by Peter David
"Very wise, Mr. Kebron," Calhoun said diplomatically.
"I do appreciate the title of 'Ambassador,' Captain," Si Cwan commented. "Will quarters appropriate to the title likewise be issued me?"
Calhoun leaned forward and, keeping that same polite, diplomatic tone, said, "That cook job is still open."
"Understood," Si Cwan said in a neutral tone.
With a satisfied nod, Calhoun turned his attention to Soleta. "All right, science officer. You and Mr. McHenry have been working tandem, I understand?"
"Yes, sir. I've been talking extensively with Si Cwan to supplement my own knowledge of Thallon . . ."
"And I've always been something of a history buff," McHenry put in. "So I volunteered to help out with some separate research."
"Good to see, Mr. McHenry," Shelby said approvingly. She wasn't simply being flattering, either. McHenry's clear focus and relatively normal behavior ever since the earlier incident had mollified her concerns to some degree. "What have we got?"
Soleta and McHenry exchanged glances, and she nodded to him that he should begin. He ran his fingers through his shock of red hair, a slight nervous habit, and then said, "Thallon has achieved a nearly mythic status, from everything that I've been able to determine. For starters, the Thallonians were not native to the region. Thallon gained its start as a populated world in much the same way that Australia began."
"You mean criminals?" Kebron said. He made no effort to hide his distaste. In truth, he couldn't have hidden it even if he'd been so inclined.
"That's right. There was another race, a sort of Uber race, which had a variety of names as they were known by assorted worlds which were under their influence. The name they had for themselves is lost to history. They were a star-spanning empire who were, if we judge by their conduct, big believers in conquest but also tended to preserve life rather than destroy it, even if it was of no use to them. They used the planet we now call Thallon as a sort of dumping ground for criminals, unsavory types, political exiles . . . assorted refuse from throughout their system."
"It was, at the time, a small, cold, and not
especially fertile world," Soleta added. "It may very well be that they did not expect any of the residents there to survive. Mr. McHenry has chosen to give a somewhat humanitarian spin to this Uber race's motivations, but for all we know, they simply regarded Thallon as an experiment in endurance. They may have wanted to see how long individuals could survive there before expiring from the harsh conditions." "So they simply kept dumping criminals onto this inhospitable world?" asked Shelby.
Soleta shook her head. "Not precisely. From archaeological records and the myths put forward by Si Cwan's people, the first of the Thallonians arrived in what we would call space arks. They were given provisions enough to last them a few months, plus materials to seed the ground and try to make a life for themselves there."
"Seed unfertile ground," Calhoun mused. "The parent race was all heart."
"Yeah, but apparently they weren't all-knowing." McHenry picked up the story. "The exiles were sent to a planet that had been described to them as inhospitable. But that's not what they discovered when they arrived there. The climate was fairly temperate, the world almost paradisiacal."
"Could they have arrived at the wrong planet?" asked Shelby.
"A logical conclusion," Soleta replied. "However, the coordinates for the intended homeworld of the criminals had been preset and locked into the ark's guidance systems. After all, the race didn't want to have their exiles taking control of the ship and heading off to whatever destination they chose. There do remain several possibilities. One is that the planet underwent some sort of atmospheric change. A shift in its axis, for example, causing alterations in the climate."
"Wouldn't that have changed the orbit and made the locating coordinates incorrect, though?" Shelby said.
"Yes," admitted Soleta. "Another possibility is that the present coordinates were simply wrong and they did not arrive at the intended world. Or perhaps someone within their race simply took pity on them and secretly made the change. It is frustrating to admit, but we simply do not know to a scientific certainty."
"What we do know," McHenry stepped in, "is that Thallon itself was an almost limitless supply of pure energy."
"Pure energy? I don't follow," Kebron said.
"Think of it as an entire world made of dilithium crystals," explained Soleta. "Not that it was dilithium per se, but that's the closest comparison. The ground is an energy-rich mineral unique to the world, all-purpose and versatile beyond anything that has ever been discovered elsewhere. The nutrients in it are such that anything planted in it grows. Anything. Pieces of the planet, when refined, were used to harness great tools of peace and growth . . ."
"And then, eventually, great tools of war," Mc-Henry said.
The tenor of the meeting seemed to change slightly, and when the mention of war came up, eyes seemed to shift to Si Cwan. He shrugged, almost as if indifferent. "It was before my time," he reminded them.
"With Thallon as their power base, they were able to launch conquest of neighboring worlds," McHenry said. "And then, once they had those worlds consolidated under their rule, they spread their influence and power to other nearby systems. In essence, they imitated the race which had deposited them there in the first place."
"What about this race you mentioned," asked Calhoun. "Was there a conflict with them? Did they ever return to Thallon and discover what they had wrought? Or did the Thallonians ever go looking for them?"
"No to the first, yes to the second," McHenry replied. "But they never found them. It's one of the great mysteries of Thallonian history."
"And great frustrations," Si Cwan put in.
"Understandable," Kebron rumbled. "Your ancestors wished to pay them back for the initial indignity of being dumped like refuse on another world."
"You see, Lieutenant Kebron," Si Cwan said with mild amusement, "you understand the Thallonians all too well. Perhaps we shall be fast friends, you and I.
" Kebron simply stared at him from the depths of his dark, hardened skin.
"The Thallonian homeworld has always been the source of the Thallonian strength, both physical and spiritual," said Soleta. "The events of the last weeks, including the collapse of their empire, may have been presaged by the change in the planet's own makeup. In recent decades, the planet seemed to lose much of its energy richness."
"Why?" asked Calhoun.
"Since the Thallonians were never able to fully explain how their world acquired its properties in the first place, there's understandably confusion as to why it would be deserting them now," said Soleta. "Still, the Thallonians might have been able to withstand those difficulties, if there had not been problems with various worlds within the Thallonian Empire."
"It was the Danteri," Si Cwan said darkly.
Calhoun seemed to stiffen upon the mention of the name. "You claimed that at the Enterprise meeting, I understand. Do you have any basis for that?"
"The Danteri have always hungered to make inroads into our empire. They've made no secret of that, nor of their boastfulness. I believe that they instigated rebellion through carefully selected agents. If not for them, we could have—"
"Could have retained your power?"
"Perhaps, Captain. Perhaps."
"By the same token, isn't it possible," Calhoun said, leaning forward, fingers interlaced, "that the Danteri simply serve as a convenient excuse for the deficiencies in your own rule. That it was as a result of ineptitude among the rulers of the Thallonian Empire that the entire thing fell apart. That, in short . . . it was your own damned fault?"
There was dead silence in the room for a moment, and then, imperturbably, Si Cwan said once again, "Perhaps, Captain. Perhaps. We all have our limitations . . . and we all have beliefs which get us through the day. In that, I assume we are no different."
"Perhaps, Si Cwan. Perhaps," said Calhoun with a small smile.
Then Calhoun's comm u
nit beeped at him. He tapped it. "Calhoun here."
"Captain, this is Lefler. We're picking up a distress signal from a transport called the Cambon."
"Pipe it down here, Lieutenant."
There was a momentary pause, and then it came through the speaker. "This is the Cambon," came a rough, hard-edged and angry voice, "Hufmin, Captain. We've sustained major damage in passing through the Lemax system. Engines out, life-support damaged. We have nearly four dozen passengers aboard—civilians, women and children—we need help." His voice seemed to choke on the word, as if it were an obscenity to them. "Repeating, to anyone who can hear . . . this is . . ." And then the signal ceased.
"Lefler, can we get them back?"
"We never had them, sir. We picked it up on an all-band frequency. He threw a note in a bottle and hoped someone would pick it up."
"Have we got a fix on their location?"
"I can track it back and get an approximate. If their engines are out, I can't pinpoint it precisely. On the other hand, they wouldn't have gone too far with no engine power."
"Our orders are to head straight for Thallon," Shelby pointed out.
Calhoun glanced at her. "Are you going to suggest that we ignore a ship in distress, Commander?"
There was only the briefest of pauses, and then Shelby replied, "Not for an instant, Captain. We're here for humanitarian efforts. It would be nothing short of barbaric to then ignore the first opportunity to deploy those efforts."
"Well said. McHenry, get up to the bridge and work with Lefler to find that ship. Get us there at fastest possible speed. Shelby—"
But she was already nodding, one step ahead of him as she tapped her comm unit. "Shelby to engine room."
"Engine room. Burgoyne here."
"Burgy, we're going to be firing up to maximum warp. You have everything ready to go?"
"For you, Commander? Anything. We're fully up to spec. Even I'm satisfied with it."
"If it meets your standards, Burgy, then it must measure up. Shelby out."
McHenry was already on his way, and Calhoun was half-standing. "If there's nothing else . . ."
But Si Cwan was shaking his head, as if discouraged about something. The gesture caught Calhoun's attention, and he said, "Si Cwan?"
"The Lemax system. I know the area. He must have tried to run the Gauntlet. It shouldn't have been a problem." He sighed.
"The Gauntlet?"
"It's a shooting gallery. Two planets that used to be at war, until we imposed peace upon them. The Gauntlet was a hazard of the past, except apparently the danger has been renewed. Just another example of the breakdown occurring all around us." He shook his head again, and then looked around at the silent faces watching him. And then, without another word, he rose and walked out of the room.
Si Cwan stared at the wall of his quarters. Then he heard the sound of the chime. He ignored it, but it sounded again. "Come," he said with a sigh.
Calhoun entered and just stood there, arms folded. "You left rather abruptly,"
"I felt the meeting was over."
"Generally it's good form for the captain to make that judgment."
"I am somewhat out of practice in terms of having others make judgments on my behalf."
Calhoun walked across the room, pacing out the interior much as Si Cwan had earlier. "How do you wish to be viewed aboard this ship, Cwan? As an object of pity?"
"Of course not," Si Cwan said sharply.
"Contempt, then? Confusion, perhaps?" He stopped and turned to face him. "Your title, accorded out of courtesy more than anything else, is 'Ambassador.' Not prince. Not lord. 'Ambassador.' I will hope you find that satisfactory. And by the same token, I hope you understand and acknowledge my authority on this ship. I do not want my decision to allow you to remain with us to be viewed by you as lack of strength on my part."
"No. I don't view it that way at all."
"I'm pleased to hear that."
Si Cwan regarded him thoughtfully for a moment. "May I ask how you got that scar?"
Calhoun touched it reflexively. "This one?"
"It is the most prominent, yes."
"To be blunt . . . I got it while killing someone like you."
"I see. And should I consider that a warning?"
"I don't have to kill anymore . . . I hope," he added as an afterthought.
They sat in silence for a moment, and then Si Cwan said, "It is important to me that you understand my situation, Captain. We oversaw an empire, yes. In many ways, in your terms, we might have been considered tyrannical. But it was my life, Captain. It was my life, and the life of those around me who worked to maintain it and help it prosper. Whether you agree with our methods or not, there was peace. There was peace, "and he slapped his legs and rose. He turned his back to Calhoun and leaned against the wall, palms spread wide. "Peace built by my ancestors, maintained by my generation. We had a birthright given to us, an obligation . . . and we failed. And now I'm seeing the work of my ancestors, and of my family, dismantled. In a hundred years . . . in ten years, for all I know . . . it will be as if everything we accomplished, for good or ill, will be washed away. Gone. As traceable as a tower of sand on the edge of a beach, consumed by the rising tide. What we did will have made no difference. It was all for nothing. Every difficult decision, every hard choice, ultimately amounted to nothing whatsoever. We have no legacy for our future generations. Indeed, we'll probably have no future generations. I have no royal consort with whom I can perpetuate our line. No royal lineage to pass on."
"And you're hoping to use this vessel to rebuild your power base. Aren't you."
Si Cwan turned and stared at him. "Is that what you think?"
"It's crossed my mind."
"I admit it crossed mine as well. But I give you my word, Captain, that I will do nothing to endanger this ship's mission, nor any of its personnel. My ultimate goal is the same as yours: to serve as needed."
Slowly Calhoun nodded, apparently satisfied. "All right. I can accept that . . . for now."
"Captain . . . ?"
"Yes."
Si Cwan smiled thinly. "You were aware the entire time, weren't you. Aware that I had stowed away on your vessel."
For a moment Calhoun considered lying, a course that he would not hesitate to indulge in if he felt that it would serve his purposes. But his instinct told him that candor was the way to go in this matter. "Yes."
"Good."
"Good?"
"Yes. It is something of a relief, really. The notion that I was aboard a ship where the commanding officer had so little awareness of what was happening around him . . . it was unsettling to me."
"I'm relieved that I was able to put your mind at ease. And Si Cwan . . ."
"Yes?"
"Believe it or not . . . I can sympathize. I've had my own moments where I felt that my life had been wasted."
"And may I ask how you dealt with such times of despair?"
And Mackenzie Calhoun laughed softly and said, "I took command of a starship." But then he held up a warning finger. "Don't get any ideas from that."
"I shall try not to, Captain. I shall try very hard."
X.
HUFMIN STARED OUT at the stars and, focusing on one at a time, uttered a profanity for every one he picked out.
Cramped in the helm pit of the Cambon, he still couldn't believe that he had gotten himself into this fix. He scratched at his grizzled chin and dwelt for the umpteenth time on the old Earth saying that no good deed goes unpunished.
He glanced at his instrumentation once more, his lungs feeling heavier and heavier. He knew that the last thing you were supposed to do upon receiving a head injury was let yourself fall asleep. And so he had kept himself awake through walking around in the cramped quarters, through stimulants, recitation, biting himself—anything and everything he could think of. None of which was going to do him a damned bit of good because, just to make things absolutely perfect, he wasn't going to be able to breathe for all that much longer.
The life-support systems were tied into his engines. When they went down, the support systems switched to backup power supply, but that was in the process of running out. Hufmin was positive it was getting tougher to breathe, although he wasn't altogether certain how much of that was genuine and how much was just his imagination running away with him. But if it wasn't happening now, it was going to be happening soon enough as the systems became incapable of cleansing the atmosphere within the craft and everybody within suffocated.
Everybody . . .
Every . . . body . . .
. . . lots of bodies.
Not for the first time, he dwelt on the fact that this was a case where the more was most definitely not the merrier. Every single body on the ship was another person who was taking up space, another person breathing oxygen and taking up air that would be better served to keep him, Hufmin, alive.
What had possessed him? What in God's name had possessed him to take on this useless, unprofitable detail? If he'd been a Ferengi he would have been drummed out of . . . well, whatever it was that Ferengi were drummed out of when they made unbelievably bad business decisions. The problem was that this was no longer simply a case of costing him money. Now it was going to cost him his life.
. . . lots of bodies . . .
"Dump 'em," he said, giving voice finally to the thought that had bounced around in his head for the last several hours. It was a perfectly reasonable idea. All he had to do was get rid of the passengers and he could probably survive days, maybe even weeks, instead of the mere hours that his instruments seemed to indicate remained to him.
It wouldn't be easy. There were, after all, fortyseven of them and only one of him. It wasn't likely that they would simply and cheerfully hurl themselves into the void so that he, Hufmin, had a better chance at survival. No, the only way to get rid of them would be by force. Again, though, he was slightly outnumbered . . . by about forty-seven to one.