by Peter David
“I won’t go on a rampage. I assure you. Let me talk to the woman. Explain things to her. I’m certain I can get her to drop charges.”
“Perhaps you can, perhaps you can’t. Thing is, Mackenzie Calhoun, that’s not up to either you or her or even me.”
“And who,” he asked patiently, “is it up to?”
“The Circuit Judiciary.You see, Calhoun, you’re guilty of trespass and assault. Only the Circuit Judiciary can set those changes aside.”
“I’m guilty of nothing,” Calhoun told him firmly. “I was injured, feverish … possibly even concussed.”
“And might I ask how you came to be in such a state?”
“It’s …” Calhoun sighed. “It’s a long story.” He glanced around at his surroundings, as if trying to make some judgments about the world itself based upon what he could discern right here. “One that I don’t think it really appropriate to tell.”
“Have something to do with your crashing shuttle?”
That obviously caught him off guard. Calhoun looked at the Majister with surprise, and even a bit of respect.
“We may seem a bit backward to you,” Fairax said, allowing himself to be a bit smug about it, “but we have our moments every now and then.”
“The point is,” Calhoun went on, apparently not wanting to let himself be pulled into a discussion of his arrival at his current happenstance, “I’m being held for no reason. But I can see that your mind is made up regarding this Circuit Judiciary business.”
“It’s not a matter of ‘made up.’ It’s simply my job.”
“All right,” Calhoun sighed, resigned. “When can we talk to this Circuit Judiciary?”
“When he comes through this way on his circuit.”
“And that will be … ?”
“About five months.”
If the Majister was expecting an extreme reaction from Calhoun, he was greatly disappointed. Calhoun simply processed the information and then announced, “That is unacceptable.”
“I’m afraid it’s not for you to accept or reject. The CJ came through just last month. Small scuffles, disputes and such, these are things that I can attend to. But assault is a serious matter; assault on a woman even more so.”
“I told you, I wasn’t in my right mind.”
The Majister considered that for a moment. Finally he said, “I have this funny feeling, Mackenzie Calhoun, that you’re not unfamiliar with being in the position of having to worry about peoples’ welfare. So put yourself in my place. Imagine some stranger blows into town, nearly strangles a woman to death, and then later says that he feels kinda bad about it and he’s just passing through and won’t cause no more trouble. Would your immediate instinct be to trust him? Or to be suspicious?”
“Suspicious to start out. But my inclination would be to hear him out.”
“Except hearing you out isn’t my job, it’s the—”
“Circuit Judiciary’s, yes, so you’ve said,” sighed Calhoun. After a moment, he turned and sat on the bench, which doubled as a bed. “So you’re saying that I’ve no choice but to wait.”
“Yes. Said it several times, as a matter of fact.”
“That is … unfortunate.”
“I’m sorry that you’re inconvenienced.”
“I meant, unfortunate for you.”
The Majister found this a most intriguing statement. “Are you threatening me, Mackenzie Calhoun?”
“Not at all, Majister Fairax. However, others have attempted to imprison me.”
“Really? So you’ve broken the law elsewhere, have you?”
“Actually, it usually happened while I was busy enforcing … other laws. The point is, Majister … all such attempts have ended badly for those who were making the endeavor. You seem a decent enough man. I would not like things to end badly for you.”
“Your consideration for my welfare is truly heartening, Calhoun. But if it is all the same to you … I’ll take my chances and keep you locked up until the CJ can process your case in the approved manner.”
“As you wish,” Calhoun said with a small shrug. “I can tell you one thing with certainty, though—I’m not going to be sitting here for five months.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, Majister, not even in infancy did I ever spend five consecutive months in relative peace. Believe it or not, I almost wouldn’t mind the time off. But I’ve never been that fortunate. Fate always has something else in store.”
“I am not a great believer in fate, Mackenzie Calhoun.”
“I’ve known quite a few people who agreed with you, Majister.”
“Perhaps,” smiled the Majister, “they will come and visit you.”
“I doubt it,” Calhoun replied evenly. “They’re all dead.”
The Majister’s smile began to fade under the unyielding gaze of Mackenzie Calhoun. “Who,” he said, looking for a more comprehensive answer than he’d gotten before, “are you?”
“Mackenzie Calhoun. And I’m just passing through.”
“Well, Mackenzie Calhoun who’s just passing through … you’ll have five months to change your mind.”
“Perhaps I will,” Calhoun said, sounding a bit sad, “but I’ve got this very depressing feeling … that you won’t.”
The Majister’s smile evaporated completely, and he didn’t look directly at Calhoun for the rest of the day.
SHELBY
SHELBY TILTED HER HEAD BACK, looking up and up as she squinted against the Makkusian sun. It glinted off the astounding sculpture that towered so high, and no matter how hard she tried and how much she craned her neck, she still couldn’t begin to make out the top.
“Most impressive … is it not?”
The tall man stepped into view, blocking out the sun. He was close to seven feet tall, with long, flowing brown hair, and an air of peace that hung about him like a warm blanket. Indeed, being with him was so relaxing that, every so often, Shelby had to fight the urge to nod off.
“Very impressive, Hauman,” she admitted. Nearby, Toreen Augustine was nodding as well, even though it was not the first time she had seen it. Also with them was Lieutenant Glen Scott Wagner, newly promoted (due to the unexpected demise of Lieutenant Basner) to assistant chief of security. “And this entire structure … this whole thing—”
“Constructed from former weapons, yes,” Hauman said. “Melted down, or pounded flat and reconfigured. A monument to the neutrality that has become the lifeblood—indeed, the true legacy—of Makkus.”
They walked for some time around the base of the tower, and they did so in silence. Hauman, the Makkusian leader, had been most friendly upon the arrival of the Exeter team, and had insisted on showing them around his capital city personally. Shelby had been struck not only by his lack of pretensions, but also his lack of retainers. Helpers, naysayers, yes-men, and all manner of types who seemed to exist throughout the galaxy—although their forms might vary from world to world—customarily accompanied heads of state. But Hauman seemed to have no interest in such official trappings.
Nor, clearly, did he feel any need for bodyguards. He walked about in the city, nodding to citizens as he passed them, and they naturally returned the gesture. For someplace that was a capital city, she couldn’t help but feel that it felt a bit … provincial. Not especially advanced for a potential member-world of the Federation. At least, that was the opinion Shelby had voiced during a prelanding conference, and Augustine had semiconfirmed it.
“I wouldn’t say they’re not advanced, Captain,” Augustine had said. “Their spaceflight capabilities are on a par with any member of the Federation, and although their weaponry wasn’t quite equal to ours, it was formidable—”
“ ‘Was’?”
“They don’t use it anymore. I think they still have ships, but they employ them solely for immediate onplanet needs or humanitarian missions. They don’t even journey into space anymore. It’s not just that they’re disinterested; they’re disinterested with a passio
n. To them, science is a symbol of what went wrong on their world. They do not automatically rush headlong toward advancement, because they are painfully aware—from firsthand experience—just what a double-edged sword advancement can be.”
Shelby was receiving confirmation of that attitude now, as Hauman continued to lead them in a slow circle around the monument. “Every one of the former weapons you see here, Captain,” he said quietly, with almost hushed reverence, “was used to kill someone. Or to try and take a life. Here, it can do no harm. Instead, it all contributes … to a work of art.”
Wagner was eyeing the monument skeptically, and Shelby couldn’t blame him. It didn’t look like any work of art to her, but rather like a … well, a big, tall metal thing, twisted in on itself in no discernible pattern, that just kept going up and up. Art, though, was definitely in the eye of the beholder, and she had no intention of possibly aggravating things by speaking ill of their remarkably beloved monument.
Hauman looked up at it a while longer, then let out a deep sigh. “I just wish it didn’t look so damned ugly.”
Shelby was instantly converted into a fan of Hauman. “It does look ugly, doesn’t it?” she admitted.
“Oh, unquestionably. At the very least, it’s ostentatious beyond imagining. Still,” and he surveyed it proudly, “at least it stands for something. Means something to everyone who looks upon it. It says that we can rise above a base compulsion to destruction.”
“That is certainly a message that the Federation shares, Hauman,” Shelby said readily. “That is the linchpin upon which the UFP hinges, as a matter of fact. On that basis, I don’t see why you wouldn’t want to join—”
“You don’t understand, Captain.”
“No. I don’t. So, if you would care to explain it to me….”
Hauman looked at the monument, hands draped behind his back. He appeared wistful, even sad. “Captain … you are looking at a race that nearly depopulated itself. Our scientists were very, very imaginative when it came to the development of weapons of mass destruction. Weapons so horrific, we could have brought an end to ourselves, or to any that we might use them against. We have neighboring worlds, Captain, and they have no more desire for mutual destruction than we do ourselves. In short, we came to our senses … particularly thanks to the teachings of the Mage.”
“The Mage?” Shelby fired a questioning look at Augustine, but she shrugged. Obviously this was something she hadn’t heard before.
“The Mage,” said Hauman with reverence. “She came to us generations ago … guided us, taught us. Helped us realize the error of our ways. One of the reasons we created the tower was as a testament to her.”
“Is this ‘Mage’ still around?”
“Oh, no. No, she has long departed.”
For one insane moment, Shelby thought of Morgan Primus, the mother of Robin Lefler. Morgan was, to put it mildly, long-lived, and had such a shrouded background that, if there was anything odd going on that involved a woman, Morgan was the first suspect that came to Shelby’s mind. “The Mage … what did she look like?”
“Tall, willowy … a face that shone with the light of a thousand suns, hair like floating gossamer that—”
“You’ve met her?” asked Wagner. He sounded somewhat suspicious.
“Oh, no. Nor do any visual representations exist, for she allowed no likenesses of any kind to be made of her. But the poets have written of her extensively.”
Well, the physical description didn’t sound a damned thing like Morgan, so Shelby was inclined to dismiss that notion before it became implanted too deeply in her imagination.
“In any event,” continued Hauman, “when we put aside our weapons and things of violence—in short, when we matured as a race—we came to realize that the only means through which we could avoid any temptation to take up such weapons again was to adopt a philosophy of strict neutrality.”
“And we’re not asking you to set aside that philosophy,” Shelby told him. “The Federation respects all philosophies. Again, that’s part of our credo. There’s far more the Federation could offer you besides the opportunities to ‘take sides’ in matters of war. There’s humanitarian aid, education, health programs for—”
“But war can sometimes come, whether you expect it or not, true?” Hauman very politely interrupted. When she nodded, he continued, “And at such times, would the UFP not look to us to join them in any such violent endeavors, since we would be part of the alliance?”
“There is every likelihood that you would be approached, yes,” Shelby said slowly. “But no one would force you to fight if you felt strongly against it.”
“If that were to be the case, why … then we would be most frustrating and annoying allies to have as part of the Federation, would we not?” Hauman asked with a gentle smile. “On the one hand, having no hesitation to avail ourselves of whatever benefits the UFP might have to offer, while, on the other, refusing to provide support in times of dire need. What’s that Earth phrase used to describe such people … ?”
“Fair-weather friends,” Wagner said. Shelby fired him a look that indicated she wasn’t happy with him right then.
But Hauman smiled and nodded gratefully. “Yes. That is it. A very good term. We would only be friends when the weather was fair. When the clouds open up and the torrents descend, then we would not be found. Does that sound like someone with whom you would like to ally yourself, Captain?”
“All the UFP ever asks is that an ally do the best and most that it can for other member-worlds,” she explained. “That should not sound unreasonable to you. Besides, the unfortunate truth is that there are hostile worlds out there. You need protection against them. We can provide that.”
“I have no doubt that you can, Captain,” replied Hauman. “Obviously, you care a great deal about providing protection, including for yourselves.” He indicated the phaser that was attached to Shelby’s uniform at the hip.
“Standard issue in away situations,” Shelby said by way of explanation. “One can never be too prepared.”
“Another philosophy of the Federation, no doubt,” Hauman said, although he didn’t sound sarcastic so much as mildly amused. “Again, though … I am inclined to wonder what we are providing in return.”
It was Augustine who spoke up. “The pleasure of your company, Hauman. Sometimes … that is sufficient.”
Hauman smiled at this, and laughed appreciatively. Shelby glanced at Augustine and gave an approving nod. Discussions weren’t going as smoothly as she’d hoped, but they weren’t crashing and burning either. Perhaps if she remained consistent enough, pushing gently toward the answer she wanted, she could—
Her combadge beeped. “Excuse me a moment,” she said to Hauman, who nodded. She tapped it and said, “Shelby. Go.”
“Captain, this is Tulley,” came the voice of the science officer. “I’ve been scanning your immediate area, and I’m getting a life-form reading I can’t say I like.”
“Life-form? What sort of life-form?”
“Insectoid would be my best guess. A considerable swarm, in fact, and it is at this moment approaching the—”
And that was when a loud howl began to sound throughout the city. Hauman, so at ease only moments ago, suddenly was whip-cord-tense. He was looking urgently to the skies, although he clearly didn’t have an idea of which direction to check first. At that moment, a short woman with an urgent expression dashed up to them. “What is it, Brandi,” asked Hauman, but there was no interrogation in his voice. He sounded like he knew what the answer was going to be before she gave it.
Very rapidly, she told him, “Bugs. Coming in from the Northwest. ETA, three minutes.”
All the remaining pleasantness in Hauman’s manner evaporated like tissue in water. “Come,” he said with sudden urgency. “We have to go. Right now.”
Shelby hesitated. The link was still open and she could call for a beam-out—but her gut said that would be wrong. “After you,” Shelby said to Hauman.
“Protect me, I know. I’ll be fine. This is Hauman’s planet and I’ll trust him to protect us. That’s what the Federation is all about: Trust.”
“But, Captain, the risk—”
Shelby quieted him with a look. Then she turned to Hauman and Brandi. “All right. Now what?”
“Come,” he said, gripping her hand. “Pardon the overfamiliarity; I wouldn’t want you to get separated in—”
“Don’t worry about it,” she said.
They dashed across the town square, and Shelby could faintly hear a distant buzzing. She looked off in the direction that Brandi had indicated, and saw a dark cloud appearing on the horizon. For one wild moment, she thought that the Black Mass was attacking. That, somehow, they had survived the encounter in Thallonian space and had returned to wreak more havoc. But then she brushed that off, knowing it not to be the case. Aside from the fact that Tulley would have recognized them as such, it was clear that Hauman had some sort of prior familiarity with whatever it was that was swooping down toward them. And if it had been the Black Mass, well … no one has familiarity with them, because once they show up, that’s more or less it for the planet in question.
“Up ahead!” called Hauman. “There’s a shelter!”
There was indeed: a steel doorway that seemed to rise up directly from the ground, obviously with stairs that angled it down to some sort of subterranean safe house. Hauman’s long stride would have carried him there easily in a heartbeat, but he was slowing in order to make certain that Shelby kept up. Others who were in the streets were likewise dashing into the shelter. And all around Shelby could see people in their homes slamming shut large metal sills, covering over their windows to provide shielding from the new arrivals.
Suddenly an alarmed and pained screech came from behind her. She stopped, turned, and saw that Brandi had fallen, tearing up her knees. She was sobbing in hysterical fear, and Shelby immediately saw why. Whatever the creatures descending upon them were, a couple of them had managed to get ahead of the rest of the swarm and were dive-bombing toward Brandi. Shelby couldn’t believe the size of them; she made them out to be at least six inches in length, perhaps more, but they were moving so quickly that she couldn’t see much in terms of detail beyond that.