by Peter David
“If that is the case, Admiral,” Calhoun replied, “if you truly think that running into a figure of mythology or history such as the Great Bird of the Galaxy is too preposterous, then I take it you will not want to hear about it should we happen to encounter … oh, I don’t know … Apollo?”
“Or Zephram Cochrane?” Shelby added. “Or—what was his name—the knife murderer…?”
“Jack the Ripper?” offered Calhoun.
“Yes!” She snapped her fingers as the memory came back. “Jack the Ripper. Thank you. You know, I have to tell you, Admiral, in comparison to those incidents, a giant flaming bird seems a fairly modest claim.”
Jellico rubbed the bridge of his nose, suddenly looking rather tired. “Very amusing, Captain, Commander. You refer to Kirk, of course.”
“Well, he was required reading at the Academy, sir,” said Shelby.
“He was required reading because of his tactics and strategy,” clarified Jellico. “His more ‘outrageous’ exploits were hardly required.”
“True, sir, but in Kirk’s case, sometimes the footnotes were far more interesting reading than the main events.”
“That may be the case, Commander, but here’s the truth of it: My great-grandfather was in Starfleet Command during Kirk’s time. And the fact was, Kirk had some very staunch supporters. That served him well, because he also had any number of people whom he had angered with his constant glory-hounding and utter disregard for regulations. And it was widely believed in Starfleet that, every so often, he would file utterly preposterous reports, just to tweak those individuals whom he knew didn’t like his style and his way of doing things. Such as the incident with the giant killer amoeba. And that totally ridiculous alleged occasion in which his first officer’s brain was stolen. I mean, come on, people. Clearly, these things could not possibly have happened. Every time you heard uncontrolled laughter ringing up and down the hallways at Starfleet Command, you could tell that Kirk had filed another one of his whoppers.”
“Did anyone entertain the notion that they might all be true, sir?” asked Calhoun.
“Yes, they did, and every single one of Kirk’s crew swore to their dying day that every insane thing Kirk encountered was the absolute truth. To some people, that was sufficient proof of Kirk’s veracity. To others, it simply showed the incredible depth of loyalty from his people.” For just a moment, Jellico’s expression seemed to soften, to become reflective. “Either way, I suppose, that made Kirk a man to be envied.”
Calhoun and Shelby glanced at each other in undisguised surprise. Jellico actually sounded almost envious of the legend of Kirk.
Jellico seemed to refocus on Calhoun, and his brow furrowed. “This isn’t about Kirk, and it isn’t about me. From now on, I expect to receive reports that are not fanciful extrapolations of reality. Is that understood?”
“Fully, Admiral,” Calhoun said quietly, but his purple eyes were blazing with undisguised annoyance.
“You have a good deal of latitude, Captain, put there in Thallonian space. You’re the only starship out there. You’re operating without a net, so don’t expect me to be there to catch you when you fall.”
“Understood.”
Jellico looked from one of them to the other, as if expecting them, even daring them, to say something that might be considered challenging. But they simply sat there, tight-lipped, and Jellico grunted before saying, “Jellico out.” His image blinked off the screen.
“That was certainly a little piece of heaven,” Shelby sighed, slumping back in her chair. She noticed the way Calhoun was looking at her. “What’s the problem?”
“You kicked me,” Calhoun said.
“Oh, that.”
“Yes, that. That’s a hell of a thing to be on the receiving end from the queen of Starfleet regulations. I’d be most interested to see the one where it says that it is acceptable to kick one’s commanding officer.”
“It’s more of an unwritten rule. You were about to say something that would get you is deep, Mac, and in so doing were dragging me along with you. Don’t think of it as an assault. Think of it as self-defense.”
“I can’t say I appreciated it.”
“I didn’t do it to gain your appreciation. I did it to get your attention.”
“Well, next time might I suggest something a little less painful?”
“I would have tried a striptease. That’s always worked in the past,” she said with no hint of a smile. “But somehow I think the Admiral might have noticed.”
“Perhaps. Certainly might have gotten you that promotion you’ve always wanted.”
She blew air impatiently from between her lips as she rose from the table. “Don’t bring that up.”
“Bring what up?”
“Did you see the promotion list recently? I was scanning it over and did a double take when I saw ‘Captain Shelby’ commanding the Sutherland. For half a second I thought I’d been promoted and someone forgot to tell me, and then I realized it was someone else. It should have been me, Mac. But instead, I’m still …”
“Stuck with me?”
She sighed. “You know, Mac … the whole world doesn’t have to be about you. That’s one of the things you always did that drove me crazy. It’s my problem, okay? Not yours.”
“It doesn’t have to be yours either, if you’d only be happy with what you’ve got.”
“With what I’ve got?” She leaned her back against the wall, her hands draped behind her, and she looked bleakly at Calhoun. “This Captain Not-Me Shelby is in the thick of things. There’s a major push going on with about three quarters of the fleet, and he’s smack in the middle. And us, we’re …”
“Exploring,” Calhoun noted. “Last I checked, that’s what Starfleet is supposed to be all about, Grozit, Eppy, you know that as well as anyone. Better than most, in fact.”
She glanced at him. “‘Grozit’? Reverting to Xenexian profanity?”
“Xenexian profanity. Sorry. I’ll try to watch myself.”
“Not on my account, although your command of terran profanity is fairly comprehensive.”
“I have an ear for languages.”
She half-sat on the edge of the table. “The problem is, Mac, that first and foremost, I’m a tactician. That’s my strength, what I was trained for. Analyzing an enemy’s weakness, seeing where they can be out-thought or defeated. That sort of thing is where I really come alive, Mac. But here, I feel like …”
“Like you’re wasting your time?”
She studied him and, to her surprise, she saw something in his eyes that she had thought he really wasn’t capable of: Hurt. He seemed hurt over the very notion that she would want to be elsewhere or that she could think that her time as first officer of the Excalibur was not a worthy test of her skill.
“No,” she said softly. “No … I don’t think that at all. Face it, Mac, you’d be lost without me.”
“I don’t know if I’d be lost,” he replied. “But I’d be far less eager to be found.”
She was genuinely touched. It was times like this that reminded her exactly how and why she had become involved with Mackenzie Calhoun in the first place. How they had wound up lovers, engaged to be married, until the relationship had broken down under the weight of their conflicting personalities. “That is so sweet,” she said.
He shrugged. “I have my moments.”
She found that she was looking at him in a way that she hadn’t in quite a long time. When she’d signed aboard the Excalibur, it had been for the purpose of more or less riding herd on Calhoun. Of making sure that he toed the line when it came to Starfleet policy. And she had been quite, quite sure that their history together and their past romance would not factor in to their day-to-day interaction.
But now …
“Do you really feel that way, Mac?”
He laughed gently, walked over to her, and put his hands on her shoulders. “You want me to be honest, Eppy? When you first came aboard and applied for the job as my first of
ficer, I was relieved to see you. Then, after I agreed to take you on, I decided that I must have been completely crazy to do so. And when we began fighting over protocol and the official Starfleet view of procedures—”
“That’s when you were really sorry that I was here?” she said teasingly, although she had a feeling, deep down, that she’d actually put her finger on it.
But he shook his head. “No. That’s the point at which I became convinced that taking you on was the absolute right thing to do. You make me think, Eppy.” He rapped the side of his head with his knuckles. “It’s not always easy to crack through this heavy-duty shielding into my head. I don’t always agree with what you say, Eppy. But even when we’re disagreeing, I’m still thinking about everything you say. You make me think, and that’s not always easy to do.”
“So you always listen to me, then.”
“Always,” he smiled.
The door to the conference lounge slid open, and standing there was Doctor Selar. She looked utterly composed, her arms folded across her chest. “Captain, may I speak to you in private for a moment?”
“I’ll just excuse myself then.” Shelby left, smiling to herself. For reasons Calhoun wasn’t certain of.
“This is … a delicate matter to discuss, Captain,” Selar said slowly.”
“I appreciate that,” Calhoun said. “And I think you’ll find that there is no matter so delicate that I can’t be trusted with it.”
“Very well, Captain.” She paused a moment, as if steeling herself. And then she said, “It is my desire to have sex with you.”
“My … apologies, Doctor,” Calhoun said slowly. “Did you just say you—”
“Desire to have sex with you, yes,” she nodded. “There is an explanation, which can be summarized in two words.”
“Good taste?” he suggested.
“PonFarr.”
“Ah. Well, that would have been my second guess.”
“That is a sort of … of Vulcan mating ritual, isn’t it?” Calhoun asked slowly. “I mean, I’ve heard rumors about it, but Vulcans tend to stay fairly closed-lipped about such things.”
“It is considered … inappropriate … to discuss the matter with outworlders,” Selar told her. “However, I feel I have no choice in the matter. Besides, it may be that my role as a clinician makes it … easier“—she forced the word out—”to discuss matters pertaining to a medical situation. It is not a ritual precisely. It is a … a drive. An urge that cannot be denied, no matter how much we may desire to do so.” She put a finger to her temple, as if to steady herself, and then said more calmly, “We must mate.”
“To conceive a child?” asked Calhoun.
“Yes. You see, it could easily be argued that there is no logical reason to have a child. Ever. They are burdensome, they are limiting, they habitually expel bodily fluids out of a variety of orifices at high velocity, and they are extremely time consuming. So, for a race whose every action is defined by logic, that race would—by definition—face extinction.”
“But to allow the demise of your race just to avoid child-rearing is also illogical,” pointed out Calhoun.
“In which case, perpetuation of the species becomes a chore. An obligation. To live with such an onerous situation is also not logical. Therefore our very nature, our bodies, have developed in such a way that logic simply does not enter into the conception of children.”
“Believe me, it’s frequently no different on Earth,” Calhoun said ruefully. He paused a moment, pulling himself back to the major topic at hand. “But certainly you can’t expect the captain—”
“I can and do,” Selar replied evenly. She looked straight into Calhoun’s eyes. “You are the most appropriate individual to handle this matter, Captain. At the moment, my options are extremely limited. The Pon Farr drive is in remission for the time being, so this need not be attended to immediately. But it will resurge again and again: each time with greater impetus and a greater need to be satisfied. I am requesting that, upon the next resurgence, when the drive is upon me, you satisfy my genetically driven lust. Will you honor my request, M’k’n’zy of Calhoun?”
“I shall consider it, Doctor,” Calhoun told her. “I’m leaning towards ‘yes,’ but can I have a little time to think about it?”
Despite her Vulcan training, Selar let out a sigh and sagged slightly in visible relief. “I am … pleased … to hear that. And yes, of course, take all the time you need. Just … not too much.”
“A request has been made of M’k’n’zy of Calhoun, the man I was,” Calhoun said reasonably. “I can’t turn that aside. Doctor, if I do agree to it, kindly let me know when and where you will find my … services … required. Several hours notice would be appreciated if that’s at all possible.”
“I will make every effort to accommodate you, Captain. And I would, in turn, appreciate if we could keep this matter between us.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
She nodded and, as if the matter were completely settled, she turned to leave to find that at some point in her conversation with the captain, the doors to his office had quietly opened by themselves.
At least half a dozen crewmen were walking past at the time. To say nothing of the fact that her voice apparently carried halfway down the corridor.
Selar visibly winced.
III
WORD WAS BEGINNING to spread.
It was sort of the reverse of a black hole: Instead of everything being sucked away into blackness and disappearing, the information was blasting outward in all directions. And it wasn’t as if the stories needed to be built upon; the truth itself was so insane that exaggeration was not required.
Nonetheless, matters did tend to build upon themselves, passing on from one world, one system to the next and becoming bigger and more impressive with each one. The Nelkarites, for example, heard of the two giant flaming birds that had smashed apart Thallon and then fought against the Excalibur. The refugees who had settled on Nelkar listened to the stories with unfettered astonishment. By the time word reached the Lemax system, however, and the warring races which inhabited it, the Excalibur had apparently morphed into an even greater flaming bird and faced off against the two fiery beasts which had sprung from the smoldering remains of Thallon.
The Boragi, upon hearing the news that two great flaming birds and one large flaming sheep had fought a pitched battled against an armada of morphing ships from the Federation and led by the Excalibur, wisely chose—as they oftentimes did—not to believe any information that came their way, and to take no aggressive action unless it could somehow serve them.
On Naldacor, the residents received word of the Thallonian developments, and burrowed deeper into the subsurface hiding places in their world, concerned that somehow the great flaming cat of which they heard so much might somehow come to seek them out.
Comar, on the outer rim, spread word to Xenex, where the triumph of the former M’k’n’zy of Calhoun over the flock of great flaming birds prompted the creation of a planetary holiday.
The news eventually filtered to Starfleet headquarters, where Edward Jellico’s head sank into his arms as he became convinced that the entirety of Sector 221-G had organized a massive hoax specifically designed to drive him completely insane.
And everywhere that word was received, there was much cause for speculation and wonderment as to what it all might mean. The name of Mackenzie Calhoun was repeated throughout the former Thallonian Empire with varying degrees of respect, awe, admiration, and even fear. This was, after all, the captain of the brave vessel which had withstood the attack of the giant flaming whatever. The valiant warrior who had settled a life-and-death dispute, driven by honor, when a world was literally falling apart around him. Clearly, a new force and power had come to the Thallonian Empire. He captained a mighty starship, with such servants as a being which seemed like a walking mountain, and Vulcans, and a feisty Earth woman (who, truth be known, would probably have blown her brains out if she’d known the word
“feisty” was being attached to her). And even the fallen Thallonian noble, Si Cwan, was said to travel with him. The situation seemed ripe with possibilities….
On the surface of it, Tulaan IV did not seem a particularly outstanding or impressive world. There were sections of it that were rather pleasant, with lush vegetation, warm climate, an abundance of water. The weather was fairly moderate, and overall it was attractive.
There was hardly anyone there. Instead there were machines, robots who harvested the food that grew there and shipped it elsewhere. There were a couple of individuals who maintained the robots, but that was the totality of the air-breathing inhabitants.
There was other terrain, however, that was cold and inhospitable. The nights were long, and the wind—nicknamed “monster breath” for the constant and remarkable chill that it always carried—blew steadily. Very little grew there except for a few stubborn patches of vegetation that appeared invulnerable to the hostility of the environment. The temperature never went much above freezing. All in all, considering the alternatives that Tulaan IV offered, this particular area, known as Medita, should have been fairly deserted. Instead, it was where the vast majority of Tulaan’s populace resided.
They were not great believers in luxuries or comfort. They felt that it was anathema for their chosen way of life. Theirs, instead, was a life of sacrifice, of thoughtful contemplation, of reading over their holy books. And—most sacred of all—complete domination of any worlds which did not fall into accord with their dogma.
They had a variety of names among many races, usually spoken in fear or hushed whispers. The name that they preferred for themselves was simply …
The Redeemers.
They lived in simple homes, and their main gathering place was the Great Hall, the single most impressive structure on Tulaan. That is to say, it was impressive by Tulaan standards. Several stories tall, with spires reaching toward the sky as if trying to caress it, and atop the Hall was a statue carved from a gleaming metal that seemed to absorb even the most meager of illumination as provided by the several Tulaan moons. It was a statue of someone that no living Redeemer had ever seen, but his portraits hung everywhere, and elaborate statues were among the few indulgences that the Redeemers allowed themselves. Probably because they did not consider them “indulgences” so much as objects of worship and respect.