickly exonerated his Academy friend. No, not his style, Kebron assured himself. Not abstract enough. Kebron also reminded himself that Ensign Mark McHenry was at least forty-one light-years away, piloting the Starship Valentina.
Before he could focus further paranoid suspicions on anyone else, Kebron was beamed to the park.
Kebron materialized inside the statue alcove, which was recessed into a natural-rock cliff face at the south end of the oval-shaped park. He was on top of the broad statue base, elevated several feet above ground level. Directly in front of and below him was an empty bench. The bench had a wrought-iron frame that supported rough wooden planks coated in peeling, weather-beaten white paint that had grayed with antiquity.
Beyond the bench was a smooth, paved pedestrian path that curved around the park perimeter and intersected with several other paved walkways, which meandered in undulating shapes beneath the drooping boughs of a variety of trees, most of them flowering with sweetly fragrant blossoms in a variety of colors.
On the other side of the path in front of Kebron was a large, meticulously maintained Zen rock garden. In the center of the pristine arrangement of white marble chips and jutting black basaltic rocks was a serene, burbling pond.
Inside the pond’s crystal-clear waters swam a quartet of koi, a particular breed of carp first bred on Earth in the nation of Japan for domestic ponds. Kebron had seen fish much like these in several similar ponds on the Starfleet Academy campus.
