Star Trek

by Peter David

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because if that’s so, Captain, then we may be pulling a great threat to Federation security into the open. But if you don’t believe that, then…this whole thing is simply an exercise in…”

  “Insubordination? Rule-breaking? Court-martial offenses? Treason?”

  “Any or all of those, sir.”

  Calhoun looked at his sword hanging on the wall. How was it that a period in his life where he was making constant do-or-die strategies in a war against an implacable opponent could possibly be seen as a simpler time?

  “If I believed it and it turned out not to be true, Burgy…would that be preferable to if I didn’t believe it but it turned out to be true?”

  “I’m not following you, Captain.”

  “The truth is, I don’t know, Burgy,” Calhoun admitted. “But you know what? ‘I don’t know’ doesn’t play. It doesn’t play to superiors, and it doesn’t play to subordinates. Not even in the case of routine, day-to-day existence, much less something as out of the ordinary as this. So as far as everyone else is concerned—including you—yes. I not only believe it, but I know it to be true. Because it’s not going to do anyone—again, including you—a damned bit of good for things to be otherwise. Understood?”

  “Yes, Captain. I just wish that someone outside of this ship believed it, too.”

  Calhoun drummed his fingers thoughtfully on his desk. “I think Jellico does.”

  “Jellico? Admiral Jellico?” Burgoyne was clearly incredulous. “Captain, I don’t think there’s that good an actor in the galaxy that could have pulled that off. If looks could kill, your body would be floating through space in a torpedo casing about now.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Pardon, Captain?”

  “What did he do?” Calhoun repeated. “Aside from glare at me and talk about how I was going to regret this. What did he do…or, more to the point, what didn’t he do?”

  Burgoyne stared cluelessly at Calhoun. “What didn’t he do?”

  “Yes. When he was on the viewscreen. What didn’t he do that he was fully empowered to have done?”

  “Well, he…” S/he frowned, suddenly puzzled. “He could have relieved you of command, I suppose….”

  “That’s exactly right. He’s an admiral. He could have ordered me relieved on the spot, put you in charge, ordered me thrown into the brig, and sent us scampering after the Trident to turn Janos back over to them.”

  “But he didn’t.”

  “But he didn’t,” said Calhoun triumphantly. “And do you know why?”

  “Because he was concerned that I might refuse to do so. Or that if I did, then Kebron—known to be a friend of Janos—might make a fight of it. And there would be bloodshed on the bridge of a starship which could have calamitous consequences for the entire crew? So he decided instead to order another starship in the quadrant to either head us off or meet up with us at Alpha Sigma in order to force a prisoner transfer, figuring you won’t risk your entire ship and crew in a pitched battle against a sister vessel?”

  Very slowly, Calhoun said, “Ohhhkay. Yes, that could be. On the other hand, I believe he suspects what I suspect: that the Selelvians are up to something. So he doesn’t want us to sacrifice a Starfleet officer only to discover later that there were pernicious motives behind it.”

  “That could be, too, Captain,” said Burgoyne diplomatically.

  “Captain?” It was Morgan, her face appearing once more on the computer screen. “Is this a bad time?”

  “No, it’s fine, Morgan. What’s up?”

  “I thought you should know long-range scanners indicate another starship is approaching Alpha Sigma IX. Current estimates indicate it will arrive approximately an hour or so after we do.”

  Burgoyne and Calhoun exchanged looks. “Any idea which starship?” asked Calhoun.

  “Energy signature indicates the Starship Enterprise.”

  Calhoun sagged back in his chair. “Shit,” he growled.

  “Don’t you mean ‘grozit’?”

  “Not this time.” He rubbed the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Jellico, you bastard. Of all ships to send, naturally…naturally…”

  “It’s not all bad, Captain.”

  “It’s not?” He glanced up at Burgoyne. “Enlighten me. Where’s the upside?”

  And in spite of the gravity of the situation, Burgoyne grinned. “I had the Enterprise in the pool as to which starship would show up.”

  Then

  Once upon a time, the Kobayashi Maru had been administered on a simulator. The problem was that trainees tended to be rather hard on the equipment, so that the simulated starship bridge had to be rebuilt every time. It was a time-consuming and wasteful process.

  This had naturally gone the way of the dodo once holotechnology had become sufficiently sophisticated. Now the Kobayashi Maru test was given in a large holosuite, and it was a simple matter of resetting the simulation at the end to make it as good as new.

  The positions assumed by the cadets had been determined through random draw, since ideally everyone should be able to do one another’s job. After all, one never knew what station one might be compelled to assume in a combat situation. By the luck of the draw, Mackenzie Calhoun was in the captain’s chair. He was grinning broadly, looking happier than Shelby had ever seen him. She supposed she should be annoyed by that on some level, considering the happiness she had given him any number of times in a more personal way. But she couldn’t resent him for it. This was the first time since he’d departed his homeworld that he was genuinely in charge of something, and he couldn’t have been more pleased. Because of that, she was pleased for him.

  Besides, considering she had been involved in the reprogramming, she wasn’t really eligible for the command slot herself. She’d known that going in, but had made the choice. The realm of computers and artificial intelligence was very intriguing to her, almost as much so as genetic manipulation. On occasion she would daydream about the two disciplines being combined somehow: an artificially created race of beings with machine intelligence. But for some reason, whenever she did dwell on such a notion, she would start to get chills and a sense of vague dread.

  In any event, Shelby was content to be operating the tactical station. Wexler was up front at conn, with Gold at ops. Other cadets were at various stations, but Shelby was focused on Wexler and Leanne Gold, smiling at each other. She saw Wexler’s booted foot move over and run along the inside of her calf. Oh, for God’s sake, give me a break, she thought, and then grimly, You won’t be playing games much longer.

  Another foot abruptly came in and tapped Wexler on the heel. He looked up to see Clarke studying him sternly. She had drawn the position of first officer, and she was not taking her responsibilities lightly. “Keep that behavior off the bridge, Wexler…Gold.”

  Wexler was smirking. But then he shrugged and said, “Aye…sir,” adding the second word as an obvious afterthought.

  Clarke looked annoyed, but before she could say anything else, Gold sat up, alerted to an incoming signal at the ops station. Shelby could easily have picked it up from her position at tactical, but she was endeavoring to minimize her participation. The faculty members monitoring the session knew that and wouldn’t hold it against her.

  “Sir,” she said, “We’re receiving an incoming distress call. Audio only.”

  “Let’s hear it,” said Calhoun. He was all business. Shelby was relieved. Considering he was someone who had routinely been in life-and-death situations only a few years ago, she hadn’t been entirely sure whether he would take a simulation seriously. Perhaps that occasion in the pool where he had boasted that nothing in the Kobayashi Maru scenario could faze him was enough to keep him thoroughly focused.

  The crackling voice of a desperate commander came over the speaker, interrupted with frequent bursts of static. “Imperative! This is the Kobayashi Maru, nineteen…out of Altair Six…struck…a gravitic mine…and have lost all power
.” The static became louder for a moment, then faded just enough for them to hear, “Our hull is penetrated and we have sustained many casualties.”

  “Get their coordinates,” Calhoun said immediately.

  “This is the starship Intrepid,” said Gold. “Request your current location.”

  More static, more garble, and then “Intrepid, our position is Gamma Hydra, Sector Ten…”

  “That’s in the Neutral Zone, Captain,” said Wexler.

  “Debatable,” replied Clarke. “They claimed the Gamma Hydra system as an endeavor to expand their borders. No one disputed it since a passing comet had rendered most of the system uninhabitable. But it’s been nearly a century, and the comet’s effects are believed to have worn off. So now the Federation is saying it’s in violation of treaty. The Romulans are saying it’s too late to start complaining now.”

  “What were they doing on the wrong side of the Neutral Zone in the first place?” asked Calhoun thoughtfully.

  Cadet Lawford was working the science station. “They said they struck a gravitic mine, sir. The Zone’s lined with those. If one broke free of its moorings and they clipped it, they could have been disabled and floated to the other side.”

  The increasingly desperate voice sounded in the bridge. “Hull penetrated, life-support…systems failing. Can you assist us, Intrepid? Can you assist us?!”

  “Kick up the specs, Gold,” said Calhoun.

  Immediately the specs on the Kobayashi Maru appeared on the center screen. “Third class neutronic fuel carrier, crew of eighty-one, three hundred passengers,” said Gold.

  Calhoun didn’t immediately respond, which caught the attention of the bridge crew. He was staring fixedly at the screen, his eyes narrowing.

  “Have we got a definitive fix on the ship’s location?” he asked finally.

  “Aye, Captain. Traced it back along the broadcast beam.”

  “Take us in,” Calhoun ordered. “Sensors on maximum.”

  Shelby was impressed. She knew they were on a holodeck and not out in space. She knew the programming involved in creating the Kobayashi Maru. Even so, she was utterly in the moment, her breath caught, waiting to see the first hint of catastrophic problems.

  “Entering the Neutral Zone on my mark,” called out Wexler.

  “Five…four…three…two…one…”

  “Happy New Year,” muttered Gold.

  “Passing through the Neutral Zone,” Wexler continued. “Now entering Romulan space.”

  “Sensor sweeps?”

  “Nothing so far.”

  Calhoun stared intently at the vista of stars in front of them. “Where’s the damned ship?” he wondered.

  “Got her,” Wexler suddenly said. “Heading at two two one mark four…”

  “Captain, reading unstable emissions from the ship’s engines,” Lawford spoke up. “Their neutronic fuel lines are ruptured.”

  “Do they still have fuel?”

  “Yes, but it’s leaking. If we don’t have everyone off that ship in ten minutes, they’ll be irreversibly contaminated.”

  Shelby was particularly pleased with that wrinkle. She’d come up with it, the notion of adding a further “ticking clock” to the scenario besides the problem that would be encountered with the…

  “Romulan ships decloaking, sir,” Wexler announced. “One on either side of the Kobayashi Maru, one behind us. Running weapons hot, sir.”

  “Shields up,” said Calhoun. He was up out of his chair, and at first Shelby didn’t know why. But then she realized: This was a man who was accustomed to going into conflict on his feet. It was a reflex.

  “Open a hailing frequency, Ensign,” Clarke said briskly. “Attempt to explain—”

  “Belay that,” Calhoun interrupted her. Clarke looked slightly taken aback. He shrugged. “No point. They won’t believe us.” He stared at the screen a brief time. Then, clearly having made a decision, he said, “Shelby…target the Kobayashi Maru’s neutronic fuel supply and engines, and fire.”

  “What?” Shelby’s hands were frozen over the controls. She’d been about to make an attempt to target the Romulan vessels, which she knew, for a fact, would do little to no good against the attacking ships’ shields. But Calhoun’s instructions threw her completely out of kilter. “Did you say—?”

  “Do it now,” he snapped. “That’s an order.”

  “Mac, are you nuts?! There’s three hundred and eighty—”

  Calhoun didn’t hesitate. “Shelby, you’re relieved. Clarke, take over.”

  Shelby just stood there, slack-jawed, and suddenly she was being shoved to one side by Clarke, whose fingers flew over the controls. “Firing phasers,” she called out.

  The ship’s weaponry lashed out at the helpless Kobayashi Maru. In a heartbeat, the ship erupted. The two Romulan vessels, so confident that the freighter was no threat that they’d anticipated using it to hamper the Intrepid’s attack, were blown in either direction from the freighter’s blast.

  The bridge rocked violently as they were fired upon from behind by the third ship. “Full shield power aft!” called Calhoun. “Fire aft torpedoes. Target the two forward ships and fire phasers! Wexler, prepare to bring us around!”

  Shelby was leaning against the wall, suddenly reduced to a mere spectator while everyone around her was shouting out damage reports. Her mind locked up. She couldn’t believe it was happening, and couldn’t even quite understand what was happening. The screen was alight with phaser blasts, and then one of the Romulan vessels blew up, tumbling into the other and sending that one up in flames as well. Suddenly the view reversed and she saw the third Romulan warbird falling back, hammered by the photon torpedoes.

  “Now, Mr. Wexler!” shouted Calhoun. “Bring us around and get us out of here, warp seven!”

  The view shifted once more, and now the stars were hurtling past them once more.

  “Clear of the Neutral Zone, sir,” said Wexler, letting out a sigh of relief. “No sign of pursuing—”

  “You son of a bitch!”

  Shelby was coming around and down the far side of the bridge, advancing on Calhoun. He merely stood there looking calm, his hands draped behind his back. “Don’t make me call in security, Ensign.”

  “You did that to make me look bad!”

  “Did what? Saved my ship? Destroyed some attackers?”

  The doors to the turbolift slid open, and two Starfleet Academy proctors—a heavyset man and a waspish woman, both with padds for taking notes—stepped onto the bridge. “All right, Cadets, that’s more than enough of—”

  “You blew up the Kobayashi Maru!” She turned to the proctors. “Did you see it? He blew it up! Innocent people, children—!”

  “Stand down, Shelby, that’s an order!” snapped one of the proctors.

  Shelby did as she was told, but she was visibly fuming.

  “Cadets,” said the male proctor, “to the briefing room.”

  They filed out. As was custom, Calhoun was the last one off, Shelby the second-to-last.

  He made no effort to meet her eye, nor she his. They headed to the briefing room in silence. Behind them, the holosimulation wavered and disappeared, leaving a blank room with a grid of yellow lines.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Now

  Dr. Marius Bethom was many years older than when Calhoun had last seen him, but appeared to have aged no more than a couple. More surprising than that, he was walking toward Calhoun with what seemed to be a very genuine smile. He even had that damned gribble still with him, that odd little creature he’d bioengineered. It was perched atop his shoulder and waggled slightly back and forth as Bethom approached.

  The main atrium of the Daystrom Institute branch on Alpha Sigma IX was very simply decorated, with a large painting of Richard Daystrom hung in the middle, overseeing all new arrivals. The rest of the place was decorated in what appeared to be wood grains (although they were doubtless synthetic), giving the place a nice, relaxed, homey atmosphere. Not exactly what Calhoun
would have imagined for someplace so dedicated to research and development.

  “Captain Calhoun,” said Bethom, stopping a couple feet away from him. “I have to say, it’s been quite a while. Not exactly a captain during our last encounter. Then again, I wasn’t exactly myself, either.” He glanced around at the rest of the away team. “And these would be—?”

  “This is Dr. Selar,” he said, pointing to each as he went. “Commander Burgoyne. Security Chief Zak Kebron. And frankly, Doctor,” he continued, as Bethom looked in wonderment at the towering Kebron, “the cheerfulness of your greeting seems a little odd, considering you stated that you’d only see me when Hell froze over.”

  A voice came from behind them, saying, “You’ll have to excuse Dr. Bethom. He was very busy at the time.”

  Calhoun turned to see a man coming toward them who seemed capable of redefining the word “loom.” He was well over six feet tall, with silver-gray hair and a neatly trimmed Vandyke beard. He had a presence about him that commanded instant attention. Perhaps part of it was the voice, so deep that it appeared to originate from around his ankles.

  “I was there, you see, when that message came in,” continued the newcomer. “Dr. Bethom was at a delicate phase in an experiment. I assure you, Captain, he had not singled you out. Anyone who contacted him at that point, he would have informed them that he would not speak to them until Hell froze over, up to and including his own mother.”

  “That’s true,” confirmed Bethom. “And considering my mother passed away some years ago, that’s quite an admission to make.” He laughed then, and the tall man chuckled softly. No one from the Excalibur reacted. Calming himself, Bethom continued, “This is Dr. Christopher. He’s been my friend, overseer, and baby-sitter since I was put over here into the custody of the Daystrom Institute.”