by L. A. Graf
Damn, thought Dane, feeling a pang of sympathy for his colleague. This is it for Matsura.
Of course, he expected Matsura to give the aliens a run for their money—to buy as much time as possible for his crew, or maybe even try to maneuver the enemy into the sights of another Christopher.
But the captain of the Yellowjacket didn’t do a thing. He just sat there, as if resigned to the fact of his doom.
Dane was surprised. Matsura had seemed like the type to fight to the end, no matter how small the chances of his succeeding. Apparently, he thought, I was wrong about him.
As the alien ship bore down on the Yellowjacket, Dane grimaced in anticipation. But the deadly energy burst never came. Instead, the triangle slowed down, came to a stop in front of the toothless Christopher . . .
And just sat there.
Nasir muttered a curse.
“You can say that again,” Dane told him.
The triangle reminded him of a dog sniffing something new in the neighborhood. But what was new about the Yellowjacket? Hadn’t the aliens run into Starfleet vessels twice before?
Then it came to him. But before the captain could make mention of it, his comm grate came alive with Matsura’s voice.
“Don’t ask questions,” said the captain of the Yellowjacket. “Just transport all your containment suits into space. I’ll explain later.”
Dane looked at his first officer. “You heard the man, Mr. Nasir. We’ve got work to do.”
Before Nasir could utter a protest, Dane swung out of his chair and headed for the turbolift.
Alonis Cobaryn was stunned.
A scant few minutes earlier, he had been entangled in the fight of his life, battered by an implacable enemy at every turn. Now he was watching that same enemy withdraw peacefully from the field of battle, its weapons obligingly powered down.
Except for one triangle-shaped ship . . . and that one was hanging nose to nose with the Yellowjacket in the midst of nearly a hundred and fifty black-and-gold containment suits, looking as patient and deliberate as a Vulcan.
Clearly, it wanted something. Cobaryn just wished he knew what.
Tapping the stud on his intercom, he opened a channel to the Yellowjacket. “Captain Matsura,” he said, “you offered to provide an explanation. This might be a propitious time.”
“Damned right,” said Dane, joining their conversation. “Exactly what did we just do?”
“And,” added Cobaryn, “how did you know it would work?”
“Believe me,” said Matsura. “I didn’t. I was wishing I could speak to the aliens, tell them somehow that we weren’t trying to dishonor their burial mounds . . . and it occurred to me that what we needed was some kind of peace offering. But it had to be an offering they understood—something they would immediately recognize as precious.”
“Something like . . . a year’s supply of containment suits?” Dane asked, clearly still in the dark.
“Remember,” said Matsura, “the aliens had never seen a human being—or, for that matter, a member of any other Federation species. I was hoping they would identify the suits as our shells—or at least what passes for shells in our society.”
Cobaryn was beginning to understand. “And if we were anything like them, these so-called shells would have great spiritual value.”
“Exactly,” said Matsura. “And anyone who’s generous enough to present offerings of great spiritual value can’t be all bad.”
Dane grunted in appreciation. “Nice one.”
“Indeed,” remarked Cobaryn. “However, now that we have achieved a stalemate, we must capitalize on it. We must build a basis for mutual understanding with the aliens.”
“As I understand it,” said Matsura, “a couple of our colleagues are gearing up to do just that.”
“Hagedorn here,” said a voice, as if on cue. “Stand by. Captain Shumar and I are going to attempt to make first contact.”
“Who died and left him boss?” asked Dane.
But Cobaryn could tell from the Cochrane jockey’s tone that he didn’t really have any objection. It was simply impossible for Dane to cope with authority without making a fuss.
As the Rigelian watched, a pod escaped from the belly of the Horatio and made its way toward the waiting triangle ship. No doubt, both Shumar and Hagedorn were aboard.
“Good luck,” Cobaryn told them.
A hundred meters shy of the alien vessel, Daniel Hagedorn grazed the last of the Christophers’ seemingly ubiquitous containment suits.
The protective garment seemed to want to latch onto the escape pod, desiring rescue, but Hagedorn urged his vehicle past it. Then there was nothing but empty space between him and the triangle ship.
Twenty meters from it, Hagedorn applied the pod’s braking thrusters. Then he sat back and waited.
“What do you think they’re going to do?” wondered Shumar, who was ensconced next to him in the copilot’s seat.
Hagedorn shook his head. “You’re the scientist. You tell me.”
“I’m not an ambassador,” said Shumar. “I’m a surveyor. I’ve never made contact with anything smarter than a snail.”
“And the only contact I’ve made has been with a laser cannon. Apparently, we’re at something of a disadvantage.”
For a moment, silence reigned in the pod’s tiny cabin. Hagedorn took advantage of it to study the alien ship. For all its speed and power, it didn’t appear to be based on a very efficient design.
“It must be gratifying,” he said, using the part of his mind that wasn’t focused on the triangle.
Shumar looked at him. “What do you mean?”
“Your work on Oreias Eight . . . it gave us this opportunity. You can be proud of that.”
“You mean . . . if we don’t make it?”
Even Hagedorn had to smile at that. “Yes.”
Shumar looked at him. “Either way, Captain, it’s been a pleasure working with you.”
“You don’t have to say that,” Hagedorn told him.
His colleague nodded. “I know.”
Suddenly, something began to move underneath the triangle ship. Hagedorn could feel his pulse begin to race. He willed it to slow down, knowing they would need to be sharp to pull this off.
“Is that a door opening?” asked Shumar, craning his neck to get a view of the alien’s underside.
It certainly looked like a door. Hagedorn said so.
“Then let’s accept their invitation,” Shumar suggested.
It was why they had come, after all—in the hope that they might obtain face-to-face contact with the aliens. Carefully, Hagedorn eased the pod down and under the triangle, all the while gaining a better view of what awaited them within.
The first thing Hagedorn saw was a smaller version of the alien vessel, sitting alongside the open bay door. Then he spotted some of the aliens themselves, standing back from the opening behind what must have been a transparent force field.
They were tall, angular, and dark-skinned, with minimal, vividly colored clothing, and white hair drawn back into thick, elaborate braids. Their pale, wideset eyes followed the pod as it came up through the open doorway into an unexpectedly large chamber.
Hagedorn landed his vehicle and the door closed behind him. He took a moment to scan the aliens more closely. He noticed that all four of them had hand weapons hanging at their hips.
“They’re armed,” he observed.
“Wouldn’t you be?” asked Shumar.
It was a good point.
Of course, neither of them had figured out yet how they were going to communicate with their hosts. But then, it wouldn’t be the first time Hagedorn had been forced to improvise.
He flipped the visor of his containment suit down over his face, grateful that he had had the foresight to hold a couple of the garments back when he received Matsura’s instructions.
Then, his fingers crawling across his control console, he cracked the pod’s hatch and went out to meet the aliens.
Lydia Littlejohn paced the carpeted floor of her office, remembering with crystal clarity the last time she had felt compelled to do so.
It was during the last push of the war, when Dan Hagedorn led the assault on the Romulan supply depot at Cheron. The president of Earth had paced well into the night, unable to lie down, unable even to sit . . . until she finally received a message from her communications specialist that the enemy’s depot had been destroyed.
And even then, she had been incapable of sleep. She had remained awake thinking about the brave men and women who had given their lives to see the Romulans defeated.
At the time, some people had predicted that Earth had seen the last of war. Littlejohn hadn’t been one of them. However, she had hoped for a respite, at least—a couple of years without an armed conflict.
Surely, her people had earned it.
But mere months after the creation of the Romulan Neutral Zone, Earth colonies were again being attacked by an unknown aggressor, and the Federation had been forced to send its fleet out to address the situation.
Officially, it wasn’t Earth’s problem. But the endangered colonies were Earth colonies, and the ships they sent out were Earth ships, and the largest part of their crews were Earth men and women . . . and Littlejohn couldn’t help feeling as if her world were at war all over again.
“President Littlejohn?” came a voice.
She looked up. “Yes, Mr. Stuckey?”
“We’ve received a communication from Starfleet Headquarters. Apparently, the mission to the Oreias system was a success. The fleet has made contact with the raiders and achieved a peaceful resolution.”
Littlejohn felt a wave of relief wash over her. Thank God, she thought. “Were there many casualties?” she asked.
“None, ma’am.”
She couldn’t believe it. “None at all?”
“I made sure of it, ma’am. I knew you would want to know.”
Littlejohn smiled. “Thank you, Mr. Stuckey.”
“Have a pleasant evening, ma’am.”
She glanced out her window, where she could see the first stars emerging in a darkening and more serene-looking sky. I’ll do that, she answered silently. I most definitely will do that.
Aaron Stiles was feeling pretty good about himself as he felt his ship go to warp speed and saw the stars on his viewscreen go from points of light to long streaks.
After all, Hagedorn and Shumar had patched things up with the aliens—a species who called themselves the Nisaaren—and engineered an agreement under which Earth’s colonists could remain in the system without fear of attack. It was a far better outcome than any Stiles would have predicted.
And he and his colleagues had secured it by working together—as a unified fleet, instead of two irreconcilable factions. Sure, they’d had their differences. No doubt, they always would. But they had made compromises on both sides, and found a way to construct a whole that was a little more than the sum of its parts.
Dane had surprised Stiles most of all. The Cochrane jockey had struck him as a misfit, a waste of time. But when push came to shove, he had shoved as hard as any of them. And though Stiles would never have admitted it in public, Dane had risked his life to save the Gibraltar.
That was the kind of action he would have expected from a wingmate in Earth Command, not a man whom he had shown nothing but hostility and disdain. Clearly, he had misjudged Connor Dane.
In fact, he conceded, he had misjudged all three of the butterfly catchers. It was a mistake he wouldn’t make again.
“Captain Stiles?” said his navigator, interrupting his thoughts.
He turned to Rosten. “Yes, Lieutenant?”
“There’s a message coming in from Earth, sir. Eyes only.”
The captain smiled, believing he knew what the message was about. It was high time Abute had called to offer congratulations. But why had the man declined to address the crew as a whole?
“I’ll take it in my quarters,” said Stiles, and pushed himself up out of his center seat.
It wasn’t until he reached his anteroom and activated his terminal that he realized why Abute had chosen to be secretive. According to the director, the board of review had made its decision . . . and selected the captain of the spanking-new Daedalus.
Abute had spent a lot of time overseeing, discussing, and inspecting the construction of the Federation starship Daedalus. In fact, he probably knew the vessel as well as the men and women who had assembled her.
So it was a special thrill for the fleet director to be the first to beam aboard the new ship, bypassing her transporter room and appearing instead on her handsome, well-appointed bridge.
He took a look around, enjoying every last detail—down to the subtle hum of the Daedalus’s impulse engines and the smell of her newly installed blue carpeting. He even ran his hand over the silver rail that enclosed her spacious command center.
However, Abute wasn’t alone there for very long. He was soon joined by a host of dignitaries, human and otherwise, including Admiral Walker of Earth Command, Clarisse Dumont, and the highly regarded Sammak of Vulcan.
Both Walker and Dumont looked a little fidgety. But then, they had been campaigning for a long time to secure the Daedalus for their respective political factions—and to that very moment, neither of them knew who had been given command of the ship.
Of course, Abute knew. And for that matter, so did the fleet’s six captains. But they had been ordered not to tell anyone else, so as to minimize the potential for injunctive protests and debates.
Even so, the director had expected at least a little feedback . . . if only from the captains themselves. After all, at least half of them couldn’t have been thrilled with the board’s decision, and Abute had expected them to tell him so.
But they hadn’t. They hadn’t uttered a word. In fact, in view of what had gone before, their silence had begun to seem a little eerie to him.
The director wished all six of them could have been given command of the Daedalus. Certainly, they deserved it. The job they did in the Oreias system, both collectively and as individuals, had exceeded everyone’s expectations—including his own.
It was unfortunate that only one of them could win the prize.
Just then, he heard the beep of his communicator. Withdrawing the device from its place inside his uniform, he said, “Abute here.”
“Director,” said the transporter technician on a nearby Christopher, “we’re ready to begin transport.”
“Do so,” the administrator told him. “Abute out.”
He turned to the bridge’s sleek silver captain’s chair and waited. A moment later, Abute saw a vertical gleam of light grace the air in front of the center seat. As the gleam lengthened, the outline of a man in a blue Starfleet uniform began to form around it.
After a few seconds, the director mused, many people there would have a good idea of who the officer was. Nonetheless, they would have to wait until the fellow had completely solidified before any of them could be certain. Finally, the materialization process was complete. . . .
And Hiro Matsura took a step forward.
The man cut a gallant figure in his freshly laundered uniform, his bearing confident, his gaze steady and alert. If appearance meant anything, he was precisely what Starfleet had been looking for.
But it wasn’t just Matsura’s appearance that had won him the Daedalus. It was the uncanny resourcefulness he had displayed in the encounter with the Nisaaren, which had saved the Oreias colonies from destruction and invited the possibility of peace.
Of all the qualities the review board had considered, ingenuity was the one they had valued most—the one they believed would prove most critical to the fleet’s success as the Federation moved into the future.
And Hiro Matsura had demonstrated that he had this quality in spades.
The assembled officials exchanged glances and even a few muffled remarks—some of them tinged with disapproval. But then, the director mused, it was an unders
tandable reaction. The research faction had been made to swallow a rather bitter pill.
The military, on the other hand, had won a great victory. If anyone doubted that, he had but to observe the ear-to-ear grin of Admiral Walker, who was gazing at Matsura with unabashed pride.
Of course, neither the admiral nor anyone else had any inkling how narrow Matsura’s victory had been. Right to the end, Abute had learned, the board had been vacillating between two and even three of the candidates—though no one had revealed to him the identity of the other choices.
But that was all water under the bridge, the director told himself. Captain Matsura would sit in the Daedalus’s center seat. The decision had been made and no one could change it.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said Abute, “I give you the commanding officer of the U.S.S. Daedalus . . . Captain Hiro Matsura.”
The announcement was met with applause from all present—with varying degrees of enthusiasm, naturally. In the director’s estimate, it was to the credit of the research people that they applauded at all.
“Congratulations,” Walker told his protégé, stepping forward to offer the younger man his hand.
Matsura shook it, a bit of a smile on his face. “Thank you, sir,” he responded in crisp military fashion.
Clarisse Dumont came forward as well, albeit with a good deal more reluctance. She too extended her hand to the captain of the Daedalus.
“I wish you all the luck in the world,” she told Matsura. “And despite the disdain some have displayed toward the advancement of science, I hope you will see fit to—”
Unfortunately, Dumont never got to finish her statement. Before she could accomplish that, another gleam of light appeared in front of the center seat. Abute looked wonderingly at the admiral and then at Dumont, but neither of them seemed to know what was going on.
As the newcomer gained definition, the director could see that it was Captain Hagedorn. When he had finished coming together, the fellow moved forward to stand alongside Matsura.
Abute shook his head. “I don’t understand,” he said.
Neither Matsura nor Hagedorn provided an answer. However, another glint of light appeared in front of the captain’s chair.
