by Peter David
“At an increased price? You said—”
“Yes, so I did. And the increased price is, we will let you live. I frankly think that’s more than generous. You will be allowed to accompany your precious Gateway device on the Trident, and—if you’re clever, as I know you always are—you may even find a way to turn a profit from all of this. The Federation, you see, is most interested in the Gateway. They’ve made that much clear. You may actually be able to sell yours to them for far more than you could ever have made in leasing it to us. And they may be willing to pay for your services as well, in terms of learning how to operate it. Make the right decision here, Smyt, and everyone can wind up benefiting.”
“And if I make the wrong decision?” She spoke with the air of someone who knew the answer before she even asked.
“Why,” he said, as if stating the most obvious thing in the world, “then the only ones that benefit will be the worms that eat your body when we plant it in the sod. What can one do in the face of such difficult choices? The fortunate thing is, your choice is much simpler. Do you cooperate? Or do you die?”
“I should have offered my services to the Markanians,” snarled Smyt. “They would never have treated me in such a manner.”
“You may very well be right,” said Tsana. “The tragedy is, you’ll never know.”
“I should have offered my services to the Aerons,” snarled Smyt. “They would never have treated me in such a manner.”
“You may very well be right,” said Ebozay. “The tragedy is, you’ll never know.”
“So . . . you consent?”
“So . . . you consent?”
“Yes,” growled Smyt, and the only shred of comfort he took from it all was that this was turning out exactly the way that the giant had said it would. Which meant that, hopefully, the final aspect of his predictions—namely, that Smyt would finally be able to get home—would come true as well.
“Yes,” growled Smyt, and the only shred of comfort she took from it all was that this was turning out exactly the way that the giant had said it would. Which meant that, hopefully, the final aspect of his predictions—namely, that Smyt would finally be able to get home—would come true as well.
24
EXCALIBUR
WHEN CALHOUN ENTERED the children’s recreation center, he was saddened—but not surprised—to see Moke sitting off to one side, staring out the port window at the starfield outside. Moke didn’t see him at first, and was so lost in thought that he probably wouldn’t have at all, had not the teacher—an avuncular fellow named Dreyfuss, a civilian married to a lieutenant in xenobiology—approached Calhoun in his typical, slightly overblown manner. “Captain, good to see you!” he boomed, which naturally caught Moke’s attention. “Gracing us with a visit?” “Something like that.” He walked toward Moke, nodding in greeting at the other children, who seemed most impressed that the ship’s captain was actually taking time to walk among them. “Hello, Moke. You’re looking a little distracted.”
“We left orbit,” said Moke.
He drew over a chair and sat. The chair was several sizes too small for him, proportioned to fit the children. Calhoun endeavored to maintain his dignity while being bent in half. “Yes, we did.”
“It’s too bad. I liked the planet. It was pretty.”
“Most planets are pretty from this high up. Although I hear tell that the planet we’re going to is even prettier. Supposedly it’s green, filled with all kinds of vegetation, and thousands of different sorts of animals, aaaand . . . you’re not listening to any of this, are you?”
Moke looked momentarily confused. “I . . . guess not. I’m sorry, Dad. . . .”
“It’s all right.” He patted the boy on the knee. “It’s all right,” he said again. “You thinking about your mom, are you?”
The boy nodded. There were no tears in his eyes. Calhoun felt as if maybe the boy had simply cried out all the tears he could possibly have shed, perhaps for a lifetime. “Is her spirit in the stars now, Dad?”
“You could say that.”
He peered out the window once more. “Which star is hers?”
Calhoun frowned, studying the vista of stars before him. Finally he said, “The brightest one. You see it?”
He was not, in fact, looking at any particular star, but Moke immediately nodded and said, “I think I see it. Is it that one, over there?” He pointed at one star, which he obviously felt fit the category of “brightest.”
“That’s it,” Calhoun said immediately. “And the nice thing is, since it is the brightest, you can find it anywhere you go. Just always look for the brighest one, and that’s her, watching over you. And she’d like you to have a happy life. You know that, don’t you, Moke?”
He bobbed his head with great certainty. But then he said softly, “I miss her.”
“I know. Come on,” and he took Moke by the hand. “I have someone I’d like you to talk to.”
Moke stared up at him, confused, but he obediently walked out at Calhoun’s side. They made small talk as they headed down the corridor, but it was quite clear from Moke’s face that he was most curious over where they were going and who they were going to talk to.
Arriving at a cabin, Calhoun politely rang the chime. A moment later, a female voice from within said, “Come.” Calhoun and Moke entered, and Moke was most surprised to see a young girl who was—he was quite sure—not much older or taller than he. Her skin was quite pale, but her eyes were dark green, with no pupils that he could see, and in the dimness of the room they seemed to glow. Standing a few feet behind her, but providing a looming presence, was a muscled and armored man, never taking his glowering gaze off Calhoun or Moke.
Calhoun had to admire the boy’s resiliency. Until very recently, Moke had spent his entire life on one world, where not only had he never seen a being from another species, but the populace had scoffed at the idea that there was any life beyond their sphere. Since that time, he’d become the first member of his race to leave his planet’s surface, had interacted with dozens of different species . . . and taken it all in stride, as if it was the most natural thing in the world. No . . . as if he’d somehow expected it. Maybe deep down he’d always known he was meant for something greater, or at least more fantastical, than any of his world could imagine.
“Moke,” he said softly, “this is the Zarn of the planet Aeron . . . their leader . . . Zarn, this is my son. . . .”
“Oh. Hi. I didn’t know you were their leader,” said Moke.
“And I didn’t know the captain was your adoptive father,” replied Tsana.
Calhoun looked in surprise from one to the other. “You two know each other?”
They nodded in synch. “This is Tsana,” he said.
“And this is Moke.”
“Yes, I know who the two of you are,” Calhoun said, trying not to laugh. Then he asked, “Do you know this man?” When Moke shook his head, Calhoun told him, “This is Gragg. He’s a very important man on the Zarn’s world. He’s called a warmaster.”
“Why is he here?” asked Moke.
Good question, Calhoun thought privately, but said out loud, “He’s very concerned about making sure the Zarn is protected. Tsana, Warmaster . . . I thought you and Moke might get along, and now I see that apparently you were ahead of me in that regard. I’ve also programmed some entertainment into Holodeck 4, Moke, if you think that Tsana might be interested. It’s a sailboat; don’t worry, I’ve guaranteed that the waters won’t be rough, and if you fall in, the program will make sure you float.”
“I don’t think I entirely understand,” Tsana said, clearly uncertain.
“It’s similar to the holoconference you participated in before, Tsana . . . except the place shifts. It can be very exciting.”
“I’ll take you,” Moke volunteered. “There’s no need to be afraid.”
“She does not need to be,” the Warmaster suddenly said. There was a firmness in his voice, and a depth of volume that made it sound as if his vo
ice were originating from around his ankles. “I will accompany her, as is appropriate for—”
“That won’t be necessary, Gragg. I’m not afraid of anything,” Tsana informed him, sounding a bit imperious . . . understandable, Calhoun supposed, considering who she was.
“Really? Wow.” Moke was obviously impressed. And then, with that stunning candor he always displayed, he said, “Ever since my mom died, I’ve been afraid of everything.”
“You didn’t tell me, Moke . . . how did she die?”
“Some bad people shot her.”
“Oh,” said Tsana, and any hint of imperiousness faded. “That’s what happened to my mother . . . and my father, too. And my family.”
“Aside from my mom, I never had a family. At least you had one.”
“At least I did.”
“Come on,” he said, and he put out a hand. She hesitated for a moment, then took it firmly. “Let’s go sailing.”
“Zarn,” Gragg said warningly.
But she turned to him dismissively and said, “Oh, hush, Gragg.” And immediately he took a step back and didn’t move.
“Wow!” Moke exclaimed, clearly impressed. “Mac, will I ever be able to get you to do what I want like that?”
“No,” said Calhoun flatly, instinctively feeling that this was one discussion best stopped before it got started.
Cheerily, Moke said acceptingly, “Okay.” Then, as if the matter were forgotten, he continued, “Oh, Mac, do you think Dr. Selar will let us bring Xyon along?”
He pictured Selar, trying her best not to look haggard, dealing with the odd and rapidly growing being she called her son.
“I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” he said.
As the youngsters went off to the holodeck, Calhoun headed up to the bridge. For a moment he considered asking Gragg if he wished to come along, but the steadfast soldier made it clear that he was going to stay on station until the young princess returned.
He had barely stepped off the turbolift onto the bridge when Soleta intercepted him. “In the ready room,” he said, before she could get a word out, and he walked right past her. She pivoted on her heel and followed him in. Calhoun didn’t even bother to walk around to the back of his desk. Instead he simply turned to face her, leaning lightly against the desk surface. “All right, Lieutenant,” he said briskly. “Your report on the Gateway and its mysterious owner? This Mister ‘Smyt,’ I believe Tsana said his name is. He’s down in his quarters?”
“If you consider the brig to be ‘quarters,’ yes, he is,” said Soleta.
“The brig?” Calhoun wasn’t quite sure he’d heard her properly. “Why is he in the brig?”
“Because, as per your orders, we intended to place the Gateway into a secure location here on the ship. But he refused to be separated from the device.”
“On what grounds?”
“That we would endeavor to subject it to various tests without his being present.”
“I see,” Calhoun said, drumming his fingers thoughtfully on the table. “When, in fact, had we gotten the Gateway to ourselves, we would have—?”
“Endeavored to subject it to various tests without his being present,” Soleta said.
“Whereas now we—?”
“Can’t.”
“I see. Of course, we could simply send Kebron down to ‘convince’ him to turn the Gateway over to us.”
“I would not advise it, Captain,” Soleta warned him. “We have no idea of the device’s capabilities. For all we know, the mechanism might have self-destruct capabilities that could end up blowing apart the entire ship.”
“That would be bad. If we blow up another ship in one year, Starfleet might take away some privileges, such as pudding Friday night.”
“We do not have pudding Friday night, sir.”
“Yes, I know. It was a joke.” He paused and then added gamely, “I never said it was a good joke.”
“Nor did I, sir, for that would be lying.”
He was going to pursue it further, but wisely decided that would be pointless. Instead he asked, “Why the brig?”
“Because it’s the only secure area on the ship that also has accommodations. We couldn’t simply stick him in the hold. Aside from the fact that unauthorized personnel are not allowed in those sections, there are simply no amenities there that would make it feasible for anyone to reside there.”
“So, the device is secure and he’s secure with it. All right. This may not be so bad after all. Is he an Iconian?”
“I cannot say for an absolute certainty, Captain,” she admitted. “Our information and descriptions of the Iconians are sketchy. My best guess is that he is, but that is based as much on logical extrapolations from the circumstances as it is on any concrete proof.”
“All right. Make whatever observations about him you can, and forward all information to Jean-Luc Picard. As for the device itself, speak with Burgoyne to—”
“Have a sensor scan done of the interior of the brig. We already tried that, sir.”
“And I take it from that faint tone of hopelessness that the endeavor produced nothing?”
“That is correct, sir.”
He didn’t like how this was going at all. Once again he was dealing with too many unknowns, with his ship at risk because of it. “How could that be?”
“Because,” she said, folding her arms, “according to our sensors, the device isn’t there.”
Instantly Calhoun was alert. “Are you saying he didn’t bring it with him? That it’s still back on Aeron?”
But Soleta was shaking her head with firm certainty. “No, Captain. We did manage to detect certain free-floating ene rgy signatures—a residue, if you will—that match perfectly with patterns already ascribed to the Gateway. They were undetectable while it was on the planet; the planet’s own natural atmospheric radiation helped cloak it. It was like trying to find a single lit match in the middle of a bonfire. But now that it’s up here on the ship, we could detect it.”
“So once it was in our laps, we could find it. That’s what you’re telling me.”
Her eyebrows puckered in that disapproving manner she had. “Sarcasm ill befits a Starfleet captain.”
He let the comment pass, instead focusing on her earlier statement. “But then . . . how can you say that we can’t scan it?”
“Computer,” she said briskly by way of response. “View interior of brig on level five, section A1.”
Immediately the screen on Calhoun’s desk flared to life, and Calhoun could see the being known as an Iconian sitting there, with what appeared to be some sort of large, rectangular crate next to him. Soleta tapped it with her finger. “The device is in this large case. As far as our scanning devices are concerned, aside from the trace patterns from the leaking energy, it’s simply not there. As near as we can determine,” she continued, anticipating his question before he managed to get it out, “the case has some sort of built-in Reflector. Basically, it’s a sort of sensor mirror. A variation on a cloaking device. A Reflector sends—”
Calhoun interrupted. “A Reflector sends any sensor sweeps back to the point of origin, so that the scanning device is essentially scanning itself and its source. So ultimately, when we employ scanners on the box next to Smyt, it informs us that—in defiance of all common sense—Smyt has a starship next to him that, in terms of size, population, etcetera, matches our own.”
“That’s exactly right, Captain, yes.” Soleta looked a bit impressed.
“Of course it’s right. The reason I know it is because Lieutenant Commander Gleau, science officer of the Trident, just explained it to me.”
Soleta looked politely confused, and even glanced around the room as if expecting to see the Elf hiding somewhere. Calhoun noticed her bewilderment, and laughed softly. “He’s not here, Lieutenant. I’ve been in communication with the Trident, monitoring her progress. Ebozay and the possessor of the Gateway on the Markanian end are now aboard the Trident, and they’re on their way to rende
zvous with us at Sinqay. And the description that you gave me of Smyt’s behavior, and their experiences with what you encountered, is almost a word-for-word duplication of what transpired on Shelby’s ship.” He glanced once more at the screen. Smyt hadn’t budged from the almost Zen-like meditative posture he’d adopted. One would have thought him carved from marble. Watching him there simply served to annoy Calhoun, and so he said “Computer, off,” and the image disappeared.
“They also have an Iconian named Smyt in charge of it?” she said skeptically.
“Actually, that’s the only place where there’s a slight difference.”
“He’s not an Iconian?”
“No, he’s Iconian.”
“He’s not named Smyt?”
“No, the Iconian’s name is Smyt.”
That stopped Soleta cold. “It is?” Calhoun nodded. “Then . . . what is the ‘slight difference’?”
“The Smyt on the Trident is female.”
Soleta considered that piece of information. “It must be an assumed name,” she said after a time. “That is the only logical explanation. An assumed name, and they are working in concert with one another. That is all that makes sense.”
“That would be nice.”
She looked at him, baffled. “Why would that ‘be nice,’ Captain?”
“Because it would be simple,” he said, walking the perimeter of the desk and trailing his fingertips across it. “It’s a pleasant, tidy, simple explanation. And since most of the matters I’ve encountered in my life are anything but pleasant, tidy, and simple, this would be a much-appreciated change of pace.” He stopped his pacing and sighed. “Well, I suppose we’ll find out once we arrive on Sinqay. There’s no doubt in my mind, though, that whatever happens, the young Zarn is going to be up to the challenge.”