by Peter David
Burkitt walked back and forth. It was clear, considering how the gazes of all the Counselars were upon him but they were not endeavoring to interrupt, that he was speaking on all their behalf. “The fact that she was on the planet surface at the time our troops attacked is . . . slightly unfortunate.”
Calhoun bristled. “She could have been killed. I would hardly call that ‘slightly unfortunate.’ ”
Unbothered by the acerbic comment, Burkitt continued, “And her actions went far beyond self-defense. If she had been concerned about her own safety, she could simply have returned to her vessel via matter transport. She did not do that. Instead she chose to render unconscious all of my people!”
The truth was, Calhoun found that somewhat surprising as well. Shelby had always been the first, and loudest, to maintain the sanctity of the Prime Directive. Technically, since this was an interracial dispute, the argument could be made that she should have stayed the hell out of it. Nevertheless, not the slightest flicker of doubt passed over his face as he said firmly, “Starfleet captains have a certain amount of latitude. Obviously Captain Shelby felt that the situation warranted her taking more extreme measures to control it, rather than running away from it.”
“She had no business doing it!”
“By that logic,” Si Cwan spoke up, in that manner he had that sounded both disarmingly casual and yet dangerous, “Captain Calhoun has no business stepping in now, at your behest. He would be well-advised to stay out of it, too, would he not?”
“We are seeking your help in order to balance the scales.”
“Two wrongs don’t make a right,” Calhoun replied easily. “Furthermore, before I do any balancing, provide any help, or do anything except laugh in your face and tell you that you got precisely, no more and no less, than what you deserved, I strongly suggest that you reconsider your approach to the matter.”
“How dare y—!”
Calhoun’s tone turned to ice. “Reconsider it. Now.”
Burkitt’s face darkened. “I am the Warmaster of Aeron!”
“And I am the Warlord of Xenex,” shot back Calhoun, never coming close to losing his cool. “I’ve spent my life conducting campaigns, while you’ve been sitting here on Thallon 21, spoiling for a fight and accomplishing nothing otherwise. And suddenly someone has handed you a potential weapon that you know little about and care even less about, except where it will serve to gratify your dreams of war and glory. So I would respectfully suggest that none of you attempt to cross swords with me, verbally or physically. Instead it will be to all our advantage to be reasonable with one another, before the situation deteriorates to the point where I would have to beat you senseless.”
Burkitt, rage seizing every muscle, rose from his seat, trembling, bare inches away from Calhoun. There were calls of warning from the suddenly nervous Counselars, but he ignored them. “Defend yourself, sir,” he snarled.
Calhoun’s arm moved snake-fast. Burkitt never saw it coming. The fist hit him square in the temple, snapping his head around, momentarily halting the supply of blood to his brain. Burkitt still managed to stand for a moment, wavering like a great tree in the wind, and then he crashed to the floor.
There was a stunned silence in the chamber, during which Si Cwan looked quite mildly at Calhoun and said, “You’re slowing down.”
“Am I?”
“I actually saw the punch. Usually it’s too fast for me to spot.”
“Age comes to us all,” Calhoun sighed. He looked down at the insensate warmaster and then said to the rest of the Counselars, “Shall we wait until he comes to and then try again?” He got a uniform nodding of heads for his answer, and smiled thinly. “Very well, then. Got anything to drink around here?”
In his private office in the Counselar’s building, Burkitt lowered the cold pack that he was holding to his head. He handed it off to a rather fierce-looking officer standing next to him, who had been introduced as Commander Gragg. Burkitt looked up at Si Cwan and Calhoun, touching the side of his head gingerly. “How bad does it look?”
“Discolored,” said Calhoun. “If you’d like, I could pummel the rest of your face so that it’ll all match.”
Gragg immediately started to take a defensive posture, interposing himself between Calhoun and Burkitt. But Burkitt laughed softly, and then winced as the laughter caused him some mild pain. “I’ll pass on that, if it’s all the same to you.” He put the cold pack back on his face. “I am many things, Captain, but a fool is not one of them. Nor am I unwilling to admit when I’ve encountered someone who could best me. You are a true warrior. I do not see how I could reasonably resent you on that basis.”
“I appreciate that,” replied Calhoun.
“You certainly have a direct manner about you.”
Calhoun shrugged. “That’s the way I am. I see a problem and I tend to try and cut through extraneous garbage in order to solve it. I certainly hope I haven’t caused you to lose face.”
“Lose? No. Acquire a swollen one, perhaps, but that is my doing, not yours. Nor should you be concerned about the perceptions of the Counselars. They fear me. Because you so easily dispatched me, they do not fear me less. . . .”
“They just fear me more?”
“Correct, Captain.”
“Unfortunately,” Si Cwan said, with a slight sideways glance at Calhoun, “discussions and negotiations are not best conducted in an atmosphere of fear. It is imperative that we convey that message to your Counselars.”
“So we are going to discuss and negotiate,” said Burkitt, looking somewhat cheered. “Over how you’re going to help us . . . ?”
“I didn’t promise that,” Calhoun reminded him. He was feeling far more relaxed than before, as he usually did when he felt solidly in control of a situation. By the same token, he certainly wasn’t going to make the mistake of thinking that everything was a-okay. Taking control was one thing; maintaining it required an entirely different set of skills. Fortunately enough, Calhoun was confident that he possessed both.
Burkitt took a long, unsteady breath and then let it out much the same way. “Captain . . . we simply seek parity. We seek justice. It doesn’t matter how one might wish to talk one’s way around this. Nor does it matter how many times you can render me unconscious with a lucky punch—”
“Lucky punch?” Calhoun sounded extremely put-off.
“The irrefutable point,” he continued, “is that the Markanians started this. They launched the vicious sneak attack. They are the ones who annihilated most of our imperial family. We are simply seeking to retrieve that which we lost.”
“You cannot bring back the dead, no matter how hard you try,” Si Cwan pointed out.
“No. No, attacking the Markanians will not bring back the dead, that much is true. However,” he continued more forcefully, “it will help restore to life the dispirited nature of my people. Their welfare, both physical and mental, hangs in the balance.”
Calhoun was glancing around Burkitt’s office. There were portraits and busts of what he presumed to be famed Aeron soldiers and officers, men and women of war throughout the ages. It etched Burkitt’s personality ever more clearly for Calhoun. This was someone who dreamed of greatness, and who wasn’t going to let a little thing such as common sense get in the way.
Apparently Si Cwan was thinking the same thing, because he took a step forward and said, softly but firmly, “War between your people will solve nothing, Burkitt. You did not know that when we first separated the two of you. Have you not acquired that simple bit of wisdom in the intervening years?”
“If your Federation were attacked,” said Burkitt, “would you simply accept the attack and not strike back?”
“We would try and respond in a way that would not make matters worse,” Calhoun said. “And we would not allow ourselves to be used.”
“We are not being used.”
“That is not what I hear,” said Si Cwan. “My understanding is that you cooperate with a being named Smyt. One who is e
nabling you to operate with technology you should not have, and have no right to utilize. Is that true?”
“We have as much right as the Markanians!”
“Don’t you see?” asked Calhoun, working to keep his frustration well under control. “That’s what this Smyt is focusing on. He is playing the two of you, one against the other.”
“I do not believe that to be so,” Burkitt said so carefully that it was painfully clear to Calhoun that that was exactly what Burkitt believed, except he was too proud to admit it. “Furthermore, whatever the motivation of Smyt . . . and how did you learn of him, anyway?”
“Oh, you’d be amazed what eight other Counselars would be willing to volunteer while they’re watching their warmaster sleep off a right cross,” Calhoun said blandly.
“Ah. Very well, as I was saying—whatever Smyt’s motivation, it is beside the point now. We must show the Markanians that we are not to be trifled with.”
“What you ‘must’ do,” said Calhoun, “is turn Smyt, and his Gateway device, over to us.”
“On what grounds?” demanded Burkitt. “His actions, and ours, are no crime against the Federation, and the Thallonian Empire is fallen.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me of that,” Si Cwan said dryly.
Burkitt continued, “You do not have the authority to make demands of us, one way or the other. You came here, and we have welcomed you to our world. We have asked for your aid. Provide it or do not, that is entirely up to you. But do not act as if you can bark orders at us and we are obliged to obey, because we both know that is not the reality of the situation. Now . . . you could, of course, overpower us and try to take what you wish. Is that what you intend to do?”
For the briefest of moments, Calhoun considered saying “Yes,” just to see the expression on the warmaster’s face. But before he could decide whether to give in to the impulse or not, Si Cwan stepped in. “Although we may not have authority in this matter . . . the simple truth is that you do not, either.”
“I disagree. I am warmaster, one of the Counselars—”
“Whose power is superceded by the imperial family,” Si Cwan reminded him. “The family may have suffered heavy losses, but one of them remains alive.”
“True, but Tsana is not functional.”
“We would like to see her and determine that for ourselves.”
“That is unacceptable.”
“Unacceptable?” It was now Calhoun who spoke up. There was something about Burkitt’s attitude that was starting to sound alarm bells in his head. Up until that point he was willing to chalk it up to nationalistic pride, but now it seemed as if Burkitt was—and there was no other way to look at it—trying to cover something up. “Warmaster, if you refuse to let us see Tsana, we are going to be forced to the conclusion that you and the Counselars have, in some manner, usurped control of this world, and that you have done so over the body of a young girl. That will fall under my discretion as captain to attend to, and although the Prime Directive may have something to say about whether or not I can get officially involved, I assure you, I will personally get involved. And you will not like how I do so.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“Yes. Is it working?”
“To perfection,” said Burkitt, sounding surprisingly agreeable to Calhoun. “I have nothing to hide, Captain, and certainly that nothing is not worth getting into a squabble over.” He turned and said to Gragg, “Commander . . . lead our esteemed guests to Tsana, if you would.”
“Yes, sir,” Gragg said, drawing himself up and saluting smartly.
Calhoun and Si Cwan followed Gragg outside. Calhoun tossed a glance over his shoulder at the warmaster, who was keeping a pleasant expression plastered on his face. Calhoun didn’t trust it for a moment.
They went down a courtyard, across a square, and walked to a remarkable looking structure that Calhoun correctly took to be the imperial mansion. It was a gorgeous day, the sun warm and temperate, and well-groomed foliage lush. It did not remotely fit Calhoun’s preconception of what a warlike planet should be like. Then again, he was guided mainly by his personal experience. He had his native Xenex in mind, a hard and not particularly charitable world.
Furthermore, although the people of Aeron may have passionately desired war, it was not yet reflected in the reality of the world around them. They had been attacked, they had struck back, but it had all been quick and brutal and very contained. And, ideally, it was something that Calhoun would be able to short-circuit before it went much further. Furthermore, he hoped that Soleta would be able to make his job a bit easier. Before he’d even come down, he’d ordered the Excalibur science officer to start sensor-sweeping the planet to try and pick up the energy signature of the Gateway. He wasn’t sure how long-lasting it was, and whether it would be detectable if the thing wasn’t on. Then again, they might have a good chance at detecting it if it went into use. Or they might not. It was so difficult to know what was what when it came to this very alien technology. For a moment he was nostalgic for his days as a Xenexian warlord. It was much simpler then. The enemy came to them, and they kept killing them until the enemy stopped coming. For all the credit he received for liberating his homeworld, it really didn’t boil down to much more than that.
Once inside the imperial mansion, Calhoun immediately saw the damage that had been sustained during the raid. Blast marks, pedestals where statues had no doubt once stood. Walking past one room, his nostrils flared slightly, and he glanced in to see exactly what he thought he would: very faint blood stains on the wall. Burkitt noticed that he’d stopped walking, and drew up alongside him. “It’s always difficult to get those out,” he said neutrally.
Calhoun nodded, but said nothing else.
They kept walking until they got to a room outside which two guards were standing. They made eye contact with Gragg, who nodded and gestured with his head that they should stand aside. Both of them looked with extreme suspicion at Calhoun and even more suspicion at Si Cwan. Calhoun couldn’t blame them. Indeed, he approved. If you couldn’t count on guards to be suspicious, what was the point of there being guards?
Calhoun had no idea what to expect when he entered the room, but what he saw made his heart lurch. A young girl, certainly no more than ten or so Earth years old. She looked like she was asleep . . . except she wasn’t. Her eyes were wide open, as if she was caught on the edge of wakefulness but couldn’t quite get past that point. Her arms were crisscrossed across her chest, her legs curled up and tucked under them. She was breathing shallowly.
“We inject nutrients into her,” Burkitt said softly. “So she is neither dehydrating nor starving. Otherwise, though, she is unreachable.”
Calhoun walked over toward her, realizing as he did that he was holding his breath, as if afraid to wake someone sleeping lightly. He crouched in front of her and snapped his fingers a few times. Nothing. Not the slightest stirring. She might just as well have been a porcelain doll. Every so often her eyes would lower in a slow blink, but that, along with the slight breathing, were the only signs of life.
“I’ve never seen someone in such deep shock,” said Si Cwan.
“She witnessed things that no child should have to witness. She has retreated as far from them as she possibly can, short of taking her own life. For all we know, if she had the opportunity to do so, she would.” Burkitt shook his head sadly. “I only wish I knew whether she is, in fact, hiding from the events that she witnessed . . . or whether her poor mind is trapped into a cycle of reexperiencing it. If it’s the latter . . . well, certainly not the most vile sinner imaginable should deserve such a fate, don’t you think?”
Si Cwan was standing behind him, and he said gravely, “Can we do anything, Captain?”
“You? Me? No . . . but . . .”
“But what?” asked Burkitt.
Calhoun straightened up. “I’d like Dr. Selar from my vessel to take a look at her. Come down here or, better yet, bring her up to sickbay.”
; “Impossible.”
The flat denial came not from Burkitt, but from someone behind him who had just entered. He was tall and cadaverous and had an arrogance about him that Calhoun immediately found off-putting. “Impossible, I say.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time.”
“Who do you think you are?” said the newcomer, and he actually took a step toward Calhoun. For a moment, Calhoun was sorry he hadn’t brought Kebron down with him. The mere presence of the massive Brikar security guard was enough to put down any thought of threats from most people. Indeed, if Shelby had still been serving as first officer, she’d have insisted on Calhoun having a security escort just as a matter of form. Calhoun’s boundless confidence in his ability to defend himself was leaving him open to strangers thinking they could do whatever the hell they wanted.
All of this quickly became moot, however, when Si Cwan interposed himself between the newcomer and Calhoun. The man was clearly taken aback; Cwan was eye to eye with him, and apparently he wasn’t used to someone being as tall as he. Si Cwan had moved with impressive grace and minimal effort. One minute he’d been standing nearby, the next he was blocking the man’s path, and it hadn’t even seemed like he’d taken a step.
The man gasped. “A Thallonian!”
“Not ‘a’ Thallonian. The Thallonian,” said Cwan, allowing himself a bit of self-satisfaction. Calhoun, smiling to himself, couldn’t blame him. “I am Ambassador Si Cwan, formerly of the Royal House of Thallon, currently attached to the starship Excalibur. That,” and he inclined his head toward Mac, “is Captain Mackenzie Calhoun, thwarter of the Black Mass, nemesis of the Redeemers, he who has returned from the dead and has been worshipped by some as a messiah. And you are—?”
“Tazelok,” he said, his voice uneven as he clearly tried to rally to the occasion. “Head of the Healer’s Hall.”