Star Trek: New Frontier: Books 1-4

by Peter David

  "I imagine that he will be quite angry."

  "And out of a sense of morbid curiosity, was this anticipated reaction part of your motivation in allowing Si Cwan to remain?"

  "A part? Yes. A major part? No. The good admiral caused me grief in the past, and I certainly don't mind tossing some aggravation his way. But if I didn't think Si Cwan could be useful on this voyage, I wouldn't have allowed him on the ship just to annoy Jellico. That's simply . . ." He paused and then, for lack of a better word, he said, ". . . a bonus."

  Si Cwan surveyed his quarters with a critical eye. Soleta and Zak Kebron stood just inside the doorway. After what seemed an infinity of consideration, Si Cwan turned to them and said, "I assume your captain did not give me diplomatic quarters because he did not wish to aggrandize my sense of selfimportance."

  "He didn't phrase it quite that way, but that is essentially correct."

  Si Cwan nodded a moment, and then he looked at Kebron. "I would like a moment's privacy with Soleta." Kebron's gaze flickered between the two of them with suspicion. "Kebron, you'll have to leave me on my own sooner or later," Si Cwan reminded him. "Unless you were planning to make guarding me your life's work."

  "It's my life," Kebron replied.

  "We'll be fine, Zak," said Soleta, placing a reassuring hand on Kebron's arm. Kebron leaned slightly forward and Si Cwan realized that that was how Kebron nodded, since his neck wasn't the most maneuverable. The Brikar stepped back out of the room and the door closed.

  "You and Kebron seem to share a certain familiarity with one another."

  "We studied together at Starfleet Academy."

  "And study was all you did?"

  "No. We also saved one another's lives on occasion. You see the world rather oddly, Si Cwan. May I ask why you wished to speak privately?"

  "I," and he cleared his throat. "I wanted to thank you for helping me."

  "You're welcome."

  "I hope I did not force you to compromise yourself in any way."

  "It's a bit late now to be concerned about that," Soleta told him.

  "That's valid enough, I suppose. Still I," and for a second time he cleared his throat. "I would like to think that perhaps the two of us could be ... friends."

  "Yes . . . I am sure you would like to think that." And she turned and left him alone in his quarters.

  BURGOYNE

  VIII.

  BURGOYNE 172 PROWLED Engineering in a manner evocative of a cheetah. The Excalibur had only been out of drydock for a little over twenty-four hours, and Burgoyne had already established a reputation for perfection that kept hish engineering staff on their collective toes. Burgoyne stopped by the antimatter regulators and studied the readouts carefully. "Torelli!" s/he called. "Torelli, get your butt down here and bring the rest of you along for the ride!"

  Engineer's Mate Torelli seemed to materialize almost by magic at Burgoyne's side.

  "Yes, shir," said Torelli. "

  I thought I gave you instructions that would improve the energy flow by five percent, and I asked for them to be implemented immediately."

  "Yes, shir."

  "Did you implement them?"

  "Yes, shir."

  "Then may I ask why I'm only seeing an improvement of three percent?"

  "I don't know, shir."

  "Then I suggest you find out." At that moment, Burgoyne's comm badge beeped. S/he tapped it and said, "Chief Engineer Burgoyne here."

  "Chief, this is Maxwell down in sickbay. Dr. Selar would like a word with you."

  "Can it wait?"

  "It's been waiting for a while, shir. She was most emphatic." Maxwell sounded just a touch nervous.

  "In other words, we're definitely in the realm of not taking no for an answer, correct?"

  "A fair assessment, shir."

  Burgoyne sighed. S/he'd been expecting this, really. S/he'd had hish head buried down in Engineering, overseeing every aspect of the refit. Burgoyne would have preferred another two weeks to complete the refit to hish satisfaction, but Starfleet had seemed bound and determined to get them out into space. It was Starfleet's call to make, of course, but Burgoyne couldn't say that s/he was happy about it.

  And now the doctor, whom Burgoyne had barely had a chance to take note of in passing, wanted to see hir about some damned thing or other.

  "On my way," said Burgoyne, who then glanced up at Torelli and said, "Be sure that's attended to by the time I get back."

  "Yes, shir."

  "By the way . . . first thing I'd do is make sure that the problem isn't in the readings rather than in the actual tech. If an object measures a meter long, and the meter stick is wrong, then that doesn't make the object a meter, now, does it."

  "No, shir."

  "Get on that, then," said Burgoyne. "And don't disappoint me. I don't take well to it. Last person who disappointed me, I ripped their throat out with my teeth."

  "You certainly like to joke, Chief," Torelli said.

  "That's true, Torelli, I do," Burgoyne agreed. S/he headed for the door and paused there only long enough to say, "Of course, that doesn't mean I was joking just now." And s/he flashed hish sharp canines and walked out.

  Soleta and Zak Kebron stepped out onto the bridge to find that all attention was on navigator Mark McHenry.

  He was leaning back in his chair, eyes half-closed. He didn't seem to be breathing. Lefler was staring at him, as was Shelby. Calhoun was just emerging from his ready room and he looked to see where everyone else's attention was. He blinked in mild surprise. "Is he dead?" he inquired in a low voice.

  "We're trying to determine that," said Lefler.

  Shelby looked extremely steamed, but then Calhoun waggled his finger to his senior officers, indicating that they should convene in his office. Within moments Robin Lefler found herself alone on the bridge, staring in wonderment at the apparently insensate astronavigator.

  Calhoun, for his part, was wondering if he was ever going to get the hell out of his ready room and onto the bridge. Just to be different, he leaned on the armrest of his couch as Shelby said impatiently, "This is insane. We can't have a navigator who falls asleep at his station . . . if that's what he's doing . . ."

  "He's not asleep," Soleta told Shelby with authority. "He's just thinking. He's very focused."

  "Thinking?'' Shelby couldn't believe it. She looked to Calhoun as if she needed verification for what she was hearing. "Captain, it's absurd . . . !"

  "I was warned McHenry was somewhat unusual," admitted Calhoun. "I thought he'd fit right in on that basis. But even I'm not sure now . . ."

  "Lieutenant Soleta is right," Kebron said, backing her up. "McHenry was like this back in the Academy. Actually, he was even more extreme. It's nothing to be concerned about. As the lieutenant said, McHenry's just thinking."

  "About what?" demanded Shelby.

  "Anything," said Soleta. "Everything. McHenry devotes exactly as much of his brain power as is required for routine duties. If there's an emergency, he'll devote that much more. And he devotes the rest of his brain to other things. Most humans can only concentrate on one thing at a time. McHenry is multifaceted. What you perceive as aberrant behavior is nothing more than what I would term an . . . eccentricity."

  "His eyes are half-closed! We can't have a man at helm who's not alert!"

  "He's alert, Commander," Soleta said confidently. "He's one hundred percent alert. If you walked over to him and spoke his name, he'd snap to instantly."

  "Responding to his name isn't what concerns me," Shelby replied.

  "Nor I," admitted Calhoun. "We need someone at that post who can respond to developing situations on his own, not a man who has to wait for someone to tell him what to do."

  "May I suggest a simple test?" asked Soleta. When Calhoun gestured for her to continue, she said, "I can have Lefler reroute guidance through the ops station. Then we'll have her make a change in course. Nothing major. A simple alteration."

  "What will that prove?" Shelby asked.

 
; "A great deal, if I am correct," Soleta replied.

  "You're not saying that he'll detect, without instruments, a deviation in ship's heading."

  "That is precisely what I'm saying, Commander."

  "That's impossible," Shelby said flatly. "That is completely impossible."

  "Captain," Kebron spoke up, "Commander . . . I fully admit that I had the same initial reactions to McHenry when I met him years ago as you are currently having. I recommend you do as Lieutenant Soleta suggests."

  Calhoun shrugged. "Sounds like a plan."

  "Captain—?!"

  "Calm down, Shelby. Soleta has something to prove. Let's let her try and prove it."

  Soleta exited the captain's ready room and went straight over to Lefler. The others emerged and watched, fascinated in spite of themselves. Soleta bent in close to a puzzled Lefler and whispered in her ear. There was no sign of comprehension on Lefler's face, but she wasn't about to dispute a straightforward instruction. Within moments she had rerouted the navigations systems, and then made a course adjustment that would take the Excalibur eighteen degrees off course.

  The moment the ship began to move in the new direction, the reaction from McHenry was instantaneous and stunning. He snapped forward, his attention completely focused—not on his instrumentation, but on the starfield in front of him on the screen. He then looked to his instruments, but clearly it was only to confirm that which he already knew. All business, he demanded, "Lieutenant, did you take us off course?"

  Shelby was thunderstruck. "I don't believe it," she said. McHenry looked over to her, clearly not sure what Shelby was talking about.

  "She changed headings at my direction, Lieutenant McHenry," Soleta informed him.

  He switched his focus to Soleta, his eyebrows knit in puzzlement. "Why?"

  "Why do you think?"

  He considered the question a moment. "Because there was concern that I had zoned out and you decided to prove otherwise?"

  "Correct."

  "Ah. Okay."

  "Without looking at your instruments, Lieutenant," Calhoun said, descending down the ramp to the command chair, "would you mind telling me how far off course we are?"

  "I don't know, sir. Ballpark . . . nineteen degrees."

  "Eighteen," Robin Lefler acknowledged in wonderment.

  "Fairly close ballpark, I'd say," Calhoun said. "Would you agree, Commander?"

  Shelby sighed. "Damned close."

  "Lieutenant McHenry, bring us back on course."

  "Aye,sir."

  Shelby sank into her chair. Calhoun sat next to her. "You all right, Commander?"

  "Fine," she sighed. "I'm fine. I swear, though, this is like no other ship I've ever served on."

  "I'll take that as a compliment," Calhoun said.

  "You are, of course, always free to exercise your discretion as commanding officer," Shelby replied, as she wondered what other oddities would surface about the crew during their voyage.

  Burgoyne 172 strode into sickbay with an impatient look on hish face. S/he turned to Dr. Maxwell and said, "Well?"

  "Well what, Lieutenant Commander?"

  "Dr. Selar said she wanted to see me. Here I am. I have things to do, so if the doctor could please tell me what she wants, I might be able to get back to my duties."

  Selar emerged from her office and said, "In here, Mister Burgoyne, if it is not too much trouble." She stood there as Burgoyne appeared to be studying her. "Is there a problem, Mister Burgoyne?"

  "No. No problem at all," Burgoyne said as s/he entered Selar's office. "You know, I don't think we've actually had a chance to meet."

  "You have not attended any of the initial department-head meetings," replied Selar. "That would have been the logical place."

  "I had a lot to do to get things ready," Burgoyne said, not sounding particularly apologetic. It seemed to Selar that s/he was looking over the Vulcan doctor in a startlingly appraising manner. "It always comes down to the chief engineer having to pull everything together during the last minute. So ... what can I do to help you, Doctor?"

  "Your most recent medical examination is over two years old. By putting out to space without a more recent exam, we are technically already in breach of Starfleet regulations."

  "Can't have that," Burgoyne said agreeably. "Do you wish to conduct it right now? Because I'm free now."

  "Dr. Maxwell will attend to the actual examination."

  Burgoyne made no effort to hide hish disappointment. "I would prefer you do it. Have the top woman attend to it, and all that."

  She glanced at him with eyebrow cocked in mild curiosity. "Do you have an unusual condition which would require my direct attention?"

  "Well . . . no . . ."

  "Then I assure you, Dr. Maxwell will prove more than sufficient for your needs." She turned and became immediately engrossed in her computer screen, familiarizing herself with other medical profiles It took her a few moments to realize that Burgoyne was still there, and looking at her with a very strange lopsided grin. "Is there something else, Lieutenant Commander?"

  Burgoyne dropped into a chair opposite Selar, giving her the impression that s/he wasn't about to leave anytime soon. "Well, I admit if nothing else I'm disappointed in you, Doctor."

  "How so?"

  "There aren't very many Hermats in Starfleet, and none at command level aside from me. The Vulcans I know have always had a great inquisitiveness about the galaxy they live in and the people therein. I would be surprised if you, a woman of science, did not share that famed Vulcan drive to satisfy curiosity."

  She gave a brief acknowledging nod. "A small amount, I admit. Hermats, as a race, tend to keep to themselves. The tendency toward segregation from the rest of the Federation is well known . . . right down to your tendency to refer to yourselves with a unique set of pronouns to accommodate your dualsex status. 'Hir' rather than 'him' or 'her'. . . 'hish' for the possessive forms of 'his' or 'hers' . . . 's/he,'" and she punched a bit harder than usual on the separately accented h, "rather than 'she' or 'he.'"

  "We developed those actually to simplify direct communication with UFP representatives, and also to maintain our uniqueness as a race. Actually, we were originally going to combine 'she,' 'he,' and 'it' in order to cover all possibilities, but the term we developed—'sheeit'—caused Terrans to laugh whenever we would use it, so we surmised that it had some other, inappropriate meaning and discarded it."

  "That was probably wise." She paused a moment. "Is there a significant distinction between the Hermat and the J'naii?"

  "The J'naii?!" Burgoyne made an annoyed sound. "Those asexual, passionless creatures? No, no. They're neuters, denying all orientation. We celebrate the duality that makes us unique. They are neither. We are both. Fully functioning male and female capabilities." S/he leaned forward and grinned, displaying hish sharpened canines. S/he seemed to be someone who smiled a great deal and enjoyed it while doing so, as s/he repeated, "Fully functioning."

  "I comprehend the adverb," Selar said evenly. "However, I am quite certain my curiosity about the medical uniqueness of Hermats will be more than satisfied by my scrutiny of Dr. Maxwell's no-doubt detailed examination. For my part, I have a good deal that remains to which I must attend, and a routine exam which could be handled by any firstyear resident does not fall into that category. Good day, Lieutenant Commander."

  Burgoyne's smile widened as s/he got up from the chair. Hish voice was light and musical as s/he said, "There's one thing you should know about me, Doctor."

  "Only one thing. Very well" Selar looked up with poorly veiled disinterest.

  "I can sense when I'm going to get on well with someone," Burgoyne informed her. "There's something about the two of us ... some chemistry . . . that I can't quite discern yet. But it's there all the same."

  Folding her fingers, Selar said, "I am unclear as to your implication, Lieutenant Commander."

  "Would you like me to clarify it?"

  She considered for a moment and then said, "No. Actual
ly, upon reflection, I prefer the vagueness. Good day, Lieutenant Commander."

  "But—"

  "I said . . . good day."

  S/he stabbed a finger at Selar and said, "You're a challenge. I like a challenge."

  "If that is what you desire, I understand surviving in a vacuum can be most challenging. If you wish, I can arrange to have you try that right now, and we can combine your examination with an autopsy."

  Burgoyne laughed that delighted musical laugh and coquettishly ran hish fingers through hish closecut blond hair. "Why, Dr. Selar . . . was that a threat?"

  "Not at all. Merely that famed Vulcan drive to satisfy curiosity."

  And with one final, lilting laugh and a toss of hish head, Burgoyne sashayed out of Selar's office, leaving the Vulcan doctor shaking her head and wondering two things:

  What could she have possibly said or done that would have led Burgoyne 172 to think that there was a fragment of interest on Selar's part in hir?

  And why was it that, as Burgoyne walked, Selar found herself watching the sway of hish hips?

  IX.

  CALHOUN LOOKED AROUND the conference lounge and nodded in approval. "Commander Shelby . . . Lieutenants Soleta and McHenry . . . Ambassador Si Cwan . . . Lieutenant Kebron . . . thank you all for coming . . ." He paused. "Although frankly, Mr. Kebron, I'm not entirely sure if your presence is required here."

  "This will be the ambassador's first meeting with you, Captain, without a protective barrier between you. I feel it best if I be here to supervise."

  "Yes, your Mr. Kebron has become somewhat attached to me as of late," Si Cwan said dryly. "I would have liked to think that he is fascinated by my sterling company. In point of fact, he's likely concerned I'll disassemble the ship bolt by bolt while his back is turned."

  "Merely exercising reasonable caution in the presence of a party with questionable security clearance," Kebron replied.

  Calhoun had the distinct feeling that Kebron's comment was a veiled jab at Calhoun himself. Kebron had made no secret that he was unhappy over Si Cwan's unorthodox (to say the least) means of joining the crew, even in a limited, semiofficial capacity. Nor was he any happier over Calhoun's condoning it. However, the Brikar was not one to question his captain's decisions, and so he endeavored to keep his doubts and criticisms to himself. He wasn't terribly good at it—his body language was generally a dead giveaway, as was his tendency to grind his large fingers into his palm with a scrape like rock on rock whenever he was particularly annoyed about something.