by Peter David
Shelby immediately tapped her combadge. “Shelby to sickbay. We’ve got wounded people down here. Send out a field unit immediately.”
“Permission to bring down a security force to round up the attackers,” Arex asked briskly. She had to give Arex credit; he thought ahead. After all, with everyone within a several block radius having been put to sleep by the powerful phasers of the Trident, it wasn’t as if there were a lot of spare troopers around to get the job done. And the fact was that the attackers needed to be secured before they awoke. Shelby gave a brief nod, and Arex promptly summoned a squad of a half-dozen men. That was more than enough for them to secure binders upon the attacking troops, who seemed to number about twenty or so.
By that time the medical team had also materialized. Shelby was not the least bit surprised to see Doc Villers herself leading the team. She was impossible to miss; age had not slowed Villers, nor bowed her in the slightest. Mueller had highly recommended Villers from a time when they had served together on another vessel, and it was easy to see why. Villers was an extremely commanding figure, white hair cropped short, massively built. If she hadn’t been human, she would have made a convincing Brikar. Within seconds Villers had an efficient triage under way, seeing which of the fallen citizens were hurt the worst, who could benefit from what sort of medical care, and which of them were beyond help.
The Ruling Council had now emerged, and was looking over the fallen Markanians with obvious regret, and at the unconscious troopers with not a little fear. “Don’t worry, they can’t hurt you,” Shelby assured them. “My people are attending to that.”
“Oh, they can hurt us,” Furvus assured her.
“How?”
“By their presence.”
Shelby didn’t understand at first, but then, from a distance, she heard shouts and war cries and howls of fury. She and Arex exchanged puzzled glances, but Clebe was able to explain immediately. “Ebozay’s people,” he said with a mixture of confidence and despair. “I recognize their rhetoric anywhere.”
He was perfectly correct. From behind the buildings, from beyond outcroppings, the followers of Ebozay were emerging. They were, almost to the man, tall and muscular and moving with determination and confidence. They had meager weapons with them, yet they were wielding them with such verve that one would have thought they possessed the greatest weaponry in the cosmos.
She was able to pick Ebozay out immediately. His brow was ridged, his skin a deeper blue than any on the Council—perhaps the skin lightened with age. Moreover, there was something in his eyes . . . “the madness of leadership,” she had once heard Calhoun call it. “Anyone who takes it upon himself to marshal people to a cause has to be a little insane. To paint that large a target upon yourself, to willingly take on the responsibility of people counting on you . . . what sane individual would do that?”
“What about being a starship captain?” she had asked him.
He’d smiled and said, “Not all starship captains are good leaders. Only the slightly crazy ones are.”
“Considering you’re slightly crazy, that’s a rather selfserving definition.”
“I wouldn’t say that.”
“You wouldn’t say it’s self-serving?”
“No,” he’d corrected her with a glimmer in his eye. “I wouldn’t say ‘slightly.’ ” And then he’d laughed, and she’d never known, from that day to this, what to make of that laugh, which was probably the way he preferred it.
“The madness of leadership . . .” Yes, definitely, there it was in the eyes of the one she suspected was Ebozay. Not only that, but he was not looking at any of the wounded, dead, or dying members of his own race. Instead his attention was entirely upon the fallen attackers. She could see from where she was standing that he was seething with anger.
“Aerons,” he snarled in a voice choked with fury, and the hated word was taken up by, and repeated by, others who were standing near him. They had their weapons unslung and were waving the barrels around, as if daring one of the fallen attackers to attempt another assault.
Ebozay spun when one of the Starfleet security guards moved into his peripheral vision, and he started to bring his weapon to bear reflexively. But Shelby’s voice cut across the moment like a saber: “Put it down!”
He swung his attention over to Shelby, and it seemed to first begin to register on him that there were offworlders aside from the hated Aerons there. It might have been that the relative paleness of the skin—the most visible association between the terran members of Starfleet and the Aerons—had thrown him off for a minute. He realized his mistake then, but did not seem especially inclined to be the least bit apologetic. Nor did he lower his weapon immediately, as she’d ordered. The entire situation seemed rife with problems, and Shelby wasn’t about to let any of them happen. “I said, put it down,” she repeated no less firmly, looking Ebozay straight in the eyes and showing not the slightest fear.
“Who are you?” Ebozay demanded. The weapon stayed where it was.
There were several ways Shelby could have played it at that moment. She knew that Calhoun would have been perfectly capable of simply pulling out a weapon and dropping Ebozay where he stood, just as a personal test to see if he could . . . or out of a sense of pride, taking offense at the tone of Ebozay’s voice. Shelby, however, chose to play it slightly cooler. “ Captain Elizabeth Shelby, of the Starship Trident. We’re here at the invitation of your Ruling Council . . . and we’re also the reason that there weren’t any more casualties than there were.”
“You?” He glanced around.
“Ship’s weaponry, from orbit.”
He looked up, as if in hope of catching a glimpse of the vessel. It was all she could do not to guffaw.
“And you are—?” prompted Shelby.
“Ebozay,” he said, speaking his own name with such passion that it sounded as if he had coughed it out. By this point he had lowered his weapon, but the Trident’s security people—who had not taken their attention from him from the moment he started waving weaponry in Shelby’s direction—continued to watch him warily. Then Ebozay took a step forward and pointed angrily at the members of the Ruling Council who had now emerged. “And if you serve those cowards and fools,” he snarled, indicating the Council, “then you are no friends of ours, nor of the people of Markania!”
“We serve no one except Starfleet,” Shelby corrected him, “and through them, the United Federation of Planets.”
He made a dismissive wave, then turned to his own troops. Shelby wondered where the hell the Council’s own military arm was, and why they weren’t involved in any of this. “Kill the Aerons,” he said briskly, and swung his own weapon toward the head of one of the fallen raiders.
“No!” Furvus immediately called out.
Ebozay’s lip curled disdainfully and, without looking away from the Council Member, shouted, “Pick targets and kill them. Wipe them out as you would insects.”
“I believe the gentleman said ‘no,’ ” Shelby interrupted, and she spoke with such force and confidence that Ebozay’s men paused momentarily, obviously unsure of what they should do. She walked toward Ebozay, still showing not the slightest fear of him. He stood a head and a half taller than she, but one would have thought she was the one looming over him. “And since it was my weaponry, my people, and my ship who delivered these assailants into your hands, I believe I have some say in this as well.”
“You have no say at all.”
“Really?” She was standing directly in front of him.
“Yes. Really. You are an offworlder. You have no rights, and you have no power here.”
“Don’t I?” Without hesitation, Shelby tapped her combadge. “Shelby to bridge.”
“Bridge. Mueller here.”
“Kit, I need you to do something for me.”
There was a slight pause, and then Mueller said, “Waiting on your order, Captain.”
“There’s a gentleman standing approximately two feet in front of me. Have th
e transporter lock on to him, would you?”
“Transporter locked on.”
Shelby was pleased to see Ebozay’s expression of superiority slip ever so slightly. Without batting an eye, she continued, “Good. Give me a ten count and then beam him off the planet.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t care. On second thought, set for maximum dispersal. Scatter his molecules all over the quadrant. Count down to begin on my mark . . .”
“You’re bluffing,” said Ebozay.
“Mark,” she said. “Shelby out.” Then she looked blandly at Ebozay and said, “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”
“You wouldn’t dare!”
“Seven . . . six . . .” She seemed unfazed by his wrath.
“If anything happens to me, my men will open fire on you!”
Shelby didn’t look especially worried about the prospect. “Five . . . four . . .”
“This is an outra—!”
From all around them in the air, there was the distinctive humming sound of transporter beams flaring into existence. “Three—”
“Lower your weapons!” Ebozay abruptly shouted. “Back away from the Aerons!”
Without missing a beat, Shelby tapped her combadge. “Shelby to bridge. Belay that last order.”
“Aye, Captain. Cancelling transport orders. Shall we power down the transporter?”
“Keep it on-line . . . just in case,” Shelby said with an unmistakable air of warning. Ebozay glowered at her, but said nothing. “Shelby out.” Shelby then draped her hands behind her back and circled Ebozay as if she were inspecting him. She felt as if the balance of power had just shifted to her. “You know who I serve, Ebozay. Who do you serve?”
“We serve the people of Markania!”
“Really?” said Shelby, folding her arms and looking at him scornfully. “The way I see it, you’re far more interested in the Aerons than your own people. You’ve wasted all this time sparring with me over the privilege of killing your attackers, who are, at the moment, helpless. In the meantime, your own people are injured and you don’t seem the least interested in attending to them. That’s being left to my people, as you can see.”
“We are not trained in the art of healing,” Ebozay informed her.
“Now’s as good a time as any to learn. Dr. Villers!” Shelby called.
Villers strode through the drizzle that was still coming down. Her size and build were such that Ebozay was visibly taken aback. “Doctor, the honorable Ebozay here has brought you some extra hands.”
“Good,” Villers rumbled in her customary brusque, nononsense manner. “Let’s get this done.”
Seizing one last moment of bravado, Ebozay stabbed a finger at the Council Members and called to them, “See? See where your policies of nonaggression have gotten us? The Aerons attacked us because they knew we were weak!”
“The Aerons attacked because you attacked them!” Furvus snapped back. It was the most iron in his voice that Shelby had yet heard. She was a bit relieved; at last he was starting to sound like a genuine leader. “You and your revenge-crazed followers, who seek restitution for something that happened generations ago!”
“My followers represent the will of the people of Markania!” replied Ebozay. “The sooner you realize that, and cede leadership to me, the better off we shall all be!”
Furvus said nothing in response, which disappointed the hell out of Shelby. This was the moment for the Ruling Council to establish firmly just who was in charge. By allowing Ebozay to have the final word, by allowing his rant to remain unanswered, Shelby felt as if Furvus had practically turned over the keys of the kingdom to his opponents, and it was now just a matter of time. But she said none of that, because it wasn’t her place, and besides, it was too late.
Ebozay then allowed himself to be guided away by Doc Villers. Shelby quickly crossed back to the Council, gathered just inside the entrance to the Council building and looking a bit shaken, but also determined. “You handled that quite deftly, Captain,” said Vinecia.
“I shouldn’t have had to,” Shelby said. “Where the hell are your own soldiers? Your own enforcers of the law?”
Vinecia suddenly seemed very interested in looking anywhere except directly into Shelby’s eyes, and Furvus stepped in. “The vast majority of them,” he said, reluctantly acknowledging it, “stand with Ebozay. Something of a warrior class, you might say, with their own rules and philosophies, many of which are not exactly in tune with that which we represent. They have served the Council out of a respect for tradition . . . but over the last several years, their interest and allegiance has been far more stimulated by the modern words of Ebozay than the old words of the Council.”
“We are considered . . . antique. Out of date, out of step,” Vinecia said bitterly. “There are those who feel we have very little to offer modern Markanians.”
“We do not have a regular standing army,” said Furvus. “We can largely thank the Thallonians for that. We are, after all, the only race upon this world, nor do we have anything of sufficient value to attract the interest of offworld attackers. We hold a very, very narrow mandate among our people, Captain. Barely half of our race is content to remain out of war, out of trouble. But there are nearly as many who are—and there is no other way to put it—bored. They seek diversion from that boredom, and Ebozay and others have more or less convinced them that the diversion lies in evening the scales with the Aerons. Unfortunately, there can be no evening of scales in a true war. All that happens is that either side of the scale becomes more heavily laden—”
“Until eventually the scale breaks,” said Shelby tightly. “I think your heart is in the right place, Furvus. However, I’m not so sure about the rest of your people. I think it best if we deal with one problem at a time, however. These fallen members of the Markanians . . . where do you want them?”
“We have a holding facility. I can show you where it is.”
“Good. We’ll get them stored away. Then, Furvus, if it’s permissible by your Council . . . I’m going to start scanning your planet.”
“For what?”
“For two things: Energy traces or signatures traceable to a Gateway . . . and any life-forms that are not Markanian. I don’t know what an Iconian’s life-form readings look like, but I’d guess that they’re significantly different from your people.”
“How long will that take?”
“How long?” She sighed. “Quite some time. There’s no shortcut to doing it; we have to scan each populated section, one life-form at a time. But I don’t see where we have a good deal of choice. Do you?”
He shook his head sadly. “Truthfully, I see no other options. I apologize for putting you to all this trouble. And Captain—”
“Furvus, no insult intended,” she said tiredly, “but if you were about to thank us for coming . . . please . . . don’t say it.”
Furvus didn’t say it.
Lieutenant Commander Gleau, science officer of the Trident, blinked those luminous eyes of his several times, and still couldn’t quite remove the surprise from his face. “A bioscan, Captain? Of the planet?”
On the bridge, Shelby settled into her command chair with a sigh. “You heard me, Mr. Gleau. We’re looking for anything non-Markanian.”
“Very well, Captain, but I think I should inform you that such a scan will take approximately—”
She put up a hand, silencing him. “I don’t care how long it will take approximately, or even precisely. I want it done.”
“Aye, Captain.” He tapped his combadge even as he started toward the turbolift. “Gleau to Lieutenant M’Ress.”
“M’Ress here,” came back the immediate reply.
“Meet me in the sensor scan department. I have a bit of a specialized job I need done, and I’m drafting you to help.”
“On my way.”
It might have been Shelby’s imagination, but it sounded to her as if M’Ress was extremely enthused with the idea of working directly with Glea
u on a project. She supposed that she couldn’t blame her. Truth to tell, if Shelby weren’t captain and weren’t married . . .
You wouldn’t want to go there, she warned herself. Gleau’s reputation precedes him. The last thing you’d need is to be a notch on someone’s belt. And then she smiled. Still . . . what a belt that would be. . . .
“Captain?” It was Mueller, looking at her oddly.
Shelby promptly shook off the reverie and said, “Nothing. Just thinking. It wasn’t all that long ago that I went to a planet’s surface and, within five minutes of my getting there, we were under assault by killer insects in an attack masterminded by another race. So I go down this time, and the next thing I know, a Gateway opens up and we’re under assault from another race. I’m going to start getting a reputation as a jinx. I’ll be persona non grata on every world in the quadrant. By the way, XO, good job with the transporting bluff.”
“Bluff?” Mueller’s face was blank.
“Yes. I’m pleased that you picked up on it so quickly.”
“Picked up?”
Shelby’s mouth thinned. “When I called you ‘Kit.’ Instead of Kat. I addressed you by a fake name, and that prompted you to realize that I was signaling you that the orders I was about to give you were fake.”
“Ah.”
“Ah?”
“Well, to be honest, Captain, I just assumed you got my name wrong by accident.”
Shelby paled slightly. “You mean . . . you were ready to beam someone up and disperse them all over creation, on my orders?”
She stared at Shelby as if the captain had lost her mind. “That’s why they’re called ‘orders,’ Captain, not ‘requests’ or ‘suggestions.’ ”
Letting her breath out in a very unsteady sigh, Shelby ran her fingers through her hair and muttered, “I almost had someone killed, just to prove a point.”
To which Mueller shrugged and said, “If you’re not going to kill someone out of self-defense, that’s certainly the third best reason to do it.”