Star Trek: New Frontier: Books 1-4

by Peter David

"Yes, but I'll let it go this time," replied Calhoun, who had in fact been about to issue exactly those orders. "Mr. Boyajian, have you raised them yet?"

  "Not yet, sir." Boyajian, a tall, black-haired tactical specialist, had stepped in to cover for Zak Kebron while the security chief was off-ship.

  Calhoun spoke briskly and forcefully, yet in a manner so unhurried that it gave the impression he felt fairly unthreatened by the present situation. Whether that was truly the case or not was impossible to tell. "Keep trying, but meantime see ifyou can determine where their key points of vulnerability are and target them."

  "Trying, Captain. Tough to scan them through their shields."

  "Do your best." He turned toward the science station. "Lieutenant Soleta, any thoughts on the ship's pedigree?"

  "Although the vessel bears passing similarities with Kreel vessels, it is not of that race," she said as she checked her scanners. "It will take time to make a full analysis."

  "Fine, you've got twenty seconds."

  "I appreciate the leisure time, sir."

  "They're coming around again," warned Shelby.

  "Firing again!" Boyajian warned.

  Two phase/plasma bolts streaked out from the underside of the black-and-silver ship. Mark McHenry's eyes seemed to glitter with an almost demented glee as his fingers flew over the controls with such speed that Lefler, sitting not ten feet away, couldn't even see them.

  The twin blasts arced right for the front of the saucer section, and would have struck it cleanly had not the Excalibur suddenly—with alacrity and grace—executed a forty-five-degree roll on her horizontal axis. Terms such as "sideways" had no meaning in the depth of space when there was no other body, such as a planet, to relate it to. Nonetheless, "sideways" was what the Excalibur suddenly was as the plasma blasts shot past her, bracketing her on either side.

  "Excellent!" Shelby called out. McHenry had had no more vocal critic or detractor than Shelby when she had first seen him at his post, apparently unfocused and uninterested. But faced with a crisis,

  McHenry had reacted with ingenuity and full capability.

  McHenry's response to Shelby's spontaneous praise was to turn and grin at her.

  Soleta, who appeared oblivious to McHenry's maneuvering, glanced up from her science station. "Sir, I believe that bulge to their aft section is the key to their propulsion system . . . some sort of a concentrated ion glide."

  "Mr. Boyajian, target it, ready phasers for a threesecond shot at full strength. Then put me on ship-toship."

  "Aye, sir, but I can't promise they're listening."

  "I'll take that chance. Oh, and the moment I get to five, fire."

  "You're on intership, Captain," said Boyajian, "but what did you mean by—?"

  Calhoun didn't give him the opportunity to finish the question. Instead, in a no-nonsense tone, he said, "Attention alien vessel. This is Captain Calhoun of the Federation starship Excalibur. Your attack is unprovoked. We will give you to the count of five to back off, or we will open fire."

  Understanding the earlier order, Boyajian's finger hovered over the firing control.

  And Calhoun, without hesitation, said, "One . . . two . . . five."

  Boyajian fired the phaser reflexively upon hearing the command, acting so automatically that the phasers had already been unleashed before he real ized that a few numbers had been missing in the countdown.

  The phasers lashed out, striking the attacking vessel directly in the section that Soleta had suggested. The attacker rocked wildly, the phasers coruscating off the shields.

  "Direct hit," Boyajian reported. "Their shields held, but I don't think they were particularly thrilled."

  "I didn't expect to damage them," said Calhoun. "Not with a three-second burst."

  "A warning shot," Shelby realized. "To let them know that we've targeted a vulnerable area."

  Calhoun nodded, and that was when Boyajian said, "We're getting an incoming hail, sir."

  "Good. Let them sweat a few moments before putting them on."

  In a low voice so as not to sound openly questioning of her superior officer in front of the rest of the bridge crew, Shelby murmured, "If you wanted to warn them, you could have fired at half-strength. Perhaps even fired across their path rather than an invasive direct strike."

  "If I have a bow and arrow, Commander, I don't shoot a padded shaft to my target's left in order to express my annoyance. I fire a steel-tipped arrow into his leg. That's my idea of a warning shot."

  "You're the Gandhi of the spaceways, Captain."

  He smiled and then said, "Put me on with them, Boyajian."

  "You're on, sir."

  "This is Captain Calhoun of the Excalibur," he said. "Identify yourselves and prepare to stand down from hostilities. Otherwise I can assure you that you will not leave this confrontation in one piece."

  The screen shimmered for a moment, and the commander (presumably) of the opposing vessel appeared.

  Although distinguishing gender was frequently a bit problematic in any first encounter, the Excalibur's opponent looked distinctly female. Moreover, by Earth standards she appeared almost angelic. She was hairless, her skin golden, her brow slightly distended in a manner that was—amazingly enough—still attractive. It was difficult to make out the color of her eyes, but when she tilted her head they seemed to glow with an almost purple sheen. When she spoke, her voice had a vibrato to it that gave it a somewhat musical quality.

  "I am Laheera of Nelkar," she replied. "Do you wish to discuss terms of your surrender?"

  "Surrender?" Calhoun cast a skeptical glance at Shelby as if to say, Do you hear this? He looked back to Laheera. "You expect me—a Starfleet captain— to surrender my vessel on our maiden voyage to the first opponent who looks to pose a challenge? Sorry. That's not my style."

  "And is your style trespass, then? We know your type, Calhoun," said Laheera. Her voice was such that, even when annoyed, she had a tone of amusement to her. "Our once-orderly sector is now subject to the attentions of scavengers and pirates. People who will take every opportunity to ravage us, to feed on helplessness. We must protect ourselves."

  "I can appreciate that," replied Calhoun, "but you've misjudged us. We're here only to help."

  "How do we know? Why, there is a transport vessel right next to you that is empty and damaged. How do we know you haven't picked it clean of whatever it might have had to offer?"

  "The transport vessel's crew is aboard this ship. We were lending humanitarian aid. Ifyou wish, I can have you speak to its captain and a delegation of its crew."

  Laheera glanced to the side of the screen and murmured something, as if consulting with someone unseen. Then she looked back and said, "That would be acceptable."

  "Give us five minutes. Calhoun out." He didn't even wait for the screen to blink off as he said, "Bridge to sickbay."

  "Sickbay, Dr. Selar here," came the crisp response.

  "Doctor, I'd like you to get Captain Hufmin and a couple of representatives of the Cambon passengers up here immediately. Whoever is healthiest and is qualified to speak on their behalf. And make it fast."

  "Will three minutes suffice?"

  "Make it two. Calhoun out." He promptly turned to Boyajian and said, "Can you raise the Marquand?"

  "Aye, sir."

  "Good. Get me Si Cwan on subspace. I want to see what he knows about these 'Nelkar' people."

  He looked to Shelby and he knew what she was thinking. She was musing that if Calhoun hadn't let Si Cwan and Zak Kebron head out in the runabout for the purpose of rendezvous with the ship Kayven Ryin, then he would be aboard the Excalibur now, in a position to be of some use. Shelby, however, was far too good an officer to voice those thoughts . . . at least, while other crewmen were around. So instead she nodded noncommittally and simply said, "Good plan, sir."

  "Zoran, it's slowing down!" Aboard the Kayven Ryin, a group of Thallonians had been watching the approach of the Marquand with tremendous interest and smug excitement. For wha
t seemed the hundredth time, Zoran had checked over his disruptor, making certain that the energy cartridge was fully charged. But with the alarmed shout from one of his associates, Rojam, Zoran tore himself away from his preoccupation with his weapon.

  Rojam was correct. The Marquand, dispatched by the Excalibur and bearing the unknowing target of Zoran's interest—named Lord Si Cwan, former prince of the Thallonian Empire—had been proceeding at a brisk pace toward the Kayven Ryin.

  "They suspect," muttered Rojam.

  "Do something, then," snapped Zoran. "We can't be this close to having Si Cwan in our hands, only to let him slip through our fingers now! I must have his throat in my hands, so that I can squeeze the life from him myself!" The other Thallonians nodded in agreement, which was hardly surprising. Whenever Zoran spoke, the others had a tendency to concur.

  Reactivating the comm channel, Rojam hailed the oncoming runabout. He tried not to sound nervous, apprehensive, or all that eager, although a little of any of that would have been understandable. After all, they were representing themselves as frightened, stranded passengers aboard a crippled science vessel. A degree of nervousness under the circumstances would be right in line with the scenario they were presenting. "Shuttle craft Marquand, is there a problem? You seem to be slowing." He paused and then added, "Aren't you going to help us?"

  There was no reply at first and another of the Thallonians, a shorter and more aggressive man named Juif, whispered, "Target them! Target them! Use exterior weapons and blast them into atoms! Hurry, before it's too late!"

  "They're at the outer edge of the firing range," Zoran noted angrily. "We likely couldn't do them any significant damage, and they'd still be in a position to get away. Hell, their instruments would probably inform them we're locking on to them. They'd leap into warp space and be gone before we got a shot off." The edge to his voice became more pronounced as he said in a threatening manner, "Rojam . . ."

  "They're not responding."

  "That is unacceptable. Get them on the line."

  "But if they won't respon—"

  Zoran's large hand clamped down on the back of Rojam's neck, and the latter felt as if his head was about to be torn from his shoulders. "Providence has delivered Si Cwan to us," snarled Zoran, "and I will not have him escape. Now get them on the line!"

  Never had Rojam been more convinced that his demise was imminent. And then, as if in answer to unvoiced prayers, a gravelly voice came over the speaker. "This is Lieutenant Kebron of the Marquand. Sit tight, Kayven Ryin. We're just dealing with a communique from our main vessel. Kebron out."

  "Raise them again!" urged Zoran.

  "I can't. The channel's gone dead."

  "If they get away," Zoran said meaningfully, "that channel won't be the only thing around here that's dead."

  Si Cwan stroked his chin thoughtfully. "The Nelkarites, eh?"

  "You know them?" Calhoun's voice came over the subspace radio. "Are they trustworthy?"

  "Nowadays, there are few in Sector 221-G whom I would consider absolutely trustworthy," Si Cwan told him. "Relatively speaking, the Nelkar had been fairly harmless. Never started any wars, more than happy to accept Thallonian rule. However . . ."

  "However?" prompted Calhoun when the word seemed simply to dangle there.

  "Well . . . they're a scavenger race, by and large. Fairly limited in their design and potential. They tend to cobble their vessels together from whatever they can find, using technology that they don't always understand."

  Soleta's voice was audible over the link as she commented, "That would explain the somewhat haphazard design of their vessel."

  "Does that answer your questions, Captain?" asked Si Cwan, not quite able to keep the urgency out of his voice. "Because if it's all the same to you—"

  "Stay on station. Do not proceed to the Kayven Ryin until you hear back from us."

  "But Captain—!"

  "I want to get matters sorted out on this end before you board that vessel, and I want to know I can get in touch with you. If the comm system on the Kayven Ryin goes out, you'll be incommunicado."

  "Captain—!" Si Cwan tried to protest.

  But Calhoun wouldn't hear any of it. Instead he said preemptively, "Did you copy those orders, Lieutenant Kebron?"

  Without hesitation, Kebron said, "Understood, Captain."

  "Excalibur out."

  Making no attempt to cover his anger, Si Cwan sprang to his feet and slammed his fists into the ceiling of the shuttle craft. Kebron watched him impassively. "What do you think you're doing?"

  "I'm getting angry!" snapped Si Cwan. He began to pace the interior of the shuttle craft like a tiger. "Why, don't you ever get angry?"

  "I try not to," said Kebron evenly. "If I lose control, things tend to get broken."

  "Things. What kinds of things," demanded Si Cwan without much interest.

  "Oh . . . heads . . . backs . . . necks . . ."

  Captain Hufmin of the damaged vessel Cambon, along with two of the refugees—a husband and wife named Boretskee and Gary, who had developed into a kind of leaders-by-default—sat in the conference lounge with Calhoun and Shelby. On the screen was Laheera of Nelkar, and it was quite apparent to Calhoun that Hufmin and company were spellbound by her.

  "You understand that we were only concerned about the welfare of your passengers," Laheera said to Calhoun in that wonderfully musical voice of hers. "Let us not lose sight of one simple truth: This is our sector of space. You are merely a visitor here. It is to our interest to watch out for one another. It is difficult to know whom to trust."

  "Understood," Calhoun said neutrally.

  "Captain Hufmin . . . I extend to you and your . . . cargo," she seemed amused by the notion, "sanctuary on Nelkar. We welcome you with open arms."

  Boretskee and Gary looked at each other with undisguised joy and relief. "We accept your offer," they said.

  "Excellent. I shall inform my homeworld." The screen shimmered and she was gone.

  "Now, wait a minute," said Shelby. "Are you quite certain about this?"

  "Commander, we are not pioneers," Gary replied. "We are not intrepid adventurers like yourselves. We're just trying to survive, that's all. Whether we survive on their world or somewhere outside of the Thallonian Empire, what difference does it make?"

  "Isn't there an old Earth saying about any port in a storm?" Hufmin reminded them.

  "Yes, and there's also one about fools rushing in," said Calhoun.

  Boretskee bristled a bit. "I can't say I appreciate being considered a 'fool,' Captain."

  "I didn't say that—"

  Cary cut in. "We are grateful to you for all you've done for us. You saved our lives. For that our next generation of children will be named for you. But, Captain," and Cary gestured as if trying to encompass the whole of the galaxy, "this environment you sail through—space—you're comfortable in it. You've made your peace with it. But myself, Boretskee, the others in our group . . . we're not spacefaring types. This vacuum . . . it presses on us. Intimidates us. We almost died in it. If the Nelkarites offer us safe escort and a life on their world, we'll happily embrace it."

  Hufmin took in both Shelby and Calhoun with a bland shrug. "Look . . . I'm just a hired gun here. They're the passengers. Barring desires that run contrary to the safety of my vessel, I'm obligated to take them where they want to go.''

  "Perhaps. But I'm not," Calhoun said. They looked at him, a bit appalled. "Captain . . . you wouldn't," said Boretskee.

  "I have to do what I think is right. And I'm loath to thrust you into a potentially dangerous situation . . ."

  "We're already in a potentially dangerous situation," Gary pointed out. "We're in the depths of space. That's dangerous enough as far as we're concerned. It almost killed us once. We have no desire to give it a second opportunity."

  "With all respect, Captain, this shouldn't be your decision," Boretskee said.

  "With all respect, sir . . . that is precisely what it is," replied Calhoun. He r
ose from his seat and turned away from them, his hands draped behind his back. "I'll let you know what I decide presently. That will be all."

  "Now wait one minute—"

  "I believe, sir, that the captain said that would be all," Shelby said calmly, her fingers interlaced on the table in front of her. "Temporary quarters have been set up to house you and your fellow passengers. Perhaps the time could be well spent discussing your options with them . . . just in the event that you're not all of the same mind."

  "Apparently what we decide is irrelevant," said Boretskee challengingly. His fists were tightly clenched; it was clear that he was a bit of a scrapper, just waiting for Calhoun to react in some aggressive manner. When Calhoun did not even turn, however, Boretskee continued angrily, "Wouldn't you say so, Captain?"

  Calhoun turned to look at him, and his purple eyes were as sympathetic as a black hole. "Yes. I would." The air turned more frigid with each word.

  To his credit, Boretskee didn't seem inclined to back down. But Gary headed off any continuing hostility as she tugged on Boretskee's arm and he allowed himself to be led out of the room. Captain Hufmin paused at the door long enough to say, "Look, Captain . . . I don't give a damn either way. I'm making almost no money on this job as it is. But for what it's worth, these are people who have lost everything. Be a shame if they lost their self-respect, too."

  Shelby waited until the moment that Hufmin was gone and out of earshot, and then she said to Calhoun, "It's not your choice, you know."

  He raised an eyebrow. "Pardon?"

  "Regs are clear on this. These people know where they want to go. You don't have any conceivable grounds upon which to overrule their desire."

  "Yes,I do."

  "That being?"

  "My gut."

  She leaned back, arms folded. "Your gut," said, unenthused. "Funny. I don't remember reading about that in my Intro to Regs class back at the Academy. Guts, I mean.' "

  "Nelkar smells wrong."

  "First your stomach, now your nose. Are you a Starfleet captain or a gourmet?"

  And to her utter surprise, he slammed the conference table with an iron fist. The noise startled her and she jumped slightly, but quickly composed herself. And just as quickly as she reined herself in, so did Calhoun. "I'm dealing with subtleties, Commander. Regulations aren't created for subtleties. They're created as sweeping generalizations to handle all situations. But not every situation."