by Peter David
It wasn’t that Kebron truly thought that Janos was incapable of killing Gleau if he needed to. If a circumstance arose where someone presented an immediate threat to life and limb, there was no doubt in Kebron’s mind that Janos would not hesitate to lay into that threat and rip him, her, or it to small pieces. Kebron wasn’t kidding himself. Janos was big, white-furred, anthropoidal, with the heart of a beast buried deep within his outer air of refinement. If he needed to toss aside that curtain of civility, Kebron knew he could do it quickly, efficiently, and fatally.
The question, though, was whether he was capable of doing so in cold-blooded, meticulous style. And, making matters worse, if he could then endeavor to cover it up, to deny responsibility even when all the physical evidence pointed to him.
These thoughts and more whirled through Kebron’s mind as he went down to the brig to confront his erstwhile friend and coworker. He wasn’t entirely sure what to expect upon encountering him, for Janos was always a pleasant and upbeat sort…except, of course, if he had to be woken up from a sound sleep. Then he was capable of literally taking your head off…
Kebron realized those were not the best thoughts to dwell upon during a murder investigation.
Fortunately for all concerned, Janos was not asleep. Indeed, he looked as if he hadn’t slept for quite some time. He was in the brig, crouched on the bunk, his arms resting lightly on his thighs. As did Kebron, he presented a problem when it came to finding a uniform that fit him properly. He had dispensed with boots entirely, his furred toes wrapped around the edge of the bunk. His fur looked bedraggled, which was an indicator of just how dire his straits were, for Janos always prided himself on superb grooming.
A guard stood on either side of the door outside, as was the custom in such incarcerations. They looked up at Kebron, and he could see it in their eyes: They were nervous. It was second nature for anyone in the field of security to size up anyone new they were encountering, to determine just how much of a threat they might pose if a problem erupted. Clearly they didn’t like what they were seeing when it came to assessing the risk Kebron presented.
Fortunately, he’d anticipated that and planned ahead.
“At ease, men,” came a high-pitched voice from behind Kebron. “He’s on our side.”
Security Chief Arex Na Eth scuttled up with that sideways walk of his, and nodded greeting to Kebron. “Lieutenant, good to see you. A pity it’s under—”
“—these circumstances, yes,” Kebron readily agreed. “Thank you for coming down here to meet me.”
“Since you intend to question the prisoner, it’s certainly standard operating procedure for me to be here,” said Arex. “I hope you have better luck with him than we have.”
“If by lack of luck you mean he hasn’t confessed to the crime, there’s always the unpleasant possibility that he didn’t do it. Then again, I’d hate to see you so dreadfully inconvenienced.”
Arex regarded him for a long, quiet moment. “Lieutenant, let’s get two things straight. First, I know he’s your friend, and so I understand your personal stake in this matter. And second, I’m not shedding a single tear over Lieutenant Commander Gleau. I wouldn’t have wanted to see him murdered, but the threat he represented to this ship and to friends of mine was a tangible one as far as I’m concerned. I’m not going to miss him.”
“You realize you’ve just painted yourself as a suspect.”
“Someone with a clear conscience can do that,” said Arex.
“A clear conscience, and forensics that would seem to point conclusively to someone else.”
“True.”
“Just for my own edification,” Janos called, “are the two of you going to continue to chat out there as if I’m incapable of hearing every word you say?” He tilted his head slightly. “Is that a new look for you, Kebron? You look like you had yourself cleaned and pressed.”
“I had it done just for you. Do you like it?”
“And you seem less surly.” Janos looked at him thoughtfully. “You know, I think I liked you better the other way.”
“Things change.”
“Yes, they do.” Janos glanced ruefully at his surroundings. “And not always for the better.”
“Care to let me in?” Kebron asked Arex.
Arex nodded to one of the guards, and the guard stepped over to the security station and deactivated the forcefield. Kebron stepped through and it snapped promptly back on behind him. “So. Tell me what happened.”
“Haven’t you heard?” said Janos. “I’m public enemy number one. Now that I’ve been rounded up, people can sleep soundly in their beds and nervous fathers can allow their virginal daughters to wander the streets in safety.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter, Janos.”
“As indicated by the absence of laughing. I assume you studied some sort of file with the investigation details?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know as much as I do.”
“No, I don’t. I don’t know why you refuse to submit to a bioscan.”
Janos shrugged. “I don’t see the point.”
“Don’t see the point?” Kebron was having trouble believing what he was hearing. “How about your freedom, for one? Your vindication, for another?”
“Kebron, I’ve known you to be many things, but I never thought of you as naive,” said Janos. His pinkish eyes looked sad as they stood out against his white fur. “Let’s say I take the bioscan. Let’s say I pass with flying colors. Do you seriously think they’re going to let me go? Of course not,” he continued, without waiting for Kebron to answer. “They’ve got DNA evidence linking me with the crime. For all they know, I might be some deep-seated pathological liar who’s actually convinced he’s innocent when he is, in fact, guilty as hell. They can’t take the risk. Would you? Honestly?”
“No. I suppose not,” Kebron admitted.
“So there’s no upside to my letting myself be scanned. If they find out something that benefits me, it will make no difference to my current status. And if they find out something damaging, then I’ve just hurt myself.”
“And what would they find out that’s damaging?”
Janos almost smiled, even though his physiognomy wasn’t exactly built for it. “Nothing, Zak. Nothing at all. They would find nothing, for my heart is pure. Haven’t you heard? Prisons are filled with people who haven’t done anything illegal. Just ask any of them. They’d be the first to tell you.”
Kebron sighed heavily. This was going to be more difficult than he’d originally envisioned. “Janos…where were you when Gleau was murdered?”
“I was taking samba lessons.”
“Your earlier statement was that you were asleep in your quarters.”
“I know what I said. And you know what I said. So why are you asking me?”
“Janos, would you stop being so damned defensive?”
“That’s what happens when you’re under attack.”
“Not from me,” he said, thumping himself on the chest. “You’re not under attack from me. I’m here to help you.”
“No. You’re here to do your job as head of security,” replied Janos. “So allow me to do my job as prime suspect and say nothing else, all right?”
And with that, he crisscrossed his arms over his knees as he maintained his crouch, and lowered his head so he was no longer looking at Kebron.
Kebron growled deep within his nonexistent throat. And Janos was supposed to be the easy one to talk to, he thought.
Then
Elizabeth Shelby, aka Betty, had no idea at the beginning of the evening that the annual Starfleet mixer, or meet-and-greet, or mill-and-swill as it was sometimes called, was going to end in complete disaster. And yet, in retrospect, she realized that she should have seen it coming a mile off.
The cadets had had a week to settle in, to learn their way around the campus, to be issued their uniforms. Despite all the advance preparation work that was routinely done to accommodate new students, there wer
e always things that were overlooked and had to be attended to. Introductory classes were held. The new students eyed the teachers warily, and vice versa. And walking confidently through all the tentativeness from the plebes were the upperclassmen, the degree of swagger directly proportional to what year they were in in the program. Shelby believed that it was the third-year students who swaggered the most. The fourth-years actually seemed more interested in getting down to the serious business of an impending Starfleet career (the attitude of one Joshua Kemper notwithstanding).
As she went through her classes, Shelby kept bumping into Mackenzie Calhoun. It might have been her imagination, but it seemed as if she encountered him about five times more often than she did any other student. It could have been simply because she’d already met him and so was more aware of him. But slowly she realized that she was running into him more often than she ran into Wexler, and she’d known him for years.
It wasn’t as if Calhoun were being annoying or trying to chat her up. He’d nod, smile, acknowledge her presence in some way, and then move on. That was it. And whenever she came by the quarters he shared with Wexler, Calhoun was always bent over a computer screen, reading.
He read the way he did everything else: with great intensity. In fact, when he was reading, he was completely oblivious of the fact that she was in the room. She had told Wexler she suspected that they could throw their clothes off and rut like rabbits, and Calhoun wouldn’t notice them as long as he had text in front of him. Naturally, Wexler was more than happy to take her up on it. Equally naturally, she passed on the opportunity.
At the end of the week, the meet-and-greet was held in the main banquet hall, the area that was used for formal functions, presentations, awards ceremonies, and the like. Shelby arrived stylishly late, and had promised herself that upon arrival she would not let herself become caught up in the stunning tradition of it all. After all, her family was rich with Starfleet tradition of its own. Certainly this would just be a continuation of that to which she was already accustomed.
She thought that right up until she entered the main hall, and then she felt her breath being taken away.
Paintings—grand, old-style paintings rather than modern holos—lined the walls, each bearing distinguished miens that she had come to know as well as her own. Admirals, fleet captains from times past. The greatest heroes of the last few centuries. Men and women and beings who had spent their lives—and in some instances, given their lives—not only exploring the galaxy, but trying to make it safer. She knew it was overly sentimental to think of them in those terms, but it was true.
The hall was filling up with teachers and students. She recognized a number of the students as nervous, edgy new arrivals who had been with her on the shuttle. Now here they were, and without having learned much of anything yet, they were standing about with newfound confidence. Obviously it was the Academy uniforms they were sporting that were doing the job. She was reminded of the words of humorist Mark Twain: “Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence on society.” She smiled at that.
Her hands draped behind her back, Shelby moved through the great hall, deftly navigating the crowds while never taking her eyes from the paintings. Although she was not in a morbid frame of mind, she nevertheless felt as if she were rubbing elbows with the ghosts of the people enshrined upon the walls. Coming from a family with a history to it was one thing. But now she was walking floors that had been trod by the true greats. She might be standing, right now, where James Kirk had been standing. Over there was a bench where Hikaru Sulu might have sat. And over there in that corner, Garth of Izar might have leaned against that wall and developed new strategies.
Then again, considering what happened to Garth, perhaps she should stay out of that corner, just in case.
Ultimately, Shelby felt a sense of almost giddy exhilaration. People who had made history had been here. And it made her wonder: Thirty, forty, fifty years from now, would some new cadets be walking this same place, dwelling on the fact that at some point in their past, Elizabeth Paula Shelby had been here? Would she accomplish great things that would inspire those who came after her?
Or would she be forgotten?
Well…that was a silly thing to dwell on, wasn’t it? She wasn’t embarking on this life’s work simply because she was seeking personal glory. It was about exploration and serving her fellow beings and…
But still…
Would she? Be remembered? Or forgotten? Or worse…never make any difference at all?
“My, my. You seem lost in thought.”
Wexler was almost at her elbow when he spoke, and she started slightly before forcing a smile. He kissed her lightly on the lips; anything more demonstrative would have been woefully out of place. His uniform looked as sharp as anyone else’s there, and he was holding a drink in one hand and a small cheese-puff hors d’oeuvre in the other. “So what topic has you in such a deep reverie?” he asked, popping the cheese puff in his mouth.
“Immortality,” she replied.
“Really.” He seemed impressed by that. “Here I thought you were simply interested in getting good grades. But obviously you have aspirations beyond anything I might have considered. So how precisely do you intend to become immortal?”
“I’m serious, Wex,” she said. “And where did you get that drink?”
He led her over to the bar, where a smiling bartender served up one of the better martinis that Shelby had ever had. “Don’t get too used to it, pet,” said Wexler. “Once we’re shipboard, it’s synthehol from there on in. They say you can shake off any effects of inebriation in about two seconds.”
“Horrors. Perhaps I’m not cut out for Starfleet after all,” she said as she sipped her drink.
“So tell me, love, in all seriousness. What’s this about immortality?”
“It’s nothing,” she said dismissively. Eager to change the subject, she continued, “And why are you bothering to talk to me? Shouldn’t you be doing everything you can to make connections? Shake all the right hands, say all the right things? This is an excellent opportunity for you to make the rounds.”
“True, very true,” he said amiably. “Then again, the evening is young. Oh, look! There’s One-Punch!”
“Wex, come on, enough with that,” she said. “Just call him Mackenzie. Or Calhoun. Or…”
“Mac?”
“Sure, why not?” She shrugged.
At the far end of the room, Mackenzie Calhoun was simply standing there. He was pulling slightly at the collar of his uniform, looking vaguely uncomfortable in it. No one was coming up to him and talking to him, and he didn’t seem inclined to walk up to anyone and strike up a conversation. He stood there for long moments more, and then headed out a door that stood open to the outside.
“Oh, look at him,” Shelby said, tugging on Wexler’s sleeve. “He’s not even talking to anyone.”
“Certainly, Betty, that’s his decision and his own concern. It needn’t impact us one little—Where are you going?”
“To talk to your friend,” she retorted, heading toward the door through which Calhoun had exited.
“He’s not my friend! He’s my roommate!” called an exasperated Wexler, who nevertheless followed Shelby as she eased through the crowd and out after Calhoun.
She found him outside in the surprisingly chill night air, seated on a bench in the garden. It was a vast expanse of meticulously maintained greenery. According to one of her uncles, a fellow named Boothby oversaw it. Academy legend had it that Boothby and the garden had already been there before the complex was built, and they had simply built around them both rather than try and figure out how to get Boothby to leave.
There was no sign of Boothby now, however. Just Calhoun, seated on the bench, staring out at the greenery. As Wexler and Shelby approached, he called softly, “Hello, Shelby. Wexler.”
“You didn’t even look our way. How could you know it was us?” demanded Shelby.
“How could I not?
” replied Calhoun.
It was hardly an answer that she considered satisfying, but she suspected—correctly—that it was all she was going to get out of him. “We were just concerned you were going to be lonely out here.”
“You were both concerned?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” Wexler quickly stepped in. “Me, I was worried sick about it.”
Shelby ignored what Wexler obviously fancied passed for desperately amusing repartee. She sat on the edge of the bench, a comfortable distance from Calhoun. “You know, there’s a whole party in there you could be attending.”
“I don’t do well with parties.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Calhoun, “I dwell on all those who died and so could not attend.”
She stared at him for a moment and then shook her head. “You’re really the classic ‘glass is half empty’ kind of guy, aren’t you.”
“I think I know what you’re saying,” he said, “but it’s not the case. It’s more that…others look upon accomplishments and derive pleasure from what’s been done. I look upon them and think about what is to be done next.”
“That’s not such a terrible attitude to have, Mackenzie…Mac. Can I call you Mac?”
He shrugged. “If you wish.”
“Okay. Mac…always looking to the next thing to be done…that’s a pretty positive way to think. There’s nothing wrong in setting new goals constantly. But it’s tragic if you can’t appreciate that which you’ve already accomplished. Otherwise what’s the point of accomplishing anything?”
“What indeed?” asked Calhoun.
Shelby was taken aback by this response, but Calhoun gave her no time to dwell on it. “I do not understand the purpose of this,” he said suddenly.
“The purpose of this?” Wexler said. “The purpose is, it’s a bench. You sit on it, as you are doing.”
“No,” said Calhoun, with the closest thing to a chuckle they’d heard from him. “I mean the purpose of this greenery. Its form serves no genuine function. This garden has nothing to do with anything in terms of learning or gaining experience. It is simply…here.”