Star Trek: New Frontier: Books 1-4

by Peter David

  "Please."

  And from the depths of her soul, Soleta let out a long, unsteady sigh, and wondered just who she should get to represent her at her court-martial.

  III.

  CALHOUN GLANCED UP from the computer screen as the door to his ready room slid open. Dr. Selar entered and, with no preamble whatsoever, said, "Dr. Maxwell's performance is unacceptable. Please dismiss him from the crew complement immediately."

  "Computer off," said Calhoun as he rose from behind his desk. He gestured for Selar to sit. The Vulcan doctor merely stood there and, with a mental shrug, Calhoun sat back down again. "His performance is unacceptable?"

  "That is correct."

  "Did you have sex with him?"

  Selar seemed taken aback, although naturally she did not let her surprise become reflected in anything more than a raised eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Did you have sex with Dr. Maxwell?"

  "No, of course not. Nor do I—"

  "Is Dr. Maxwell an actor? Does he tend to burst into monologues or soliloquies?"

  Selar was completely lost. "Not to my knowledge. I do not see how—"

  "Does he play a musical instrument?"

  Giving up trying to understand where her captain was going with the conversation, Selar said simply, "It does not appear on his resume. If he does, he has not done so in my presence."

  "Well, I was wondering. You see, you come in here complaining about his performance, and since I know perfectly well that no patients have come through sickbay yet, I assumed you couldn't possibly have evaluated his performance as a doctor . . . which is, last time I checked, the reason he was here."

  She tilted her head slightly. "Captain Calhoun, are you always this circumloquacious?"

  "No, not really. Generally I simply tell people whom I feel are wasting my time to get the hell out of my office. But we haven't even left drydock yet, so I'm trying to be generous." He came around the desk. "Look, Selar . . ."

  "I prefer Doctor Selar."

  He smiled. "I heard a joke once. What do you call the person who graduates at the bottom of their medical class?" Without waiting for her to respond, he answered, " 'Doctor.' "

  She stared at him.

  "Do you get what I'm saying?" he asked. "

  I believe so. You seek to diminish the title to which I am due, based upon years of study and work, by implying that quality of scholarship may not be reflected in that title."

  He rubbed his temple with his fingers and tried to remember why in God's name he'd let Picard talk him into this. "Look, Dr. Selar, it's your sickbay. If you want Maxwell out, he's out. I'm not going to argue. Perhaps you've perceived some potential trouble spots, or perhaps it's simply a personality clash. . . ."

  "Vulcans do not 'clash,' " she informed him.

  Keeping his voice even and calm, Calhoun said, "All I'm saying is that you are in charge of sickbay. The lineup for everyone working under you came from the Starfleet surgeon general's office. I okayed it based upon their recommendation, and I leave it to you to fine-tune it. Maxwell works under you. Use him, don't use him, blow him out a photon-torpedo tube for all I care. But I'll tell you right now, any changes in personnel have to be followed up with a formal report. I cannot put sufficient emphasis on this: I care very much about reports and following procedure. And you damned well better be ready to give concrete explanations for Maxwell's termination, because I think you should know that 'I felt like it' doesn't fly with Starfleet Central."

  "I see."

  "Now, if you want my recommendation—and the joy of being captain is that you get my recommendation whether you want it or not—I suggest you sit down and speak with Maxwell about those areas in which you find him lacking. See if you can come to some sort of accord. That would be something that I'd very much like to see."

  "Are you offering your services as mediator, Captain, in order to facilitate matters?"

  "Good God, no. I'd sooner stick my head in a warp coil. To be blunt, it sounds to me as if you're reacting out of some sort of core irrationality . . . which would be, to say the least, disturbing, considering who you are. Now, do your damn job and I'll do mine, and we'll both be happy. Or at least I'll be happy and you'll be," he gestured vaguely, "you'll be whatever Vulcans are. Now get the hell out of my office."

  She headed for the door, stopping only to say, "You use more profanity than any other Starfleet officer I have encountered."

  And with a wry smile, Calhoun replied, "I'm an officer. I'm just not a gentleman."

  Burgoyne 172 was working with Ensign Yates, overseeing the recalibrating of the Heisenberg compensators in Transporter Room D when the signal beeped on hish comm badge. S/he rose quickly, narrowly avoiding bumping hish head on the underside of the control.

  The Hermat was of medium build, quite slender and small-busted. S/he had a high forehead, pale blond eyebrows, and two-toned pale blond hair that s/he wore in a buzz cut, but that was long in the back. S/he tapped hish comm badge and said, "This is Burgoyne. Go ahead."

  "Burgoyne? This is Shelby."

  "Commander!" Burgoyne was genuinely pleased. S/he'd always gotten on well with Shelby, having worked with her on the Excalibur during the captaincy of the late, lamented Captain Korsmo. "How are you? For that matter, where are you?"

  "I'm on a shuttle approaching drydock. They were kind enough to route this message through from the bridge. Tell me, Burgy, how long would it take you to get to a transporter room?"

  Burgoyne smiled, displaying hish slightly extended canine teeth. "Well, let's see . . . allowing for the size of the ship, the measurement of my stride, the—"

  "Burgoyne . . ."

  "I'm in a transporter room, Commander, as it so happens."

  "Perfect. I was hoping you could beam me aboard."

  "That's against regulations." Burgoyne frowned. "Why not just dock in the shuttlebay? I'll inform the captain to meet you and—"

  "That's what I was hoping to avoid."

  "Avoid? I'm not following, Commander." "

  I wanted to meet with the captain privately before I met with him publicly, if you catch my drift."

  "I guess I do. You want to surprise him." "

  In a manner of speaking. It'll be on my authority. Any problems with that?"

  "None whatsoever, Commander. You're still technically my first officer until we leave port. If it's what you want, that's good enough for me. Just give me a moment to lock on to your signal," and hish long, tapered fingers fairly flew over the transporter controls, "and we'll bring you right on board."

  Moments later the transporter beams flared to life, and Shelby appeared on the pad. She stepped down and stuck out a hand, which Burgoyne shook in hish customary extremely firm manner . . . so firm, in fact, that Shelby had to quietly move her fingers around in hopes of restoring circulation. "Good to see you, Commander."

  "And you too, Lieutenant Commander."

  "Shall I have Yates escort you to the bridge?"

  "Oh, I think I can find the way."

  And as she headed for the door, Burgoyne asked, "Are you going to be staying with us awhile, Commander?"

  "That," said Shelby, "is what I'm going to try and find out."

  Shelby stepped out onto the bridge and nearly walked straight into a mountain range.

  At least, that's what it seemed like. She stopped dead in her tracks. She didn't really have much choice in the matter; her path was blocked. She looked up, and up.

  The being who faced her was powerful and muscled, his skin a dusky brown with ebony highlights. Either one of his arms was bigger than both of hers put together, and he had three fingers on each hand: Two of the fingers in a [V]-shape, rounded out with an opposable thumb. His (assuming it was a he) head was squared off, like a rough diamond, and he had small earholes on either side of his skull. His nose consisted of nothing more than two vertical, parallel slits between his eyes that ran to just above his mouth.

  "You've got to be a Brikar." She'd never seen one of the
gargantuan beings before, but she'd heard them described. If what she'd learned about them was true, this behemoth could withstand phaser blasts that would kill a human . . . hell, kill a squad of humans.

  He was wearing a Starfleet uniform that seemed stretched to its maximum, and all she could think was Thank God he's on our side.

  "And you are?" he rumbled. His voice seemed to originate from somewhere around his boots.

  "Commander Shelby. I'm here to see Captain Calhoun."

  "I was not aware of your arrival, Commander."

  "It's," and she bobbed her head from side to side slightly, "it's a bit of a surprise."

  "I, with all due respect, sir, don't like surprises."

  "Let me guess. You're in charge of security."

  His eyes glittered down at her. She had a feeling he was eyeballing her quickly to see if she had weapons hidden on her. Apparently satisfied, at least for the moment, he said, "Wait here, Commander." The Brikar moved off toward the captain's ready room and entered. Shelby mused that it was fortunate the door opened fast enough. Otherwise the Brikar would likely have just walked right through it.

  "Commander Shelby?" Shelby turned to see a pert young woman with a round face and dark blond hair, piled high on her head, standing near her. She had her hand extended and Shelby shook it firmly. "Lieutenant Robin Lefler. Ops. Burgoyne told me you were on your way up."

  "I wish s/he'd told the walking landmass over there." She chucked a thumb in the direction that the Brikar had just gone.

  "Wouldn't have mattered even if s/he had," said Lefler. "Zak is pretty single-minded. If the word doesn't come down from the captain, then as far as he's concerned, the word isn't given."

  "Zak?"

  "Zak Kebron. He's quite a piece of work, Zak is. I helped outfit him with a small gravity compensator he wears on his belt. The Brikar are such a heavygravity race that, if he doesn't wear the compensator, it makes it almost impossible for him to move. As it is, if he's in a hurry, you can hear him running from three decks away."

  "I'd believe it."

  "We have a few holdovers from when Captain Korsmo was in charge," continued Lefler. "They all had nothing but good things to say about you."

  With a slightly mischievous air, Shelby said, "Well, they know better than to say anything bad."

  Then Shelby heard a soft, rhythmic snoring noise. She looked for the source . . . and couldn't quite believe it. There was a lieutenant sitting at navigation, his feet propped up on the controls. His arms were folded across his chest, his head rising and falling with the rhythm of his snoring. He had shortcropped red hair and—curiously—freckles. Curious because Starfleet officers, not being exposed to tremendous amounts of sunlight in their insular adult lives, tended to be fairly freckle-free. Shelby turned to Lefler, an unspoken question on her face.

  "He knows his stuff," Lefler said optimistically. "Really."

  The door to the ready room slid open and Zak Kebron was standing there. "The captain will see you, sir," he said in a voice that sounded like the beginnings of an avalanche.

  Shelby nodded briskly and headed into the ready room. Kebron stepped aside, allowing her to pass. The door slid shut behind him and Zak walked over to his station. Robin sidled over to Kebron and

  leaned over the railing. "Did the captain have any kind of reaction?"

  " 'Reaction?' " He looked at her blankly.

  "When he found out that the commander was here."

  "Should he have?"

  "I'm not sure. I was getting the impression that she was expecting . . ." Her voice trailed off. "I'm not sure what she was expecting. That's why I was asking you."

  His face was immobile.

  "Come on, Kebron. Did he smile? Frown? Did he seem tense, curious, excited, tepid . . . stop me when I hit a word that's accurate."

  Nothing. Zak Kebron simply stared at her.

  Lefler grunted in annoyance. "Lefler's newest law: Getting information out of you is like interrogating a statue." She turned away from him.

  "Good," muttered Kebron.

  * * *

  Dr. Selar entered sickbay and went straight to her office. But she quickly became aware that Dr. Maxwell was following her with his gaze. He'd known fully well that Selar had been dissatisfied with his prep work in sickbay, and he had been perfectly candid about the fact that he thought Selar was being too hard on him. He had suspected, correctly, that Selar had gone to the captain to discuss the situation.

  Unaccustomed to subterfuge, Selar turned and met his look squarely. And, in some ways, she felt as if she was looking at him—really looking at him— for the first time.

  And she had never realized before how, with his dark hair, his squared-off jaw, his serious demeanor, Maxwell bore a passing resemblance to her late husband. To Voltak, who had died of a heart attack in the throes of Pon farr. Died while Selar had lain there helplessly, unable to aid him.

  And the rational part of Selar's mind said, No. That is ridiculous. Pop psychology, pat and unsatisfying. Having a negative reaction to a coworker because of a passing resemblance to Voltak? It is absurd. It is not logical. That cannot be it. There must be . . . other concerns.

  Except at that moment she couldn't think of any.

  Deciding to break the uneasy silence, Maxwell stepped forward and said, "Dr. Selar . . . I'd like to know if you'll still be requiring my services."

  "Do you have duties to attend to?" she asked him.

  "Well . . . yes . . . but . . ."

  "Then I suggest you attend to them. Our intended departure time has not been altered, and it behooves you to be prepared." And she turned and walked away to her office, leaving a confused but happy Maxwell behind.

  The first thing that Shelby noticed was the short sword mounted on the wall. She stopped and stared at it. Calhoun seemed entranced by his computer screen, more than content to have Shelby speak first. She didn't let him down. "You still have it?"

  He didn't even have to look up to see what she was referring to. "Of course."

  "Mac, that sword laid your face open. It almost killed you. I'd hoped you'd outgrow the need to hold on to such things."

  "It reminds me of the importance of keeping my guard up. As does this," and he tapped the scar. Then he turned in his chair to face her for the first time. "I can't say I'm surprised to see you, Commander."

  "We're being formal, are we, Mac?"

  "Yes."

  Without missing a beat, she said, "Very well. Captain, I hope you will excuse my unannounced appearance, but I wish to discuss a matter of some urgency."

  "You want to apply for the position of first officer."

  "That is correct." She noticed her own picture staring out from the computer screen. Calhoun was reading up on her latest stats. "Since you are already in the process of reviewing my service rec—"

  "Jellico told me not to use you."

  She shook her head slightly as if trying to clear water from her ears. "Pardon?"

  "I received a communiqué from Admiral Jellico. He told me you would be applying, and that he could not, in good conscience, recommend you for the post."

  "I see." Shelby had assumed that Jellico would be backing her up. All right . . . if he wasn't going to, then fine. Calhoun couldn't possibly be aware of all the dynamics involved in—

  "I assume one of two scenarios to be the case," said Calhoun, tilting his chair slightly back. "Either Jellico wanted you to spy on me, and you told him to go to hell, so that in a fit of pique he's trying to block the assignment. Or else he's hoping that you will, at the very least, make my life miserable . . . and by telling me not to use you, he hoped to employ a sort of reverse psychology. Like in the old Earth story you once mentioned to me, about the rabbit begging not to be thrown into the briar patch, he figured that by telling me not to use you, I would then turn around and do so." He gazed at her blandly. "How would you assess the situation, Commander?"

  She did everything she could to fight down her astonishment. For a moment she felt a
s if she were clutching on to a roller coaster, and couldn't quite understand why the sensation had a familiar feeling to it. Then she realized: She'd of tentimes felt like that during her relationship with Calhoun. Why am I letting myself in for this again? I must be insane! Those were the thoughts that went through her head. All she said, however, was "I would . . . concur with your assessment, Captain."

  "Good."

  She cleared her throat. "Captain," she began, "there are some things you should know. . . ."

  "I don't need to hear it, Commander."

  "Sir, with all respect, I believe you do. My record has been exemplary, I have served as first officer on the Excalibur, on the Enterprise, on the—"

  "I said I don't need to hear it."

  "I'm the right person for this job and, to be blunt, I'm the right person for your job, but at the very least I can provide a valuable—"

  "Commander," he said, his voice icy.

  "If you'll just listen to me—!"

  "Eppy, will you shut the hell up!"

  Her back stiffened. "Yes, sir."

  "Much obliged, Eppy."

  "However, I should point out that if I am not addressing you by your first name, it would likewise be appropriate if you were not to call me by that . . . annoying . . . nickname."

  "Elizabeth Paul. E.P. Eppy."

  "I remember the derivation, sir. I would just appreciate your not employing it."

  "You didn't used to consider it annoying. You thought it affectionate."

  "No, it always annoyed me. I was just reticent about saying so because of our . . . involvement . . . at the time."

  He gave her a skeptical look. "You? Reticent?" He sighed and turned his back to her, swiveling his chair so that he was gazing out at the narrow sliver of starscape which was visible through the sides of drydock. "It was good seeing you again, Commander."