Starfleet Year One

by Michael Jan Friedman

  Before he could get out another word, the doors slid open again and someone else entered the room. Stiles wasn’t surprised to see that the man wore a loose-fitting black jumpsuit, which was plainly civilian garb. What did catch him off guard was the rest of the newcomer’s appearance, which indicated that he was a denizen of Rigel IV...

  And not of Earth.

  “—late,” Hagedorn finished lamely, unable to conceal a note of raw surprise in his voice.

  Stiles had known that humans would be serving alongside aliens, of course. Admiral Walker had made that clear to them. But no one had mentioned that humans would be serving under aliens.

  “Captain Cobaryn,” said the man with the hawklike nose. “I was wondering if your orders had somehow failed to reach you.”

  The Rigelian shook his bony, silver-skinned head. “They reached me without incident, sir. I simply had a little difficulty finding this facility. Of course, I regret any inconvenience I may have caused.”

  “None at all,” the slender man told him. “We were just about to start. Please, sit down.”

  The exchange was a little too polite for Stiles’s taste. In the service, officers were more blunt. But then, it was becoming increasingly evident that Starfleet was a different animal.

  At least for the time being, he reminded himself.

  The Rigelian deposited himself in a chair beside Dane. Unless Stiles was mistaken, there was a spark of recognition between the two. And not just between them, but between Cobaryn and the other butterfly catcher also.

  “If I may have your attention,” said the man in the gray suit, “my name is Chinua Abute. I am the Director of Starfleet. As the first half-dozen captains in our organization, you will all report directly to me.”

  Abute, thought Stiles. He had heard the name before. Judging by the grunts from the back row, the butterfly catchers had heard of it, too.

  “Some of you,” said Abute, “may know me for my work as Chief Protocol Officer at Earth Command. Of course, I served in that capacity some time ago. Immediately afterward, I resigned my commission to command the first civilian exploration vessel assigned to the Aratain Sector.”

  Stiles nodded, putting the facts together. Aratain was the sector where the Tellarite and Andorian homeworlds were located. Abute was probably responsible for making contact with those races—no doubt, a couple of big feathers in the man’s cap.

  “So as you can see,” Abute concluded, “my experience straddles the various types of responsibilities our fleet will be undertaking. I understand the value of security as well as science.”

  Stiles frowned. A chief protocol officer was a military man in name only. Clearly, Abute was a butterfly catcher at heart.

  What’s more, he doubted the man had any real clout. More likely, he was a compromise between the military and scientific camps—and the real power rested in the hands of others.

  “Now,” said the director, “enough about me. Let’s talk about our fleet . . .and what it expects of you.”

  In the next few minutes, Abute introduced each of them to the group and outlined their duties. They would each patrol a particular precinct of the newly formed Federation, alert to both alien threats and scientific opportunities. And as Walker had surmised, they would make use of Earth’s Christopher fleet until Starfleet could build its own vessels.

  Abute smiled with what seemed like genuine fervor. “Which brings me to the Daedalus,” he said.

  Fishing a small remote control device from his pocket, he pressed a button and dimmed the lights in the room. Then he pressed another button and produced a three-dimensional image in the air beside him.

  It was an image of a spacegoing ship—but one that looked nothing like a Christopher. Whereas the latter resembled an old-fashioned hip flask with a couple of warp nacelles tucked underneath it, this vessel was comprised of an elegant central cylinder, two powerful-looking nacelles suspended above it, and a roomy, globelike appendage in front.

  “The Daedalus,” Abute repeated, a distinct note of pride in his voice, “is at this very moment under construction at the Utopia Planitia Shipyards in orbit around Mars. When completed, she will be capable of speeds up to warp three—thanks to increased plasma flow through the injectors and greater efficiencies in the warp field generator coils.”

  Stiles was impressed, to say the least. Even with the latest round of improvements, his Christopher had been lucky to maintain warp two.

  “The Daedalus’ will also boast state-of-the-art tactical systems,” Abute told them. “These include six tightbeam laser generators which are fifty percent more powerful than anything we’ve used to date, improved launcher assemblies for our atomic detonation devices, and four additional layers of electromagnetic deflector shielding.”

  Six layers of deflectors, Stiles thought wonderingly. If they’d had that kind of protection against the Romulans, the war wouldn’t have dragged on half so long.

  “In addition,” said Abute, “we have installed long-range scanners capable of probing thermal, gravimetric, and electromagnetic phenomena at distances of up to a light-year from the ship.”

  “What about passive neutrino imaging?” asked the Rigelian.

  “Up to half a light-year,” the director replied.

  “Remarkable,” said one of the butterfly catchers, a man with wavy black hair and dark, intense features.

  “And on the short-range front,” said Abute, “similarly remarkable improvements have been made in our optical, quark-resonance, and gamma-radiation scanning capabilities. Clearly, our ability to recognize and categorize planetary lifeforms will be greatly enhanced.”

  “Clearly,” Cobaryn agreed.

  “Communications?” asked Hagedorn.

  Abute looked almost apologetic. “That is one of the few functions we have been unable to improve to any great degree—so far, at least.”

  “Too bad,” said Cobaryn.

  “On the other hand,” Abute said, perking up noticeably, “we have cut short-range transport times by more than twenty-nine percent. And our quantum-resolution transporter range has been expanded to thirty-eight thousand kilometers, allowing for site-to-surface transports of living organisms—ship’s personnel included.”

  Stiles couldn’t help being skeptical. “You mean we can establish orbit around a world and just beam down?”

  The director nodded. “I know. I had a hard time believing it myself at first. But we’ve been transporting volunteers at that range without negative effects for several weeks now. And in the next day or so, we’ll be installing a site-to-surface transporter here at Earth Command—so if you like, you can try it yourself.”

  “Not me,” Matsura breathed.

  Abute smiled at him. “Not yet, Captain. But soon enough.” He pointed to a spot on the Daedalus’ s globe. “And just in case something goes wrong, you’ll be glad to know you’ll have a fully equipped sickbay on board—with six medical diagnostic tables that our engineers have dubbed biobeds.”

  “Six?” echoed Hagedorn. “Why so many?”

  The director shrugged. “You may need them—considering this vessel is expected to carry a crew of no less than two hundred and thirty.”

  “My God,” Stiles said out loud. His hometown back in Tennessee had fewer people than that.

  Abute regarded him. “Quite a responsiblity, I agree. But then, the Daedalus isn’t just another ship. It’s going to be the prototype for all of Starfleet—the vehicle that’s going to carry our fledgling Federation far beyond the bounds of known space.”

  “Who’s going to command it?” asked Hagedorn.

  The director’s smile faded a little as he considered the man. “You’ve hit the nail on the head, haven’t you, Captain?”

  “I believe in being blunt,” said Hagedorn.

  “Very well, then,” Abute responded. “Let us be blunt.” He eyed each of the six individuals assembled before him, one at a time. “Only one of you will command the Daedalus—the one who best exemplifies the v
irtues of a Starfleet captain in the eyes of a special board of review.”

  “And the rest of us?” asked Matsura.

  “The rest of you,” said Abute, “will receive Daedalus-class vessels as they become available.”

  Stiles was no fool. It didn’t take him long to understand what was at stake in such a competition—and it wasn’t just pride or prestige.

  If one of the captains with a military background was given command of the Daedalus, he would become the template for all Starfleet captains to come. But if one of the butterfly catchers got the nod, the prototypical Starfleet captain would be a scientist first and last.

  That meant only one thing. Stiles or one of his wingmates would get the Daedalus. Any other outcome was unacceptable.

  “Of course,” Abute noted, “it would be foolish to finalize our designs for the Daedalus and her sister ships until we’ve heard from the men who will command them. If you check the computer terminals in your quarters, you will find all the information you’ll need. Study it and come up with recommendations. I look forward to hearing what you have to say.”

  I’ll bet you do, thought Stiles.

  Shumar considered the holographic image of the Daedalus, with its sleek, strangely majestic lines and the amazing capabilities those lines suggested—and he began to understand what it represented.

  To the victor goes the spoils, he mused. All of them.

  “Any questions?” asked Abute.

  There weren’t any.

  Abruptly, the director manipulated his remote control device, causing the three-dimensional image to vanish. A moment later, he turned the lights back on as well.

  “Then that concludes our briefing,” said Abute. “Thank you for your attention. I will see you in the large conference room at this same time tomorrow. Until then, you are dismissed.”

  With that, the hawk-nosed man made his way out of the room—leaving Starfleet’s six captains alone with each other. That state of affairs didn’t last long, however.

  Hagedorn, Stiles, and Matsura got up and exchanged glances—but only with each other. Then they headed for the door together and followed Director Abute out of the room.

  “Well,” said Shumar, “that was rather friendly of them.”

  Cobaryn tilted his head. “You are joking, yes?”

  Dane didn’t answer. He just stood there and frowned. More than likely, Shumar reflected, the Cochrane jockey was only sticking around to give the military men a head start. Then, when he left, too, he wouldn’t have to run into them in the hallway.

  “Listen,” said Shumar, “we’ve all spoken with Clarisse Dumont, right?”

  Cobaryn nodded. “Indeed.”

  Dane’s frown deepened. “What about it?”

  “I just wanted to make sure,” Shumar told him, trying not to let the man get to him. “Because if we have spoken with her, we should all understand the significance of this business about the Daedalus.”

  Cobaryn nodded. “Whoever receives it will have a great deal of influence on the objectives of the fleet. That much is clear.”

  “So?” asked Dane.

  “So if we want Starfleet to be a force for knowledge, one of us has to wind up in command of the Daedalus. And the only way we’re going to achieve that goal is to work together.”

  The Rigelian thought about it for a moment. Then he nodded again. “As you say, my friend, we must work together.”

  Shumar looked at Dane. “What about you, Captain? Are you in?”

  The Cochrane jockey chuckled. “Let’s get something straight, all right? I care about the advancement of science as much as I care about babysitting the galaxy—which is not very much.”

  Shumar didn’t get it. “Then why did you agree to join Starfleet in the first place?” he wondered.

  Dane didn’t answer for a long time. Then he shrugged. “I keep asking myself that question.”

  With that, the man left the room. Sighing, Shumar turned to Cobaryn and said, “He’s some piece of work.”

  “As I noted once before,” Cobaryn remarked, “our Captain Dane is something of a loner.”

  Shumar had to agree. “I guess it’s up to the two of us, then.”

  The Rigelian smiled his awkward smile. “Yes. And let us hope that will be enough.”

  CHAPTER

  9

  DOREEN BARSTOWE GAZED ACROSS THE WHITE-AND-RED checkered tablecloth at the large and imposing figure of Barnett Harrington Shaw.

  “So,” she said, “it seems you’ve made quite a name for yourself.”

  Shaw shrugged his broad shoulders, which had looked even broader before he developed a paunch of the same magnitude. “If you recall,” he said, “I wanted to be a third baseman. I would’ve been good at it, too—better than a lot of those who came before me. Law is just something I dabble in while I mourn the passing of the major leagues.”

  Barstowe smiled. “Don’t give me that, Barney. You eat and breathe and dream about the Law, and God help any attorney on the other side of the aisle who believes you’re just a frustrated third sacker.”

  It was Shaw’s turn to smile, his teeth white and perfect in the dark nest of his beard. “Sorry. I guess I forgot to whom I was speaking.” He leaned across the table. “What brings you to Earth?”

  “What else?” she said. “The Federation.”

  He sat back in his chair as if recoiling from something mildly distasteful. “Ah, yes. That little thing.”

  “You don’t like my Federation?” Barstowe asked sweetly.

  Shaw gazed out the open window beside them, which afforded a view of the quainter parts of San Francisco all the way down to the bay. The plunging streets were lined with narrow Victorian houses painted in soft, cheerful pastels. Gulls flew overhead. Somewhere down the hill, a streetcar bell was ringing as if it had something to complain about.

  “It’s not your Federation I don’t like,” Shaw said after a moment. “It’s what it seems likely to bring with it.”

  “And what’s that?” Barstowe asked. “Aliens?”

  He shot her a look that said he meant nothing of the sort. “Curiosity-seekers,” he replied. “Corporate bigwigs with trade contracts in their pockets. Entrepreneurs with grand ideas, God help us.”

  “And that’s bad?”

  “This is a sleepy little town, Doreen. I like it that way.”

  “You might be right,” she conceded. “The place may change a bit. But not much, not in the ways you think. We’re doing our best to set up facilities in other parts of the world so San Francisco doesn’t end up bearing the burden of interstellar commerce all by herself.”

  The bearded man smiled a tight smile. “I hope it’ll work as well as you believe it will.”

  “You’ve got my word on it,” Barstowe said. “Remember, this was my town, too.”

  “Before you took off for the stars.” He chuckled. “I remember how hopeful you were, how determined to bring the galaxy together. And now you’ve done it, haven’t you?”

  “With a little help,” she reminded him.

  “So now what? Do you plan to stay a while...I hope?”

  The ambassador blushed. She had never been good at handling flirtations, even when they came from an old friend. Alien relations were more her style.

  “Well,” she said, forging ahead, “now that we’ve received commitments from all the other species we contacted, we attempt to set up an organization.”

  Shaw nodded. “A structure.”

  “And a set of bylaws everyone can live with. In fact, there’s a conference scheduled for a week from now, where representatives of Earth and seven other memberworlds will bang out a constitution.”

  “Sounds nasty,” Shaw observed.

  “Nasty?” Barstowe echoed.

  “Eight different species in one room? With eight different cultural perspectives, each as different from the others as Death Valley is from Kilimanjaro?” The attorney shivered. “I pity the poor soul who has to make sense of that mess.”

&
nbsp; She hadn’t intended to raise the question so soon, but it was just as well it had come up. She knew from experience that one didn’t beat around the bush with Barney Shaw.

  “Ask not for whom the bell tolls,” Barstowe said, and let her words fall through the air like bombs.

  Her friend’s jaw dropped as he realized what she was asking of him. “You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  She shook her head from side to side. “It tolls for thee, Barney. And before you say no, hear me out.”

  Shaw’s brow creased down the middle, but he didn’t stop her. She drew encouragement from that.

  “You’re the best,” she said. “We both know that, modesty and baseball stories aside. And beyond being the best, you’ve proven you can look at the law in ways other people can’t. That’s why you were able to defend that man accused of murder on Alpha Eridani Two.”

  “The first and last time you’ll see me venture into space,” the bearded man assured her.

  “But you did it,” the ambassador insisted, “because you were one of the few attorneys on Earth who could grasp that unusual set of circumstances and effectively wrap the Law around it. All I’m asking is that you take that nimble mind of yours and apply it to a challenge worthy of your abilities.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Flattery?”

  “If that’s what it takes,” she told him.

  “But I’ve never dealt with aliens before,” Shaw pointed out. “Hell, I’ve never even met an alien.”

  “Neither have the other representatives,” Barstowe told him. “Sedrik of Vulcan would be the only exception, and the only alien he ever met was me.”

  Her friend frowned in his beard. “I’m only mildly acquainted with space law, Doreen.”

  “And those who are acquainted with it are too accustomed to turning it to their advantage, because they’ve been working all along for those corporate bigwigs you mentioned. You’ll come to the task with a fresh point of view, untainted by previous experiences.”

  He looked impressed. “You have all the answers, don’t you?”

  “It’s my job,” she reminded him.