by Peter David
“No. No, I don’t think you’re joking at all.” He couldn’t take his eyes off Darg’s massive form. Darg had hardly been a weakling when last they met, but he hadn’t been the colossus that he was now. “There had been rumors that Darg had survived our encounter a few years ago, but I had no idea he’d gone this active again.” He considered the implications of the news. “So Darg is behind these raids—”
“I didn’t say he was behind them; merely that he’s involved. We believe that the person who is actually behind them is this individual…”
A Thallonian whom Calhoun did not recognize appeared on the screen. It was an older individual, with yellowing beard and a surprisingly gentle look on his face.
“He is General Gerrid Thul. He’s a Thallonian noble. We don’t have any visual proof that he’s connected directly to Darg. If he is, then he’s been either too lucky or too clever to be caught on camera.”
“Then why do you think he is connected?”
“Because the report came in from an intelligence officer who subsequently wound up dead.”
“Dead.” He frowned. “Who?”
“McNicol.”
This prompted a gasp from Calhoun. “McNicol. He was good. He was damned good. He’s dead? Are you sure?”
“There was barely enough left of him for a genetic trace, but yes, he’s dead.”
The news caused Calhoun to look even more intently at the image of General Thul which sat on the screen. He could almost imagine a look of contempt in Thul’s expression. Whatever it was that Thul was playing at, a personal face had suddenly been attached to it: The face of Jack McNicol, a dedicated and clever agent who had paid the ultimate price in his pursuit of keeping the Federation safe.
Nechayev, for her part, didn’t seem to be giving McNicol any further thought. It was as if she needed to move on to the next crisis immediately. “Thul has had a rather rocky career. He was imprisoned for a while on charges of treason and attempted murder, but served his time and was released. At the tail end of his tenure in prison, he managed to convince the powers that be that he was a changed man. It’s possible he is…”
“People don’t change.”
“You did,” she pointed out.
He fixed a gaze on her. “No, I didn’t. At heart, I am as I always was. I’ve simply gotten better at covering it, that’s all. Watch…”
And just like that, he seemed to relax his guard. Nechayev looked into his eyes, and there was a world of hurt and anger and cold, calculating fury, all warring for dominance behind those eerie purple eyes.
Then, just as easily, he “veiled” his eyes once more. They went to half-lidded, and he seemed so relaxed that he might have been mistaken for a sleeping man…or possibly a corpse.
“You see?” he said softly. “It’s all still there. M’k’n’zy of Calhoun, the warrior, the slayer of Danteri, the liberator of the planet Xenex. The barbarian who had no place in Starfleet. I keep him locked away…for when I might need him. So…my point remains. People don’t change.”
“I could still endeavor to argue that, but I don’t see the need right now,” she said diplomatically. “You see, in this instance, I happen to agree with you. I don’t think he’s changed either. From what we were able to gather from McNicol before he was lost to us, Thul has some sort of personal grudge against the Federation. McNicol was a bit unclear on it, and didn’t have the opportunity to clarify it before he died. But apparently someone dear to Thul died under unfortunate circumstances which he blames the Federation for.”
“And is he right to do so?” asked Calhoun. “Was the Federation responsible for the death of this individual?”
“Considering that the whole of the Federation, every world with sentient races, certainly wouldn’t deserve to suffer if that were the case, do you really think it matters?”
“It might. To him.”
“And does it to you?”
Once again that veiled look passed over his eyes. He didn’t answer, but instead simply said, “What do you want me to do, Admiral?”
She bobbed her head slightly, as if acknowledging Calhoun’s having skipped over a potentially problematic part of the conversation. “Despite his being an outspoken critic of the Federation in the past, Thul has now positioned himself as a supporter of the UFP since the thawing of relations between the Thallonian Empire and the UFP. He’s got a good deal of personal charm; he’s managed to make some rather high-placed friends. And that means I can’t use my normal channels of support in investigating this. You’re uniquely qualified for this situation, Mac. You’ve had more experience with Thallonians than anyone else in the Fleet.” She paused and glanced at her computer screen. “There’s going to be a reception in San Francisco to launch a week’s worth of festivities in connection with the bicentennial…”
“The one Riker was supposed to attend.”
“Precisely. Thul is going to be there; he’s on the guest list. I’ve arranged with Admiral Wattanbe—who shares my concerns—that you will be there as well. I want you to get close to Thul, find out what he’s up to…and once you do…stop him.”
“You’re forgetting something, Admiral: There’s the matter of Zolon Darg. Even if I do manage to work myself close in with Thul, sooner or later I’ll be faceto-face with Darg. He’ll recognize me. Perhaps I should go in some sort of disguise…”
“Thul’s too cautious. If his plans, whatever they are, are coming to fruition, he might not be so quick to welcome a complete stranger into his ranks. But you have a reputation as a maverick, Mac. You’ve had a publicized ‘falling out’ with Starfleet before. Dissatisfaction and a willingness to break the rules will be believable coming from you. The fortunate thing is, if you do run into Darg, he has no reason to assume that you were working with SI or had any Starfleet or UFP agenda.”
“Meaning I can always pretend I was acting in a freelance capacity for a rival, so that he won’t automatically assume that my presence now is part of a covert operation.”
“Precisely.”
“That’s all well and good as far as it goes. But even as a ‘freelancer,’ I did happen to blow his operation to hell and gone. He might be the sort who carries a grudge.”
“Perhaps. But I have every confidence that you’ll be able to handle him.”
“I’m flattered.”
“Report to research and development, two decks down, room 18. The Professor will provide you with some specialized tools and weaponry that might be of use to you.”
“It’s starting to seem just like old times, Admiral. Of course, we’re both a little older…”
“But probably no wiser, else I wouldn’t be sending you into this.” She sighed. “Mac…be careful. I’d hate to lose you.”
“I’d hate to be lost,” he replied, and as he started to walk out, he stopped at her door, turned and said, “By the way…I’ll want my vehicle. And this time I’ll want to keep it, rather than returning it to SI. Signed over to me, so no matter what happens in the future, it will go with me rather than being part of Starfleet equipment.”
“That shuttle isn’t your property, Captain.”
“That’s somewhat the point, Admiral. I want it. Think of it as an incentive bonus.”
“Think of yourself,” replied Nechayev, “as a Starfleet officer who does what he’s told.”
“I’ve tried that. It doesn’t work.”
They locked gazes…and then Nechayev fought to hide a smile as she said, “Fine. I’ll put through the paperwork.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
“In all probability,” Nechayev added, “the entire question will be moot, since you’ll probably wind up dead as a result of this mission.”
“So you win either way.”
“Well,” and she shrugged, “being an Admiral does have its perks.”
The room was empty. Calhoun checked the markings just outside to make certain that he’d come to the right place. There were some counters, table
tops, a few cabinets. But nothing was laid out, and there didn’t appear to be anyone around. “Hello?” Calhoun called out. And when no reply seemed forthcoming, he called once more, “Hello?”
“You don’t have to shout. I’m not deaf.”
Calhoun turned and looked in utter confusion at the man standing behind him. He could have sworn that there had been no one else there, but this fellow had simply seemed to show up out of nowhere. He was wearing a Starfleet uniform. He had a somewhat long face, and dark, curly hair, but the thing that Calhoun noticed the most about him was the singular air of arrogance that hung thick around him.
“I didn’t see you here,” Calhoun said. “Are you the Professor?”
The man looked at Calhoun oddly. “Why do you want to know?” he asked.
“I’m here to get weapons. That sort of thing.”
“The survival of Galactic civilization is hinging upon you, you know,” the presumed Professor told him. He spoke in a rather strange manner, as if he were lecturing from a very great distance.
“So I’ve heard.”
“Perhaps you have, but I don’t think you yet fully appreciate the magnitude.” He shook his head, seemingly amused with himself. “I must admit to being somewhat intrigued to see where it all winds up, providing humanity—and the rest of the Federa-tion—is allowed to continue through to its natural conclusion rather than an aborted one. That would be something to see.”
“I couldn’t agree more,” Calhoun said, deciding it’d be best to humor him. “So…what have you got?”
“Well, there’s some interesting things here. There’s also some things that can be improved upon.” He started opening cabinets and pulling out an assortment of materials, looking each thing over and inspecting it closely. “The trick is going to be enabling you to avoid whatever weapons detection devices they might have. But such devices are only as good as their programming. That is to say, if they don’t know what to look for, they won’t find it. Here.”
He held up what appeared to be a tooth, but when he tilted it, Calhoun could see that it was hollowed out inside. “Here. Slip this over one of your molars.” Calhoun did as he was told, and then the Professor said, “Now press the back of it with your tongue.”
He did so, and to his surprise, three identical replicas of himseff appeared around him. They did not simply mirror him, however. Instead each one moved and reacted in its own, individual manner.
“Portable holo-generator. It generates hard-light holograms, just as you have in holodecks. So not only can they serve as distractions, but you also triple your manpower in one shot. Push it again with the back of your tongue to shut it off.”
Calhoun did so, and then the Professor handed him a scar. Calhoun took it and stared down at it. It was an exact replica of the scar on his face.
“It’s an explosive,” said the Professor. “Hide the weapon in plain sight.”
“Am I risking blowing my head off?”
“Not at all. Nothing can set it off as long as the circuit isn’t completed. You simply take the two ends and twist them around each other. That engages it, and the chemicals inside it begin to interact and build toward detonation. Once the chemical reaction has begun, there’s no stopping it. You’ll have about fifteen minutes to clear the area before it blows.”
Calhoun held the scar gingerly. “Oookay,” he said slowly. He lined it up with the scar on his face and pressed it against it. He heard a small hiss of air and a seal was promptly engaged, adhering the fake scar to his face. The metal of the cabinet was highly polished, and he was able to see in his reflection that the blend was perfect. If he himself had not known, he wouldn’t have been able to tell.
“This is almost standard issue by this point,” said the professor. He extended a fairly nondescript ring which contained a round emblem at one end. “Push it firmly against someone’s skin, and it injects a subcutaneous transponder which sends out a homing signal. You’ll be able to track anyone.”
“Convenient. No woman will dare brush me off again.”
The professor didn’t seem amused. “Now…this next thing is a pip.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a pip.” And sure enough, he held up what appeared to be a standard-issue pip that indicated rank. “If you’re not in uniform, you can still easily attach it to a collar or other article of clothing.”
“What’s significant about it?”
“Put it on.” When Calhoun had done so, the Professor said, “Now say, ‘Activate transporter, right.”
“Activate transporter, right,” Calhoun said, wondering why he was doing so. Then, to his astonishment, he suddenly heard a familiar hum around him…and an instant later, he was standing on the other side of the room.
“Short range personal transport device. Moves you ten feet in whichever direction you indicate you want it to go. Just be careful, though. You wouldn’t want to move into the middle of a solid object.”
“Definitely not.” He studied the pip. “I didn’t think Federation technology had anything like this.”
“Officially, It doesn’t. Now…here. You can probably use an offensive weapon as well. He produced from a cupboard a pair of boots that were exactly Calhoun’s size. He turned them over and, from the right one, removed the heel. He proffered it to Calhoun for closer examination, and Calhoun immediately saw the small, tell-tale barrel of some sort of phaser weapon inserted neatly into the inner edge of the heel. “Squeeze the middle with thumb and forefinger top and bottom, that’ll produce a stun blast. Squeeze in at the sides, that’ll get you level two power. It will only respond to your DNA imprint, so you actually have to be holding it.”
“You mean I don’t have to worry about stepping down too hard and shooting myself in the foot.”
“Something like that,” said the Professor. “The left heel contains a communications device. I’ll show you.” He tapped the middle of the heel and a small, palm-size device slid out. He removed it and held it up. “Under normal circumstances it would only get you standard range, but I’ve improved it.”
“Improved it…how?”
“Total security bypass.”
“Total security bypass?”
“That’s correct, yes. Plus its broadcast will piggyback on any other signals it detects giving it almost unlimited range.”
“Oh really.” He tapped the comm button and said, “Calhoun to Admiral Jellico, Starfleet headquarters, San Francisco. Come in please. Admiral…my men are under attack by a squad of berserk Amazon women and I can’t get them to leave. Please advise.”
He smiled wanly at the professor, and then the smile froze as back over the communicator came the unmistakeable, and clearly irritated, voice of Admiral Jellico. “This is Jellico. Amazon women? Who the hell is this? Calhoun, is that—?”
Stunned, Calhoun said in a high-pitched voice, “Sorry,” and shut down the line. Then he gaped at the professor.
There was no smile on the professor’s face, not a hint of amusement or triumph. He simply stared at Calhoun impassively.
“That’s very impressive,” Calhoun said slowly.
The professor took a step toward him, and in a low voice tinged with warning, said, “Yes it is, isn’t it? Apparently you have been selected to be the champion of the galaxy. I’ve decided to give you a slight edge. The rest is up to you.”
Calhoun stared into those implacable eyes for a long moment. “Who are you?” he demanded.
“Me? I’m simply the fellow in research and development who hands out the weapons.” With that, he turned and walked out the door. Calhoun quickly followed him out…but saw no sign of him.
VII.
“I WILL ATTEND TO IT, Captain Riker,” Si Cwan said with confidence. The Thallonian noble made a few more notes as he looked across the desk of the captain’s ready room at Riker. “I have certain…avenues…I can check. If there is a hidden Romulan base, I might very well be able to get some indication of where it is.”
Seated next to him was Robin Lefler, who was also taking notes. In addition to her position at Ops, Robin had taken on the additional duty of personal aide to Si Cwan. Riker felt himself to be something of an aficionado of the ways in which the human heart moved, and as he watched Lefler try—perhaps a bit too hard—to be all business with Cwan, he had the funny feeling that there might be more motivating her than simply trying to be a good officer or find ways to fill the day. Then again, it wasn’t really any of his business or his place to comment. So, rather wisely, he kept his opinions on the matter to himself.
“Do you want me to send out the messages?” Lefler asked him.
Si Cwan shook his head. “No…no, I think it’d be best if these came directly from me. Thank you for the offer, though.”
“And thank you, Lord Cwan, for your assistance in this matter,” Riker said.
“ ‘Lord’ Cwan.” He smiled slightly at the title.
“Did I miss a joke?”
“It’s simply that I cannot recall the last time I was addressed with the title. Here on the Excalibur, they tend to address me simply by my name.”
“And you tolerate that?” Riker asked in amusement.
He shrugged slightly. “I tolerate the familiarity. They, in turn, tolerate my presence. A philosophy of mutual tolerance, I suppose you’d say.”
“I am rather pleased to hear it, Lord Cwan…partic-ularly considering the rather incendiary nature of our last meeting.”
“Incendiary” had hardly been the word for it, as Riker recalled. The first, and last time, that he had seen Si Cwan was right around the time that the Thallonian empire was beginning to crack apart. Si Cwan, exiled but still imperious, had sought out the Federation for aid, and Riker had been present at the meeting where that aid had been decided upon.
“I have not forgotten, Captain,” Si Cwan said with a measure of respect in his voice, “your contribution to that meeting. You not only took my side in the discussion…but it was you who recommended the assignment of this vessel to Thallonian space. If not for you none of this would have been possible.”