by Peter David
Calhoun heard a crumbling of rock behind him, and some gasping, and he realized that he had completely forgotten about Moke. He turned just in time to see the boy hauling himself just to the top of the ridge and suddenly starting to lose his grip. Moving quickly, Calhoun snagged Moke’s wrist just before he slid down and off, and hauled him up onto the plateau alongside him. Moke was scraped up, and the left shoulder of his shirt was torn. His mother was not going to be pleased. “How did you … get up here … so fast?” the boy gasped out.
“Practice,” said Calhoun as he slowly walked the perimeter of the crash site. The boy literally followed in his footsteps.
“What do you think it is, Mac?” Moke asked, his building excitement managing to overcome his momentary exhaustion.
“I think … I don’t know,” Calhoun said. He disliked lying to the boy, but he wasn’t enthused about explaining the details of where he hailed from. He proceeded, bit by bit, to look over the entire crash site, to try and determine just what, if anything, was salvageable.
Even though he knew he was wasting his time, the first thing he looked over was the comm system. Very quickly, he confirmed that there was nothing remotely usable in this ghastly mess. He could sit there and try to fix it from now to doomsday, and still never hear anything except for the sound of his own voice (which, he remembered with a rueful smile, was what Shelby had always claimed was his favorite sound anyway).
The problem was that, the last time he’d taken the shuttle out, it had been rigged for scientific investigation. If he’d been taking it into battle, it would have been replete with weapons. As it was, he managed to find the equipment box, but it had also been damaged upon impact. There were a couple of phasers in it, but they had also been damaged in the crash and the energy had leaked out of them. If he’d found them earlier on, he might have been able to find a way to shut down the leak. As it was, the uncharged phasers would only be functional as weapons if someone happened to wander close enough to him so that he could bash their brains in with the barrel.
He did, however, find the mines, and he couldn’t quite believe that they had not only survived the crash, but had survived it with their functionality intact. Thermo-mines, activated by means of a remote control, used primarily for excavation. Two of the bombs had made it through the crash, along with the remote that activated them. Which was terrific, if Calhoun had any intention of going on a dig.
It was hard for him to believe that that was all he was going to find that was of any use, but such was the case. And as he continued to search the area, Moke’s enthusiasm was unabated. “What do you think it is, Mac? Where did it come from?” Over and over, he asked more or less the same questions, and Calhoun kept having to say, “I don’t know … I’m not sure.” Only once did he need to scold the boy, when Moke tried to pick up one particularly large metal shard that—if he’d held it the wrong way—could probably have sliced his fingers off. When Calhoun snapped at him to put it down, he did so immediately, and didn’t seem the least bit put off by the severity of Calhoun’s tone.
Calhoun had, by this point, pocketed the mines. They weren’t especially big, no larger than his palm. He had managed to find a working tricorder as well, and this he stuck into the loose shirt he was wearing, which was tucked securely into his waistband. He certainly wouldn’t have minded finding a working phaser. The plaser weapons that existed on Yakaba were certainly lethal enough, but they were clumsy and hard to aim. They were adequate in close quarters, but trying to hit a target at any significant distance with the plasers was going to be the equivalent of trying to perform a ballet while wearing swim fins. He wished there was some way he could transfer energy from the plasers into the phasers, but they operated on totally different systems. Phasers were mostly energy-based, while the plasers seemed to be some sort of plasma discharge, projected along a coherent light stream.
“Calhoun,” the boy said abruptly, and there was great seriousness in his voice. “Do you think it came from …” He stopped.
In spite of himself, Calhoun prompted, “From where?”
“From … up there.” He pointed heavenward.
“What,” Calhoun said cautiously, “makes you think it came from there?”
“Maybe my dad sent it,” he whispered. “Mom told me once that he came from up there. Or that he was up there. Something like that.”
Calhoun smiled sadly. He knew immediately what the boy meant. Obviously Rheela had been alluding to the concept that the boy’s father was dead … dead and gone to “heaven.” And Moke was simply too naïve to realize that was what she’d been saying. The thought saddened him. There was no point in leading the boy on by allowing him to believe that the crashed shuttle was some sort of … of posthumous greeting card from Moke’s unknown dad. Then again … what was the harm in humoring him, really?
“Maybe he did send it,” Calhoun said thoughtfully.
“Wow,” the boy whispered. “Do you really think so?”
“Anything is a possibility, when you get down to it,” said Calhoun. He turned his back to Moke, as if wanting to get a final look at the thing. As he did so, he removed the tricorder from where he’d stashed it and used it to get a quick geographic lock on his present location. With that stored in the tricorder’s memory, he would be able to return to the crash site whenever he wanted … although he couldn’t think of any reason he might conceivably want to do so.
“Wait until we tell Ma!” Moke said excitedly.
Calhoun turned and knelt in front of him. “Moke,” he said very softly, “what would you say if I suggested … that maybe, just maybe … we ought to keep this to ourselves for a while. Just you and me …”
“You mean, like a secret!”
“Just like.”
“Wow!” Then he frowned. “Why?”
“Well,” Calhoun said, his mind racing, “what if you’re right? What if your dad really did send it down to you? If that’s the case, then he intended it for you and only you. Other people find out about it, they might try and take it away from you. And that would make your dad really sad, wherever he is.” Calhoun hated to play on the boy’s adoration for his departed father, but he really had no desire to have the natives crawling all over the remains of his vessel. He didn’t think he’d missed anything, but he had a feeling that, with his luck, within ten seconds of examining the wreckage, one of the residents of Yakaba would discover a working phaser that Calhoun had overlooked and blow his bloody fool head off.
“Ohhhh,” Moke said sadly. “I wouldn’t want to do that. Not ever.”
“Good boy,” Calhoun said approvingly, patting him on the shoulder. He looked at the lengthening shadows and said, “Probably be good if we headed back now. If your mom gets back home before us, we wouldn’t want her wondering what had happened to us, right?”
“Right!” said Moke in a cheerful voice. All of this had become one great adventure to him. In a way, Calhoun envied him.
The journey back in the sailskipper was one long recitation from Moke about how excited he was. Calhoun let him natter on. There was no harm to it, particularly since no one was around to hear. As for Calhoun …
He didn’t know what to think. He’d been holding out some hope that, upon discovering the wreckage, he’d find something he could use to call for help. But nothing had been forthcoming. Even the homing beacon, standard issue in such vehicles, had been smashed beyond repair in the crash. Once again Calhoun was struck by the fact that he had survived.
Maybe he hadn’t survived. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this place was actually populated entirely by people who were dead and simply didn’t know it, had not been willing to come to terms with their demise. Then he shook the notion off as quickly as it had come upon him. That way lay madness, and he had no intention of taking part in such foolishness.
A convenient crosswind caught up the sailskipper’s sail, propelling them toward the homestead. Calhoun kept a steady hand on the vehicle’s sail, guiding it with confidence. He though
t he heard Moke say his own name, and frowned. Why would the boy be shouting “Moke” over and over again … ?
Then he saw it. Saw that the boy was pointing frantically at the distant point where his home was situated. There, spiraling toward the sky, was a fearsome plume of thick black and gray smoke.
It was at that point, naturally—naturally—that the wind chose to die out on them completely.
“No!” Moke screamed, kicking furiously at the ground, trying to get the sailskipper to continue on its path. But it was to no avail; the sail vehicle was relatively useless if there wasn’t enough wind to keep it going. It was designed for entertainment and leisure, not a device intended for genuinely getting you where you wanted to go.
Calhoun did not hesitate. Rather than wrestle with the sailskipper, he jumped off and started toward the house. Then he paused, spun, and, with one quick movement, ripped the sail clean off the sailskipper. Moke let out a yelp of protest, not because of the damage done to his precious sailskipper, but because he perceived it as the final blow to getting to the house in time. Calhoun had no idea whether Rheela was in there or not, but he was not about to take any chances.
He ran toward the house, his legs scissoring, the sail rolled up and tucked under his arm. He kept telling himself that everything was going to be all right, that he was going to get there in time. Hell, she probably wasn’t even there. But even to Calhoun, there was a distinct lack of conviction. It was as if he knew it couldn’t be that simple.
The luukab was there. He was wandering back and forth outside the house, making a cry that sounded so mournful he almost sounded like a child bemoaning the loss of a parent. That, however, was not an image that Calhoun wanted to carry with him. Not for a heartbeat.
He got to the front, and walls of flame were licking hungrily at it. The heat was so intense it was like a physical thing, shoving him back. He bunched the cloth from the sail and held it in front of his face, breathing in and out of it. He searched for a break in the firewall, found it, and shoved his way through.
Amazingly, the fire had less force inside. No … not so amazing, he realized grimly. It had obviously been set, from the outside. Rheela had managed to make someone quite angry. Or perhaps it was Calhoun himself who had been targeted. After all, he had made some rather unfortunate enemies since he’d gotten there, and since it was known that he was residing at Rheela’s home, it was possible this was aimed at him. In any event, there was no time to stand around and wonder about it.
“Rheela!” he shouted, looking around. The reasonable place to try first was her bedroom, and he ran to it just in time to get a glimpse of her lying on her bed. Smoke was pouring in everywhere, and Rheela was just starting to sit up, looking dazed and bewildered. He spotted a bruise on her forehead and then, as he started toward her, a flaming piece of the roof crashed through the ceiling, cutting them off.
He heard a shriek from within, and Calhoun did not hesitate. He leaped through the flames that had sprung up between Rheela and him, muttering a quick prayer without being entirely too sure that anyone was listening. He landed in the bedroom and saw to his horror that Rheela was on fire. Some of the flame had leaped to her blouse, and the back was going up.
Calhoun whipped around the cloth from the erstwhile sail and practically tackled Rheela with it, smothering the flame while watching to make sure that they didn’t land in another hotspot. Unfortunately, the entire area was developing into one big hotspot, with nowhere to go. He turned to retrace his steps, but he was blocked. There was a window to his right, but there was likewise a wall of flame there, providing further obstruction. Unfortunately, he didn’t see any other way out: He was going to have to chance it, hoping that he didn’t incinerate Rheela and himself when he went through.
He heard another loud crack, and for just a moment he thought the entire roof was coming down on them. But then he realized that it was thunder; as if to make its presence absolutely unquestionable, lightning ripped across the sky, with the thunder accompanying it like the door of hell slamming shut. And then rain began to pour. This was no simple shower. This was a deluge—huge, torrential buckets, cascading down. Just for a few moments, the raging fire outside flickered, backing down before the wet assault, and those were the only moments that Calhoun needed. He charged the window and crashed through it, clutching Rheela tight to him. He felt searing pain and then, at almost the same time, the cold, healing touch of the pouring rain. He hit the ground, banging his knees up fiercely, before staggering to his feet and shoving Rheela and himself away from the conflagration.
He looked up, and it seemed as if the clouds were converging around the house like things alive. Moke was screaming for his mother as he ran toward her, and, injured as she was, lungs coughing out smoke the entire time, she still found more than enough strength to wrap her arms around her son and sob her relief that she was seeing him again. Meantime, the flames flickered and, in short order, died as the rain pounded them into nonexistence.
She looked raggedly up at Calhoun. Her face was almost solid black from soot; her eyes peering out from the filthy mask she now wore. But streaks were already occurring, trails of water left behind by the raindrops as they ran down her face. Amazingly, she was almost laughing. “Better late than never, huh, Calhoun?” she rasped out.
“Did you see who did this?” he asked.
She shook her head, but then she told him what had happened in the city. The failed attempt at rain, the way the crowd had turned on her, the injury she had sustained in fleeing. It became harder and harder for her to speak, her voice a scratchy and terrible thing.
But when it came to terrible things, her voice was nothing compared to the rage that was pulsing through Calhoun’s veins. Then he asked a question, and he hoped with all the world that the answer would be “No.”
“Do you want to stay?” he asked. He wanted her to say “no” because he knew, in his heart, that these people didn’t deserve her. That she was operating out of some insanely misplaced sense of Samaritanism. Or maybe it was just pure pride that was keeping her there, preventing her from simply getting when the getting was good. In any event, it certainly wasn’t any motivation that was a positive one. She should just get out and leave while she was still able to. He tried to impart all this to her through means best described as telepathic.
She nodded her head. “Yes.” And then, as if to make sure there was no miscommunication or confusion, she added, “I want to stay. This is my home. I can still help them, if they’ll let me.”
His jaw twitched slightly. It was the only indication of the disappointment he felt … and the vague dread that she was making a horrible mistake that could come back and cost her dearly. But all he said was, “I’ll take care of it.”
He then proceeded to do just that.
HAUMAN
HAUMAN KNEW THAT, somehow, it was going to come down to him and the Ferghut.
He had never particularly liked the Ferghut—the traditional leader of the Corinderians—but he had tolerated him, as was consistent with the philosophy that he had (until recently) espoused. There had always been something—well—slimy about the Ferghut. He would say one thing, and seem to be quite a good friend while saying it, but Hauman always had the feeling that he might wind up with a knife in his back if he wasn’t careful. And how many times had he chastised himself for having that philosophy? How many times had he said to himself, “Shame on you, Hauman, for having such a low opinion of someone, with nothing to base it on except your instincts. What would your ancestors say? What would your priests say? How they would scold you for being so uncharitable.”
All those times he had blamed himself for being a poor student of their philosophies … and now this had happened. This. And there was no ignoring the fact that he, Hauman, was partly responsible for it. He had come to realize that his sin had not been being suspicious, but rather not being suspicious enough.
Well, it was a mistake he had no intention of repeating.
Th
e battlefleet had been mustered. Even Hauman had to admit that it was not necessarily the most impressive of endeavors. Their warp-speed capability was minimal at best. Their weaponry, while effective for their own needs, was not remotely on a par with something like, say, that of the Exeter… .
Exeter …
Even as he walked the bridge of his command vessel, Hauman’s thoughts turned to that magnificent ship. He had never thought about the Exeter in terms of its firepower and defensive capabilities, but instead only in terms of the people that constituted its crew. He had come to the conclusion that they were good and decent people. They had meant only the best, and he had learned a good deal from them. In the event that he survived this encounter, he would hopefully learn more.
Still, he had doubts about the likelihood that he would survive it. After all, he was the first Hauman in the memory of his bloodline to thrust himself into war. His was a peace-loving race, and he had never thought that he would wind up making his mark upon Makkusian history by being the first to toss himself into the crucible of battle. But Shelby had been correct: the big picture was what was necessary here. And in the big picture, it was clearly drawn that the Makkusians were going to have to strike back at the Corinderians and their leader, the Ferghut.
He had no idea of the Ferghut’s real name. That was part of Corinderian tradition. They were as antithetical to Makkusian tradition as possible, and that alone should have tipped him off. In retrospect, he could only curse the blindness that had settled upon him and made him think that somehow, in some way, the Corinderians could be trusted.
In the case of the Ferghut, the Corinderians actually believed that the key to a leader’s effectiveness was anonymity. Appointment to Ferghut was a lifetime position, and a planetary computer base would choose the person who was considered the most able, most capable individual. Once that choice was made, everything about the new Ferghut’s background was expunged. The identities of friends, family, all of it was deleted. The Ferghut became a blank slate, onto which the future of the Corinderians could be written. It was felt to be the best way to handle it, since that way pressure could not be put upon family members, nor would they be at risk while the new Ferghut served his life term.