by Peter David
“Oh, good.”
Burgoyne backed out of the room, keeping a wary eye on Calhoun, perhaps concerned that the captain was going to remove his sword from the wall and toss it across the room. As a consequence, Burgoyne nearly backed into Selar, who was unexpectedly standing in the doorway.
“Oh! Sorry,” said Burgoyne, looking momentarily disconcerted.
Selar, naturally, gave not the slightest sign of emotion. Instead she said to Calhoun, “Captain, may I have a moment of your time, please?”
“By all means.” He gestured for her to enter as Burgoyne hurriedly exited. “Tell me, Doctor,” he said when she was seated, “do I inspire trust?”
She looked at him oddly. “In whom, sir?”
“In me. Do I inspire the crew to trust me?”
“Do you desire to?”
“Doctor,” he asked, “are you trying to dodge the question?”
“No, sir. I am trying to comprehend why you would ask it.”
“My motives aren’t really at issue,” he said, hoping he sounded as reasonable as he felt. “I’m just asking your opinion. You’re the ship’s chief medical officer; you should have some clear understanding of the crew’s mindset. Do you think that I inspire trust in them?”
“I think you inspire fear in them.”
He felt a bit crestfallen at that. “And is that a good thing?”
“Of course. Trust is a byproduct of fear. They are afraid to disobey because they fear there will be consequences, and they trust you to implement them.”
“Oh.” He considered it a moment, and then nodded. “All right. I can live with that. Was that all you wanted to talk about?”
Selar blinked in polite confusion. “I did not wish to talk to you about that at all. You brought it up.”
You’re losing it, Calhoun. “So I did. What can I do for you?”
“Moke.”
“What about him?”
“He desires me for a mother.”
Now it was Calhoun’s turn to look confused. “He does?”
“He does, yes. And considering you are his father, or at least his acting father, I felt it would be best if I brought this to your attention.”
Calhoun shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “If you’re suggesting we should get married for the sake of the child, Doctor, I’m afraid I’m already spoken for.”
“No, Captain, that is not—”
Smiling, he raised a hand, silencing her. “I wasn’t serious, Selar. Don’t worry, I’ll talk to him. He’s just trying to adjust to both the loss of his own mother and an entirely new environment. He’s seeking familiarity, an anchor. A mother figure. And my wife is certainly not in a position to provide that. He sees that you have a child, and that suggests associations to him. . . .”
“I readily understand the personal dynamics involved, Captain. I simply felt you should be apprised.”
“Thank you.” Apparently that was going to be the end of the conversation, but Calhoun felt as if something more should be said. Something conversational, friendly, personal . . . anything, really. “How is your son, by the way?”
“His growth continues at an accelerated rate, and people tend to look at him oddly when I pass with him in the hallway.”
Well, as far as conversational gambits went, that certainly hadn’t gone the way he’d hoped. “They’ll get used to him.”
“Perhaps,” said Selar. “My concern is whether he gets used to them. At least I need not concern myself that they will taunt him.”
Ensign Pheytus strode into Craig Mitchell’s office in engineering, almost marching as he did so, and when he reached the center he stood stiffly and at attention. Mitchell, who’d been studying fuel consumption reports, looked up at him in puzzlement. “You look like you’re in search of a parade to lead, Ensign. Should I put in for one?” he inquired solicitously.
“They’re doing it again, sir,” said Pheytus.
Mitchell tossed down the padd he’d been looking over, and it clattered on the desk. “Beth!” he shouted.
Lieutenant Beth appeared as if by magic at the door. “Yes, sir?”
“Are we having another problem?”
“No one’s been in a fight, if that’s what you mean,” she said, sounding defensive.
“It’s nothing they’re doing consciously, Lieutenant Commander,” Pheytus told him. “I’m simply aware of what they’re thinking.”
Hearing that, Mitchell rose from his chair, leaning forward on his desk with his knuckles. “You’re a telepath?” he asked in obvious surprise.
“No, not at all. But I can see it in their eyes.”
Beth moaned softly, nor did Mitchell appear tremendously pleased at the assertion. “You can see it in their eyes?”
“Every time they address me by name, there is silent laughter in their eyes. I do not wish to be made sport of, Chief.”
Beth took a step forward, looking both helpless and frustrated. “Yes, but you’re not saying that people are making sport of you. You’re just saying that you don’t like what’s going through their heads. You can’t ask people to censor their thoughts. Maybe you’re just being oversensitive. . . .”
As if Beth hadn’t spoken, he said, “Chief Mitchell, the head of ecostudies is a Bolian. My name does not provoke the slightest bit of mirth from him. I’ve always had an interest in ecostudies, and I was hoping you could arrange a transfer to his department.”
Mitchell didn’t respond immediately, instead rapping his knuckles softly on the desk. “I can’t say I’m ecstatic about the concept that you are only comfortable with ‘your own kind,’ as it were.”
“That is certainly not the message I intend to convey, sir.”
“It’s just that I feel we all got off on the wrong foot here.”
Pheytus glanced down, then up at Mitchell. “These are the only feet I have, Chief.”
Wisely deciding not to pursue that line of conversation, Mitchell instead said, “Are you sure that’s what you want, Ensign?”
“I truly would like to explore options in the science department, Chief . . . provided I am not ruling out a possible return to engineering.”
“No, no, not at all.” He let out a sigh. “If you’re absolutely sure that’s what you want . . .”
“It is, sir.”
“Very well. I’ll put through the paperwork.”
“Thank you, Chief.” He spun smartly on his heel, faced Lieutenant Beth, and said, “I regret I was not able to serve under you for a greater period of time, Lieutenant.”
“Perhaps in the future,” said Beth politely.
He nodded and strode out of Mitchell’s office. The moment he was out, Beth turned to Mitchell and said, “Well, we didn’t exactly cover ourselves in glory on that one, did we?”
“What’s this ‘we’ stuff?” demanded Mitchell. “You and your people are the ones who thought an ensign named ‘Fetus’ was so damned amusing. I mean, here I thought my job was simply to get the best people available. Little did I suspect that I had to make certain their names didn’t tickle anyone’s funny bone.”
“It was inevitable, sir, when you think about it . . . languages, names having unintended meanings . . .”
“Well, I certainly don’t think you helped,” growled Mitchell. Displaying his legendary scowl, he said, “I don’t want to see a repeat of this stupidity.”
“Sorry, Chief. I suppose you’re right.” She looked downcast. “If not for me, Ensign Fetus might not have had such an abortive career. . . .”
“Beth,” and he stabbed a beefy finger at her, “if there’s a repeat of this, or anything like this, the lot of you are going to wind up third-grade technicians on a garbage scow. Look into my eyes: Do you think I’m kidding?”
“No, sir.”
“Good. Now get out,” said Mitchell.
She got out.
Mitchell sank back into his chair, feeling frustrated and also—as inappropriate as it might have sounded—wanting some measure of revenge for the ann
oyance he’d been put through over something as inconsequential as a name. But first things first: He not only had to arrange for the transfer of Pheytus, but he was also going to have to look through the roster of available crewmen to see who might present a decent replacement.
It took him all of five minutes to know that he’d found his man.
With a grim smile, he arranged the reassignment of Ensign Pheytus and the transfer of his replacement: Ensign Neuborne. . . .
21
TRIDENT
AREX WAS JUST HEADING into the turbolift when a familiar voice called out, “Hold the lift!” But even as he moved to halt the sliding doors, M’Ress gracefully eased herself in by dodging sideways through the closing doors. She whipped her tail out of the way just in time, and the doors slid shut with no hesitation. “Gooood afternoon, Lieutenant,” she said, her face split in a wide, toothy smile.
Arex eyed her appraisingly, craning his long, thin neck back as if making the effort to see all of her at a better angle. “Well! This is certainly a different Caitian than the one I remember from not all that long ago. The one with the glum expression practically tattooed on her face. The one who was complaining about fitting in—”
“I don’t seem to recall anyone like that,” said M’Ress, a manufactured expression of shock on her face. She looked around. “Why aren’t we moving?”
“Even in this century, M’Ress, the turbolifts aren’t psychic,” Arex reminded her.
“Oh. Right.” She smiled sheepishly. “Deck eleven for me . . . and you, to wherever you were going . . .”
“Deck eleven,” Arex said briskly, and the lift obediently started to head off in that direction. “Back to the science department?” She nodded. “Any luck with those scans?”
To this, she shook her head. She folded her arms and tried to keep her spirits at the same high level as before, but Arex could see her ears flattening, making her disappointment all the more evident. “None, and we’ve had enough time to survey the world twice over. Either it’s not there, or the thing has got a means of thwarting our scans. I wouldn’t know which way to guess at this point.”
He regarded her thoughtfully. “You don’t seem especially upset by that, though. Displeased, yes, but not upset. You seem so much more relaxed. Extremely so, as a matter of . . .” Then his voice trailed off a moment as his eyes widened. His already high voice jumped an octave. “M’Ress! You’ve been ‘busy,’ haven’t you.” It wasn’t a question.
“Busy?” she said coyly. “I’ve no idea what you mean, Arex.”
“Of course you do. I know you too well, M’Ress. Who is he? Unless you don’t want to tell me.”
“No, Arex. I don’t want to tell you.”
“Not at all?”
“No, not at all.”
“Very well,” he said in that reedy voice of his. He looked resolutely forward, apparently caring not at all about anything else that M’Ress might have to say.
“Computer, stop the lift.” Obediently, the turbolift glided to a halt.
Arex made a pretense of an impatient sigh. “If we keep doing this, they’re going to insist we walk everywhere we want to go.”
“All right . . . if you really want to know . . .”
“Keep it to yourself. I don’t care.”
“I had a date last night with Lieutenant Commander Gleau . . . last night . . . which continued into this morning . . . ,” she said with a lazy, significant wink. “And it’s amazing how one’s entire view can be shifted around after one glorious night of . . . ” Her voice trailed off as she saw something very odd in his expression. “What’s wrong?”
“How did it happen?” he asked, very softly.
Obviously she was put off by his cautious reaction. Speaking gingerly, as if uncertain which phrase was going to upset him, she said, “Well . . . it was the end of shift . . . and I was feeling a bit frustrated . . . and he started massaging my shoulders, which felt terrific . . .” The memory alone was enough to fill her with a pleasant warmth, momentarily shunting aside whatever negative vibrations Arex might be giving off. “And I suggested we head up to Ten Forward, which I have to say is a marvelous idea, and I wish we’d had one of those in our day. If we did, my guess is that Dr. McCoy would have dismantled sickbay and just set up shop in Ten Forward instead. So we went up there, and one thing led to another and . . .” Then she stopped as the pronounced concern on Arex’s face grew even more profound. “Arex—?”
“Shiboline,” he said, and the use of her first name was enough to worry her if she hadn’t already been. “We’re talking about the same person, right? Gleau? The Elf?”
“Frankly, I prefer the term ‘Selelvian’ myself. It sounds less condescending, if you ask me. But yes, that’s him. Why?” When he didn’t answer immediately, she said more insistently, “Na Eth . . . what’s going on?”
“Look . . . Shib, it’s none of my business—”
She stabbed a finger at him. “No . . . no, you don’t get to back up now, Na Eth. You don’t get to introduce some aspect of doubt into the first thing I’ve felt really good about since I got to this foresaken century and then say it’s none of your business. If you’ve got something on your mind, tell me.”
“Really, I think it’d be better if—”
“Tell me.”
He was obviously taken aback by the vehemence in her tone, and came to the realization that prevaricating wasn’t going to help matters. “Okay, well . . . I’m not saying this is a definite concern, mind you, it could be nothing. . . .”
“Na Eth,” she said warningly.
“All right, it’s just that . . . well, I’ve been doing everything I can to bring myself current with everything that new races—new, that is, since we were on active duty—are capable of doing. It just seemed a reasonable thing to do, from a security point of view. I felt I should know the average strength, any natural weapons that—”
“Arex Na Eth,” she sighed, “I know you’re in love with the sound of your own voice, but do you think you could, perhaps, move this along—?”
“Yes, well . . .” He cleared his throat. “The point is, I did some investigating on Selelvians as well. Not that I was trying to be invasive of Lieutenant Commander Gleau, you understand. I just wanted to know—”
“Could you possibly take any longer to come to the point?” she said, making no attempt to hide her irritation.
“All right, here’s the point: Have you heard of something called . . . the Knack?”
“The Knack. No. Should I?”
“I think you should, yes. Because it may make all the difference in the world. . . .”
Mueller nodded in approval upon hearing the news from Shelby. “So this Tsana is back in charge on Thallon 21, then,” she said, seated in the captain’s ready room, her fingers intertwined and resting on her leg. “And the Aerons are accepting of this?”
“The Aerons, according to Mac, are in something of a disarray,” Shelby told her, with a certain degree of almost malicious satisfaction. “No one expected their Warmaster to come completely unglued in front of the crowd and admit to having disposed of two of the ruling family.”
“May I safely assume that Calhoun had something to do with it?”
“That certainly would have been my guess,” said Shelby. “Now, Mac, he swears he wasn’t involved in Burkitt’s breakdown at all.”
“Do you believe him?”
“I’m loathe to call him a liar.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“No, that’s an answer,” Shelby countered. “It’s simply not a definitive answer. Considering the circumstances, however, it’s about the best answer you’re going to get out of me.” She leaned forward, elbows on her desk. “However, this does not even remotely solve our problems. There is still apparently a Gateway device—either on Thallon 21 or on Thallon 18—below us, or conceivably on both. As long as these two races have the means and the desire to attack each other, the danger will persist. We’ve got to find that
Gateway; got to convince them to turn it over to us.”
“The only way to do that,” said Mueller thoughtfully, “is to convince them that there’s no reason to fight.”
“The problem is that the Markanians are still responsible for the deaths of several of the imperial family of the Aerons. That fact is not in dispute. Hell,” she noted in annoyance, “they’re damned proud of it. I get the impression that if they could do it over, they’d not only do it again, but this time they’d take greater steps to make sure they got every single member of the family, thereby saving Burkitt the trouble.”
“Do we know who was responsible for the raid?”
“If I had to guess,” said Shelby, “I’d say it was very likely Ebozay himself. But there’s no way of proving it.”
“Here’s the problem, the way I see it,” Mueller told her, leaning back, extending her legs and crossing them at the ankles. “Let’s say that Tsana determines that Ebozay was definitely the mastermind behind the raid. She demands justice . . . specifically, Ebozay’s head on a platter. Will the Markanians give him up willingly?”
“Of course not.”
“Of course not,” agreed Mueller.
“Which means the Aerons will have to attack,” said Shelby grimly. “Let’s say they manage it . . . and in doing so, they achieve their goal of capturing or—better yet—killing Ebozay. But that won’t put a stop to it, because the Markanians will then demand revenge in the name of the fallen Ebozay. They’ll want whoever heads up the raid from the Aerons . . . or—better yet—they’ll want Tsana herself. And on and on it will go . . .”
“Because that’s how it’s always gone. A cycle of violence among the two races, both trying to balance scales that will be forever out of balance, and neither one willing to walk away from the fight.”
“Can we expect them to?” asked Shelby. “Isn’t it natural to want justice for the dead?”
Mueller snorted dismissively. “The dead could not care less about justice, Captain. The only justice they care about is whatever justice they’re facing in the afterlife.” She paused, considered that a moment, and then said, “ Captain . . . do you believe in an afterlife?”