by Peter David
“Really. I don’t recall being in any meetings where that was decided.”
“As I said, check for yourself if you don’t believe me. The simple fact is, Admiral, that Calhoun hasn’t made himself a ton of friends during his time in Starfleet, despite his services to you and me and even to the entirety of the Federation. They like the outcome of his efforts, but not how he goes about it. He’s already overstretched the leash they put him on, and now that he’s slipped it, the decision is to put him down. It’s your job to coordinate that effort and make sure it’s attended to, as expeditiously as possible. Now if you don’t feel that you are up to the task…”
“Your concern about what I am and am not ‘up to’ is duly noted, Admiral,” Jellico said. He suddenly became aware that he was squeezing so tightly on the underside of his desk that his knuckles were turning white. He eased up before he lost feeling in his hands. “I assure you that, once I’ve verified these orders through channels—as you have so graciously suggested I do—I will carry them out to the best ability that my many years of service can provide.”
“That,” said Nechayev with a slight bow, “is all I could have asked.”
Tusari looked from one to the other and then bowed as well. “Then it seems we are done here.”
Oh no, we’re not, Jellico thought. We’re not done by a long shot. We’re just getting started.
Xenex
Now
More Brethren vessels had returned. Scarcely hours after the initial assault upon their original landing party, the Brethren had shown up in force, ready to lay waste to anyone and everyone in their path. Calhoun could only imagine how puzzled they must have been to discover exactly no one and nothing standing in their way.
The Xenexians had dispersed. Men, women, children, all of them had cleared out, hiding in the mountainous terrain that composed their land and served them well in fighting back against invading forces. They would have had to be completely insane to remain where they were, making themselves targets for any subsequent newcomers. Xenexians were many things, but insane was most definitely not one of them.
They had taken time to do only one thing: Build a pyre for their fallen leader, D’ndai. Calhoun had stood there, watching the flames lick his brother’s body, blacken his skin, and burn him to cinders. Some of the floating ash wound up on Calhoun’s face, and he did nothing to brush it away.
He had known how unnecessary all of this had been. If his brother had only let him turn himself over to the Brethren, none of this would have happened. Instead D’ndai had insisted on handling matters himself, and now look where it had gotten him. Just look.
They will pay. They will all pay, Calhoun had thought grimly.
He had then formed the Xenexians into ranks. There were too many of them to keep as one large force. Until they knew what it was they were dealing with, they needed to employ strictly guerrilla tactics combined with the strategy of retreat first put forward by the Roman dictator Quintus Fabius Maximus Verrucosus. There would be no meeting with the Brethren in prolonged, face-to-face battle. Instead the Xenexians would fall back, they would hide, and they would strike from hiding in hopes of wearing down their enemies. It was the only strategy that could serve them in the long run.
They had then spread throughout the land, making a dozen encampments, bringing enough supplies with them that each encampment would be self-contained. Communication was done entirely with runners.
And still, with all that… with all that…
Calhoun had already lost more people than he would have thought possible. The Brethren had not hesitated to go off into the mountains, searching out the Xenexians, and tracking Calhoun and his people relentlessly. The Xenexians had fought back, and they had outmaneuvered, and they had taken down a number of the bastards, but more of them continued to come in unrelenting waves.
Yet Calhoun remained convinced that the long run was going to favor him. This would not, could not, go on indefinitely. Sooner or later, his crew was going to figure out what was going on. They would figure it out and—
And what? Morgan was in charge of the ship. What if they wanted to return to Xenex, and Morgan—as would invariably be the case—decided that she didn’t think that was such a good idea?
Now the events that he had set into motion by contacting Soleta were growing in urgency and importance. He had laid out a plan to expunge Morgan from the ship once and for all, but he was counting on a woman who had turned into a renegade Romulan spy to be his salvation. Suddenly what had seemed a fairly reliable strategy appeared full of holes, and he wondered whether he had pushed his famed luck beyond the breaking point. He was counting on a great deal of things to go right in relation to a situation where almost nothing had gone right.
“This must be very hard on you.”
Calhoun had been leaning against an outcropping of rock when the female voice spoke silkily from behind him. He turned and saw the image of his wife smiling at him.
“If you really think that I’m going to lead you to my people, you are badly mistaken,” he informed her.
“If you really think we care in the slightest about your people, it is you who are badly mistaken,” the false Shelby replied. “This is an egomaniac’s dream, Calhoun. It’s about you. It’s all about you.”
“Get out of my wife’s face,” said Calhoun, “or we have nothing else to talk about.”
She shrugged in what seemed a very human manner. “If it will expedite matters,” she said, and there was a slight shimmer along her body. Seconds later, the D’myurj was standing in front of him, and he (Calhoun took it to be a “he”) inclined his head slightly. “Is this preferable?”
It was still difficult for Calhoun to make out precisely what the D’myurj looked like. He was suffused with a glowing blue light that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, and his body was translucent, constantly shifting and shimmering. But at least he didn’t look like Shelby anymore, so that was a plus.
“What’s the purpose of this game?” said Calhoun. He tried not to let the exhaustion he was feeling be apparent to the D’myurj. “You know where I am. You could just beam me out. My people would never know what happened to me. They’d assume I was killed.”
“And your legend would live on.”
“What the hell do you care about my legend?”
It was hard to get any sense of the D’myurj’s facial expressions, but his voice projected carefully maintained sadness. “How little you understand us, Calhoun. Of course we care about your legend. We care about everything. There are vast aspects to this that you cannot comprehend. How can I explain the full picture to you when you can’t even see the frame?”
“Why not give it a try?” said Calhoun.
The D’myurj regarded him with interest. “You know… in many ways, you remind me of Selar. She had that same look of determination on her face, right before she blew herself to oblivion.”
“You were there.”
“Oh yes. I was there on AF1963 when she set her phaser to self-destruct and annihilated our entire operation.”
“The purpose of which was to create clone bodies for you creatures to inhabit, so you could infiltrate all aspects of Federation life. Am I right?”
“That is one small part of it, yes. I believe I will keep the rest of it to myself.”
Calhoun turned away from him and picked a random direction in which to walk. A moment later, the D’myurj was floating in front of him, pacing him effortlessly. “Calhoun, it’s important that you understand—”
“You keep saying that, but not explaining why.”
“Because you have placed yourself squarely into the middle of all this, and people have died because of it. It’s more a matter of respect than anything else.”
Calhoun laughed bitterly at that. “Really. Respect.”
“Yes. Why, what else?”
“I’m thinking it’s more an attempt to try and wear me down psychologically.”
“Think what you wish.”
“I usually do.”
The sun was fast approaching the horizon, and Calhoun was relieved because the heat was truly beginning to wear on him. He was looking forward to a bit of time in the shadow. He wasn’t deluding himself into thinking that he would be able to hide from the D’myurj at this point, but at least he could get some rest in the coolness of the shade.
“I’ve studied you, Calhoun. More than that: I’ve been watching you. And your most consistent attribute is that you remain resolutely your own man. You do not bow to peer pressure, nor do you willingly live in the world as it is presented to you. Instead you live the life you wish and wait for the world to catch up with you.”
Calhoun didn’t bother to answer.
The D’myurj kept talking; apparently Calhoun’s response was not required to keep the conversation going. “I am similar to you in that respect. Do you know what I am?”
“A pain in the ass.”
“I am a visionary. More: I am the Visionary. Because I, of all my people, am able to see what is going to happen to all living things if matters are allowed to proceed as they currently are.”
“And what would that be?”
“Terrible things, Calhoun. So terrible…” He actually seemed to shudder, although Calhoun assumed that to be an affectation rather than genuine concern. “So terrible that others of my race cannot begin to see it. They still believe in the fundamental potential of living beings.”
“And you don’t.”
“No. Because I am a Visionary, as I said, and am uniquely able to understand the truth of things.” His voice sounded heavy with knowledge that was weighing him down. “The future is open to me. The end of all things is open to me. I have seen what is to come, the future of this galaxy, and I am here to tell you that, in the great, infinite body of the universe, that which you would call ‘life’ is nothing but an infection. An infection that will, sooner or later, destroy the body.”
“You want me to believe that the mere existence of life is going to destroy the universe.”
“Yes.”
“That’s ridiculous,” said Calhoun flatly. “Life developed from nature. Nature would never create something that will lead to its own destruction.”
“That would seem a viable theory, but in fact, it is erroneous,” said the D’myurj. “Living bodies ‘create’ things that are poisonous to the system all the time. And you keep finding cures for them, but your bodies come up with new things all the time that are self-destructive. And all living beings were made in the image of the universe. Therefore it stands to reason…”
“It doesn’t stand to reason. Nothing you’re saying makes any sense.”
“It all makes perfect sense. It’s hardly my fault if you simply don’t want to see it. If it’s of any consolation, others of my race did not want to see it either. So you should not feel alone in your beliefs, even though the proof of what I say is right in front of you, should you care to look.”
“Oh, is it now.”
“Yes, it is. Remember, for instance, when your beloved Starfleet personnel were exceeding the safe limit of warp speed and, as a consequence of your precipitous actions, damaging the very fabric of space-time?”
“Of course. But we took action in response. The Council implemented a limit of warp five, except in emergency situations. And it was subsequently corrected. All you’re doing is holding up an example of how we rose to a situation and worked together to fix it. Hardly an instance of life being about destruction.”
“Ah, but what if you had not realized the damage you were doing?”
“But we did.”
“But what. If you. Had not? What if the damage to the space-time continuum had persisted until it was too late? The fact is that you got lucky. The universe cannot count on luck.
“And what if there are other races in other galaxies, with similar technology, who have not realized the danger it represents?”
“We can’t assume that all FTL drives represent a danger,” said Calhoun.
“We can’t assume that they don’t,” shot back the Visionary, “and considering your own situation, isn’t it preferable to anticipate the worst? And that’s just a single aspect of the destructive nature of living creatures, Calhoun. Just one tiny piece of it. Do you have any idea, for instance, what happens to the separations between the multiverse every time one of you goes back in time and mucks with the continuum? Do you begin to see the vastness of the big picture that I’m trying to lay out for you?”
Never in a million years would Calhoun have admitted that he did. Never would he have acknowledged that a lot of what the so-called Visionary was saying made sense. The concepts that were being described… they seemed just too big for one Starfleet captain to weigh in on.
So instead he said nothing. He just kept walking, resigned to the idea that the D’myurj was going to keep after him, yammering away about concepts that he didn’t want to dwell upon.
The Visionary had been speaking with increasing intensity, but now his tone calmed and he said with what sounded like quiet reverence, as if he were speaking of a holy object: “The others of my kind believe in the future of life. They believe in working behind the scenes, helping various races reach the pinnacle of their genetic development and eventually become beings of pure thought, such as the Organians. Such beings do not pose any threat to the universe because they are so much a part of it. The poor fools believe that it is the destiny of all races to reach that level of advancement, sooner or later, and they are content believing time to be on their side. I, on the other hand, know that the goal is unattainable and time is not on our side.”
“So you intend to destroy all life. What of the Brethren? Would you see them disposed of as well?”
The Visionary appeared to shrug, which was a strangely human gesture for him to make. “I never said all races would be obliterated. Only those presenting a threat. The rest will survive in order to provide the Brethren… how best to put it?” Then the Visionary seemed to smile. “Sport, I suppose. And the Brethren are satisfied with that. They ask so little of life, it’s almost sweet.”
“Well, they’re going to have to look elsewhere,” said Calhoun, “because if you think that I’m going to lead them to—”
That was when Calhoun heard the name “M’k’n’zy!” being shouted in jubilation.
Calhoun knew for a fact that there were no Xenexian camps set up in the area. He was carrying in his head all the locations, both likely and unlikely, that his people would be hiding, and was certain that he was nowhere near any of them.
But coming toward him was a scouting party of about thirty or so Xenexians, making their joy at finding him known in jubilant chants that easily carried quite a distance.
He couldn’t blame them for their enthusiasm. Plus the fact that they were showing themselves indicated to him that they had not discerned any Brethren within the area.
His head whipped around and he saw the pleased expression on what there was of the glowing face on the Visionary, and he knew that even as the Visionary hovered there, the bastard was busy sending coordinates—of not only Calhoun’s location, but a squadron of enemy Xenexian warriors—directly to the Brethren. In finding Calhoun, they had effectively brought destruction down upon themselves.
“Enjoy the battle,” said the D’myurj, “and while you’re dwelling upon everything I’ve said, you may want to give some consideration to the possibility that maybe—just maybe—you’re on the wrong side.”
That was the last thing the D’myurj said before he vanished.
U.S.S. Excalibur
Also Now
The Excalibur was still not moving as quickly as Burgoyne would have liked. It seemed to hir at this point that Morgan was toying with them. She could have allowed them to go to full warp, but instead she was controlling the systems to such a degree that the ship could go no faster.
“We need to get the hell out of Thallonian space,” Burgoyne said heatedly to Chief Engineer Mitchell. S/he str
ode through engineering, looking in frustration at the powerful warp engines that—with even minimal thrust—would get them clear of dangerous enemy territory. “I appreciate that we’re going as fast as impulse power will allow us, but that’s not enough.”
“You think I’m unaware of that, Burgy?” said Mitchell in frustration, his bearded face glistening with sweat. “I’ve run every counterprogram I can think of, and I can’t get the warp engines to fire up. What do you expect me to do? Climb in there and hit them with a spanner until they come to life?”
“I don’t need sarcasm, Craig. I need answers.”
“Well, unfortunately, I don’t have any answers handy, so sarcasm is pretty much the only tool I have left in my box.”
“Look, Craig—”
“No, you look, Burgy. We both know this used to be your territory, and the fact is that you’ve probably forgotten more about engineering than I’ll ever know. So give me a hint. Point me in the right direction. I’ve gone over with you everything I’m trying to do, none of which is getting us anywhere. Tell me what I’m missing.”
Burgoyne growled low in hir throat. “Nothing,” s/he admitted. “There’s nothing I can think of. All the redundant and fail-safe systems we have are geared around allowing for a collapse of the computer so that we have to take over everything manually. We never built in anything to allow for the computer actively fighting us.”
“Well, maybe we should get right on that. You never know when it’ll come in handy,” said Mitchell drily.
Suddenly Burgoyne’s combadge beeped at hir. S/he tapped it. “Burgoyne.”
“You’d better get up here, Commander,” came Kebron’s voice. He didn’t sound happy.
“On my way. Burgoyne out.” S/he turned to Mitchell and said, “Keep trying.”
“Good advice there, Burgy. I was originally figuring on going fetal and crying softly in the corner after you left, but instead I’ll keep trying.”
Burgoyne headed for the turbolift, wondering if there was anyone on the damned ship whose default response wasn’t sarcasm.