by Peter David
Riker said nothing, but he couldn’t help but feel that the temperature in the turbolift had just dropped rather precipitously.
Calhoun glanced up as Riker and Shelby entered the captain’s ready room. They walked in several feet, both stopped, smiled gamely in perfect unison, and stood at parade rest. He looked from one to the other.
“Have a tiff, did we?” he inquired.
“Simply a spirited discussion, sir,” Shelby said. Riker nodded slightly in affirmation.
“Mm hmm.” Believing that it would probably be wiser not to pursue it, he called out, “Bridge to Lefler. We’re ready. Put the comm through.”
When the face of the Starfleet officer calling them came on screen, no one could have been more surprised than Calhoun. He hadn’t been expecting anyone in particular, and yet, despite that, this was the last person he was expecting.
One would not, however, have had any inkling of his astonishment from his voice. Instead, without blinking an eye, he said, “Admiral Nechayev. A pleasure as always. I wasn’t expecting to hear from you. This business is a bit outside your normal purview, isn’t it?”
Nechayev looked a bit older than when he’d last seen her. A little jowlier, a little grayer. He’d always been impressed how little the strains of her job seemed to weigh on her, but he had to assume that time caught up with everyone…even the Iron Woman of Starfleet. “My purview tends to expand as the need arises,” she said drily. “Commander Riker, it’s good to see you hale and whole. Your loss would have been a terrible blow to the public relations plans for the bicentennial.”
Riker bowed slightly at the waist. “I appreciate your concern, Admiral.”
“There’s humanitarian concerns as well, of course, plus Starfleet’s interest in the money they’ve invested in you as an officer…but those worries would likely be outside my purview, and I wouldn’t want to tempt Captain Calhoun’s wrath.”
Calhoun noticed Shelby hiding a smile behind her hand, but he chose not to comment on it.
Quickly becoming all-business, Nechayev said, “And how is Captain Garfield?”
“I believe Commander Riker was the last one to speak with him.” Calhoun half-turned in his chair and looked to Riker.
Riker nodded briskly. “If anything, I’d say he’s somewhat in shock.”
“If he weren’t, I’d think there’s something wrong with him. Poor George. A good man. He, and his crew, deserved better than this.” She shook her head, a grim expression on her face. Then she continued, “A transport is under way, Captain, as promised. You will leave Thallonian space and proceed to Deep Space 4, where you will discharge your passengers. And you, captain, will join them.”
There was a brief moment of unspoken confusion in the ready room. “I’m sorry…say again, Admiral?” said Calhoun. “I’m joining them on Deep Space 4?”
“That is correct.”
“And the Excalibur is to remain on station for how long?”
“She is not to wait for you. I will be meeting with you on DS4, to discuss a matter of some urgency. The Excalibur is to return immediately to Thallonian space and continue the investigation of this Romulan attack. We’ve put our best people on it, and they’ve come up with one or two possibilities: Either it was random chance that the Romulans intercepted the Independence where they did, or else there’s a secret Romulan stronghold somewhere in Thallonian space.”
“Thank heavens we had the best minds in Starfleet to come up with that,” Shelby commented. The remark was, of course, not lost on Calhoun. He knew perfectly well that Shelby had come to the exact same conclusions all on her own. It was probably Elizabeth’s greatest curse, he decided, to feel that she was consistently undervalued as an officer. Not only was she hungry for her own command and feeling thwarted that she hadn’t received it yet, but he knew that she still felt a certain degree of “exile” in her current post as second-in-command to Calhoun. She believed she was ready for a command of her own, and truth to tell, so did Calhoun. That didn’t stop him from valuing her contributions and presence as first officer. There was probably no one else in Starfleet whose advice Calhoun would readily listen to, even though he frequently gave Shelby the impression that he was hardly attending to anything she said.
“Either way,” Nechayev was saying, “we want the Excalibur to look into the matter and see what you can discern either way.”
“How long will I be away from her?” Calhoun asked.
“Impossible to say at this point.”
But Calhoun wasn’t really listening to what she was saying. Instead he was attending to what she wasn’t saying…and it spoke volumes.
Some years earlier, Calhoun had departed Starfleet under rather acrimonious circumstances. It had been Nechayev who had seen a potential waste of material and had drafted Calhoun to work freelance for The Division of Starfleet Intelligence, that she oversaw. Her connection to SI was not widely known. She had other, more prominent and promoted duties to which she attended, most of which simply served as cover for her SI responsibilities. After all, it wouldn’t do for any communiqué from Nechayev’s office to immediately carry with it a likelihood that there was something going on with Starfleet Intelligence. Notoriety is counterproductive to secrecy.
But Calhoun, who had done a number of jobs for her on “his own,” knew all too well. He also knew that DS4 was an outpost station for SI, another fact that was neatly hidden from the public at large. If Nechayev was meeting him there, it was because she wanted to assign him to something. He wasn’t especially sanguine about it, considering those days long behind him. But he was also aware that if Nechayev had targeted him for an SI assignment, then there had to be a pretty damned good reason. She wouldn’t be removing him as captain merely on a whim. He trusted her judgment that much, at least. Still…he was beginning to wonder whether this might actually be a precursor to an extended departure from the Excalibur, or even a permanent loss of command as Starfleet arbitrarily decided that his talents could better be served elsewhere than the bridge of a starship.
As if reading his mind—which he was convinced Nechayev was actually capable, on occasion, of doing—Nechayev smiled and added, “Don’t worry, captain. It won’t be indefinite. Simply a matter that needs to be attended to. You’ll be back with your ship as soon as possible.”
“Very well.” Although his next remark was addressed to Nechayev, he was looking at Shelby when he said it. “I have every confidence that the Excalibur will be in good hands during my absence.” Shelby inclined her head slightly in response as if to say, Thank you.
“As are we,” Nechayev said. “Commander Riker has proven his capability time and again, and we are certain he won’t disappoint us this time, either.”
The words hung there. Of everyone in the room, it was Riker who seemed the most astounded. “Admiral…I assumed that I would be departing on DS4, to head back for the bicentennial…”
“Never assume, Commander. It makes an ass of ‘u’ and ‘me.’ Well…not of me, in this case, but you get the idea. Did they never teach you that at the Academy?”
“Yes, they did, but I…”
“The simple fact, Commander, is that we’re taking advantage of your presence there. You not only have more experience with Romulans than does Commander Shelby, but you’re certainly the most familiar with the operative named Sela. You know how she thinks, how she plans…you can likely second-guess her strategies. You will receive a field promotion to ‘captain’ for the duration of your stay aboard the Excalibur, and assume command as soon as Captain Calhoun has departed.”
“But Admiral, I…” He glanced at Shelby, whose face was a mask, and said, “it’s my belief that Commander Shelby is perfectly capable…”
“That is my belief as well. But I believe you to be more so, and intend to exploit that. Commander Riker,” and there was just a hint of warning in her voice, “are you turning down a command…again?”
There was a momentary silence, and then Riker drew himself up and sai
d crisply, “No, ma’am.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Captain Calhoun, I shall see you shortly. Captain Riker…good luck and good hunting. And if you have any difficulties, I know we can count on Commander Shelby to give you full back-up.”
“Absolutely, ma’am,” Shelby said without hesitation.
“Starfleet out.”
No one said anything for a time, and then Calhoun said, “Commander…I’m sorry, Captain…Riker…since apparently you’ll be here for a time, I suggest you go down to ship’s stores and obtain some things you might need, considering that whatever possessions you were travelling with were blown up. Some off-duty clothing, toothbrush, that sort of thing. I’ll have Miss Lefler give you a more detailed tour of the ship at your earliest convenience, and introduce you to some of the key personnel. We’re a rather…relaxed group around here. I’m sure you’ll fit right in.”
“I’m sure I will, sir.”
“Dismissed.”
Riker turned and left. Shelby didn’t even glance after him. Instead her gaze was focused on the now-blank screen that Nechayev had been on moments later.
“Are you going to be all right, Elizabeth?” he asked with as much genuine concern as he could get into his voice.
“Not…immediately. In a while, perhaps…but not immediately.”
She stopped talking and simply stood there, still staring at the screen. She didn’t seem to show any inclination to leave, but she appeared so seized with contained rage that she couldn’t quite figure out the best way to move.
Calhoun picked up the remaining green ball. “In point of fact,” he said slowly, “it was Nechayev who gave me these…well…this. Would you care to…?” He extended the ball to her.
She took it from him, stared at it for a moment. Then, her face twisted into a picture of silent fury, she cocked her arm, and let fly.
The ball struck the monitor screen, ricocheted back, and Shelby had to duck to avoid being struck in the head. The ball bounced back from the far wall and landed squarely in Calhoun’s hand.
Slowly Calhoun stood up from behind his desk and stared down at Shelby, who sat, shaking her head. “I actually assumed you were simply going to squeeze it. But, as the lady said, never assume.” He waited for response and, when he didn’t get one immediately, ventured to add, “Not your day, is it, Eppy.”
“Not my lifetime, Mac. Not my lifetime.”
V.
THE PUBS OF ARGELIUS II were reputed to have the absolutely best dancers in the entire quadrant, and it was there that Zolon Darg had journeyed as part of what had become his eternal quest. He was looking for a dancer who would expunge the memories of…her.
After all this time, the recollection of Vandelia still remained with him. When he closed his eyes, he could see the curves and lines of her body. He could see her breasts upthrust. He could see the saucy smile, the come-hither look in her eyes, the temptation and raw sex that radiated from her body with the clarity of light from a star. And most important of all, he could see his hands at her throat, strangling her for the way that she had turned on him, tricked him, brought down his entire operation in flames around his head. Her and that friend of hers, that “Mac.”
Darg had many friends and a long reach, but Vandelia was still just one person, and it was a big galaxy with lots of places to hide if one was so inclined. She had probably changed her name, perhaps even left the quadrant entirely. Who knew for sure? If she’d taken it into her head, she might even have booked passage on a ship and gone through the Bajoran worm-hole into the Delta quadrant to explore new territories and possibilities there. Who knew? Who cared?
He cared. She was a dangling loose end that he hoped he would one day be able to tie off, and he would do so by tying it off around her neck.
In the meantime, this dancer that he was now watching was a pleasant enough diversion.
She was not Orion, by any means. Her skin was milky white, for starters, and her long black hair managed to tantalizingly cover her bare breasts at all times. It was somewhat amazing, really. She went by the name of Kat’leen, and her gyrating body was a joy to behold. Her stomach was remarkably muscled, and her legs seemed to go on forever. She kept time in her dance with small finger cymbals, and an enthusiastic drummer pounded away nearby. Darg found himself unconsciously keeping time with a steady beat on the table.
He fingered the glass on the table and realized, with a distant disappointment, that it was empty. “Shunabo, get me another drink,” he ordered to his second-in-command, and then came to the hazy recollection that Shunabo wasn’t there, mostly due to the fact that—in a fit of pique—he had killed him. The action seemed rather harsh, in retrospect. Shunabo had served him well, and it was just remotely possible that he did not, in fact, deserve what had happened to him.
“Well…so what,” Darg growled to no one after a moment’s thought. “‘Deserve’ has nothing to do with it. He was becoming full of himself. A danger. If a man’s going to watch my back, I have to be sure he’s not going to stick a knife in it. I don’t need a man who’s going to openly defy me.” Whether, in fact, Shunabo had openly defied him was a bit fuzzy in Darg’s mind. The drink wasn’t helping to keep him clear.
Kat’leen’s dance drew to its enticing climax, and then she sprawled on the floor, her legs drawn together, her arms spread wide, her hair once again strategically placed in such a way that Zolon Darg began to wonder if the damned stuff had a life of its own. All around him, lights were clicking on and off furiously on the table tops, which was the standard Argelius means of showing approval.
The one exception was a human over in the corner. A heavyset, gray-haired, mustached man, he was pounding on the table and whistling shrilly between his teeth. He had a large bottle of some liquid that appeared to be green positioned in front of him, and he had clearly been at it for a while. His raucous behavior drew glares from some of the more reserved patrons who liked everything “just so.” Darg watched in amusement as the owner of the establishment approached the gray-haired gentleman and clearly, with some polite gestures, indicated that perhaps it was time he take his business elsewhere. With a growl and a burst of what was likely some sort of profanity—but spoken with such a thick terran accent of some sort that Darg couldn’t even begin to comprehend it—the gray-haired man swayed out of the pub and into the street.
Darg promptly forgot about him, instead deciding that now would likely be the most opportune time to approach the young lady. Kat’leen was just in the process of drawing a type of shawl across her shoulders. Darg found it rather charming in a way. When she danced, it was with complete lack of inhibition as she practically basked in her sexuality. But now that the dance was over, she seemed almost shy. Not in a shrinking, frightened sort of way. Just a bit more…modest…than she had been.
“Yes?” she said, one eyebrow raised as Darg approached.
“You dance magnificently,” he told her.
“Thank you.” She seemed to be looking him up and down, trying to get a feeling for the type of man he was.
“I have two questions for you, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“First…have you ever heard of another dancer…an Orion girl…named Vandelia?”
“Not that I can recall,” she said with a smile that seemed rather mischievous. “Why? Wasn’t I enough dancer for you?”
“Oh, yes, you were superb. The second question is, Would you do me the honor of accompanying me for the rest of the evening?”
She sized him up once more, but before she could respond, another voice said, “She’s mine.”
Zolon Darg turned and looked up…and up. Darg was certainly no slouch in the height department with his massive build, but the individual confronting him was, incredibly, a head taller and also wider. He had one eye, having apparently lost the other in a fight…or, for all Darg knew, in a card game. His head was shaven, his nose crunched in so stylistically that it was difficult for Darg to tell whether he was an alien who
normally sported a nose of that style, or whether an opponent had simply crushed it. His lips drew back in a sneer to reveal a neatly pointed double row of sharp teeth. This was not an individual who appeared likely to back down.
Then again, neither was Darg.
“Calm down, Cho,” Kat’leen said to the behemoth, and then looked apologetically at Darg. “I’m sorry. Cho is a regular…customer. And he gets a bit possessive sometimes.”
“I understand,” Darg said calmly.
“So you also understand,” Cho growled, “that you better back off.”
“I will on one condition.”
Cho was clearly puzzled. “Condition?”
“Yes. Condition. A simple enough word. I’m sure it’s even in your vocabulary.”
“What…condition.”
“I will back off,” Darg said calmly, “if you would be good enough to take a step or two back, bend over, and shove your own head up your own nether bodily orifice.”
Kat’leen rubbed the bridge of her nose in obvious pain and took several steps back as if to try and get as clear of the area as possible. It was rather evident she didn’t anticipate matters going particularly well in the next few minutes.
Cho digested Darg’s requested stipulation for a few moments before fully grasping just what it was that Darg had said to him. Then, with an infuriated roar and no other warning, he came straight at Darg. He wielded no weapon. Apparently he didn’t feel that he needed one.
Darg, on the other hand, was quite prepared. He extended the fingers of his right hand, and vicious-looking blades snapped out of the tips. Each of them wasn’t more than an inch long, but it was not their length that was the main problem for Cho. Rather, it was the fact that Darg’s hand moved so quickly that the word “blur” wouldn’t even have begun to cover it. One moment his hand was at this side, the next it was across Cho’s throat.