Starfleet Year One

by Michael Jan Friedman

  “Aye, sir,” said the helmsman.

  The view on the screen gradually slid sideways, taking the clouds and the sunlight and a blue sweep of ocean with it. In a matter of moments, Earth had slipped away completely and Matsura found himself gazing at a galaxy full of distant suns.

  They had never seemed so inviting. “Full impulse,” he told McCallum.

  “Full impulse,” the man confirmed.

  The stars seemed to leap forward, though it was really their Christopher 2000 that had forged ahead. As it plunged through the void, reaching for the limits of Earth’s solar system and beyond, Matsura lowered himself into his captain’s chair.

  McCallum, he told himself, resolving not to forget a second time. Not Barker. McCallum.

  CHAPTER

  15

  AARON STILES EYED THE COLLECTION OF HAPHAZARDLY shaped rocks pictured on his viewscreen, some of them as small as a kilometer in diameter and some many times that size. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

  “Mr. Weeks,” he said, glancing at his weapons officer, “target the nearest of the asteroids and stand by lasers.”

  “Aye, sir,” came the reply.

  Out of the corner of his eye, the captain could see Darigghi crossing the bridge to join him. “Sir?” said the Osadjani.

  Stiles turned to look up at him. “Yes, Commander?”

  Darigghi tilted his long, hairless head, his deepset black eyes fixed intently on the captain’s. “Sir, did I hear you give an order to target one of the asteroids?”

  Stiles nodded. “You did indeed, Commander.” Then he turned back to Weeks. “Fire lasers, Lieutenant.”

  The weapons officer tapped a control stud. On the viewscreen, a red-tinged chunk of rock was speared mercilessly by a pair of blue energy beams. Before long it had been transformed into space dust.

  Stiles heard the Osadjani suck in a breath. “Sir,” he said, “are you certain you wish to do this?”

  The captain shrugged. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  Darigghi licked his fleshy lips. “This asteroid belt is a most intriguing phenomenon,” he replied. “I believe that is why we were asked to analyze it in the first place.”

  “And analyze it we did,” Stiles pointed out. Then he glanced at Weeks again. “Target another one, Lieutenant.”

  The weapons officer bent to his task. “Aye, sir.”

  The first officer licked his lips a second time. “But, sir, it is irresponsible of us to destroy what natural forces created.”

  The captain eyed Darigghi. “Irresponsible, you say?”

  The Osadjani nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “I suppose that would be one way to look at it. But let me offer you another one, Commander. You see, during the war, the Romulans used this asteroid belt to hide their warships. When we finally found them and dug them out, it cost us the lives of three good captains and their crews.”

  Darigghi’s eyes narrowed. “But what—?”

  “What does that have to do with the activity at hand?” Stiles said, finishing his exec’s question for him. “Simple, Commander. No hostile force is ever going to hide in this belt again.”

  The alien didn’t know what to say to that. Of course, that was exactly the result the captain had desired.

  Turning to the viewscreen, Stiles settled back in his seat. Then he said, “Fire, Mr. Weeks.”

  The weapons officer fired. As before, their lasers ate away at a sizable hunk of rock, reducing it to debris in no time.

  Darigghi looked on helplessly, licking his lips like crazy. Ignoring him, Stiles ordered Weeks to target another asteroid.

  Alonis Cobaryn sat at a long rough-hewn table in the gargantuan Hall of the Axe, which was located on a world called Middira.

  By the light of the modest braziers that lined the soaring black walls, Cobaryn could make out the immense crossed set of axes wielded in battle by the founder of Middiron civilization—or so the legend went. He could also make out the pale, hulking forms of his hosts and the mess of monstrous insect parts they considered a delicacy.

  First Axe Zhrakkas, the largest and most prominent member of the Middiron Circle of Axes, offered the captain a brittle, amber-colored haunch. “Eat,” he said insistently.

  Truthfully, Cobaryn had no desire to consume the haunch. However, his orders called for him to embrace local customs, so he took it from the First Axe and sank his teeth into it.

  He found that it was completely tasteless—at least to his Rigelian senses. Considering this a blessing, he ripped off a piece of the haunch with his teeth and began chewing it as best he could.

  “Have you reviewed our proposal?” the captain asked Zhrakkas, speaking with his mouth full in the manner of his dining companions.

  The First Axe’s slitted blue eyes slid in his guest’s direction. “I have,” he growled, spitting insect splinters as he spoke.

  “And what is your reaction?” Cobaryn demanded. After all, he had been told to be firm with the Middirona—firm and blunt.

  “I did not see anything that made my blood run hot,” said the First Axe. “There is that, at least.”

  The Rigelian took another bite of the insect haunch. “Then you understand we mean you no harm? That the creation of our Federation does not portend badly for you?”

  Zhrakkas grunted. “I understand that you say it.”

  “I do more than say it,” Cobaryn assured him, forcing a note of titanium into his voice. “I mean it.”

  The First Axe made a face. “We will see.”

  It was the best response the Rigelian could have hoped for. Pressing the matter might only have made his host wary, so he let it drop. Besides, there was another subject he wished to pursue.

  “I want to ask you something,” said Cobaryn.

  Zhrakkas shrugged his massive, blue-veined shoulders. “Ask.”

  The captain leaned forward. “As I understand it,” he said, “you trade regularly with the Anjyyla.”

  The First Axe lifted his protruding chin. “Among others.”

  “However,” Cobaryn noted, “the area between here and Anjyyl is reputed to be rife with interstellar strings, which, as you know, would be most dangerous to a vessel passing near them. I was wondering—”

  Zhrakkas’s eyes grew dangerous under his brow ridge. “The space between here and Anjyyl is ours—no one else’s. If your Federation has any intention of trespassing in Middiron territory—”

  The captain hadn’t expected such a violent reaction—though perhaps he should have. “You misunderstand, First Axe. We have no intention of trespassing. We merely seek to increase our store of knowledge.”

  The Middirona’s mouth twisted with mistrust. “Why would you need to increase your knowledge of what takes place in our space?”

  By then, Zhrakkas’s fellow councilors had taken an interest in the conversation as well. They glared at their guest with fierce blue eyes, awaiting his response.

  The Rigelian sighed. Obviously, he had placed his mission here in some jeopardy. He would have to salvage it somehow—and quickly—or be the cause of a potentially bloody conflict.

  Unfortunately he could think of only one way to do that. Gritting his teeth, he pulled his fist back and drove it into Zhrakkas’s shoulder with all the power he could muster.

  Though he was clearly unprepared for the blow, the Middirona barely budged. Then he looked to Cobaryn for an explanation.

  “The First Axe needs to hone his sense of humor,” said the captain, effecting his best human grin.

  Befuddled, Zhrakkas looked at him. “My sense of humor?”

  “Absolutely,” Cobaryn pressed. “I thought when I poked my haft where it did not belong, you would find my impertinence amusing. But, no—you took my question seriously. Admit it.”

  The First Axe looked around the table at his peers. “I did no such thing. I knew it was a joke all along.” He smiled, exposing his long, hollow fangs. “But I decided to turn the tables and play a joke on you.”

  And then Zhrakkas exp
ressed his feeling of good fellowship the way any Middirona would have—by hauling his meaty fist back and returning the captain’s blow with twice the force.

  Cobaryn saw it coming, but dared not try to get out of the way. Not if he wanted to hang onto the respect of the Middirona.

  The First Axe turned out to be even stronger than he looked. His punch knocked the Rigelian backward head over heels. The next thing Cobaryn knew, he was sprawled on the floor—and his shoulder hurt too much for him to even contemplate moving it.

  Seeing him lying there, Zhrakkas got up and walked over to him. Then he pulled the captain to his feet.

  “I like you,” the Middirona said. “Your people and mine will be two blades of the same axe.”

  Trying not to wince at the pain in his shoulder, Cobaryn nodded. “I certainly hope so.”

  Connor Dane leaned back in his chair and studied the stars on the screen in front of him. They didn’t look much different from any other stars he had seen, even if they constituted the part of space now known as the Romulan Neutral Zone.

  Dane’s eyes narrowed. “Let me get this straight.”

  “All right,” said his science officer, a white-haired man named Hudlin. He was standing next to the captain with his arms folded across his chest, an expression of impatience on his wrinkled face.

  “Our long-range scanners,” Dane began, “have detected a wormhole out there in the Neutral Zone. And like any other wormhole, it’s probably not going to be there for long.”

  “That’s correct,” Hudlin confirmed.

  “But while it is there,” said the captain, “you’d like the chance to study it at close range—even if it means entering the Neutral Zone, violating the treaty we just signed, and risking another war.”

  The science officer frowned. “With all due respect, sir, we don’t have to go very far into the Neutral Zone, and it’s highly unlikely that the Romulans would notice us. As you’re no doubt aware, the war served to thin out their fleet considerably.”

  True, Dane conceded. Of course, the same could be said of the Federation. “So you really don’t think we’d get caught?”

  “I really don’t,” said Hudlin.

  The captain thought about it a moment longer. “I’ll tell you what, pal—I think you’re in luck. You see, between you and me and the bulkhead, I don’t give a rat’s fat patootie about this Romulan Neutral Zone everybody’s so impressed with. On the other hand, I don’t give a rat’s fat patootie about your wormhole.”

  The science officer stared at him, clearly more than a little confused. “But you said I was in luck.”

  “You are. You want to get a little closer to that wormhole? Be my guest. Just don’t get me involved, all right? I hate the idea of having to explain something like this to a court-martial.”

  And with that, Dane got up from his chair and headed for the turbolift. Naturally, he didn’t get far before he heard from Hudlin again.

  “Sir?” said the science officer, hurrying to catch up with his captain. He looked around at the other bridge personnel, who were looking on with undisguised curiosity. “Where are you going?” he asked.

  Dane shrugged. “To my quarters. I figure I’ll get a little shuteye. But don’t worry—you’ve got all the leeway you need. Just try to bring the ship back in one piece, okay?”

  Again he headed for the turbolift.

  “No!” Hudlin exclaimed.

  The captain looked back at him. “No?”

  The science officer swallowed. “What I mean is . . . I can’t command the ship. I’m only a science officer.”

  Dane feigned surprise. “Hang on a second, Mr. Hudlin. There’s a wormhole out there just begging to be examined with short-range scanners—and you’re going to let that kind of opportunity slip through your fingers? What kind of scientist are you?”

  The man couldn’t have looked more frustrated. “But I’ve had no tactical training. What if—”

  The captain regarded him. “What if you run into some Romulans?” He allowed a note of irony to creep into his voice. “It’s highly unlikely that they’d notice us, don’t you think? Especially after the war thinned out their fleet so much.”

  The other man frowned. “There’s no need to be abusive,” he responded. And without another word, he retreated to his science station.

  Dane returned to his center seat, where he was greeted again by the stars that filled the Neutral Zone. “There’s no need to be abusive, sir,” he said under his breath.

  Bryce Shumar was three weeks out of Earth orbit when he finally found what he was looking for.

  The Tellarite vessel on his viewscreen was a collection of dark, forbidding spheres, some bigger than others. The deep creases between them served as housings for the spacecraft’s shield projectors, weapons ports, scanner arrays, and audio-visual transmitters, while a quartet of small cylinders, which spilled golden plasma from unlikely locations among the spheres, provided the ship with its propulsion capabilities.

  More to the point, the vessel was far from any of the established trade routes. And from the time it had picked up Shumar’s ship on its long-range scanners, it had done its best to elude pursuit.

  Unfortunately for the Tellarite, there wasn’t a starfaring vessel in the galaxy that could outrun a Christopher 2000. It hadn’t ever been a question of whether Shumar’s craft would catch up with its prey; the only question had been when.

  Mullen, Shumar’s first officer, came to stand beside the captain’s chair. “Interesting ship,” he noted.

  “Ugly ship,” Shumar told him. “Probably the ugliest I’ve ever seen. And when you run an Earth base, you see all kinds.”

  The younger man looked at him, no doubt uncertain as to how to react to the remark. “I have to admit, sir, I’m no expert on esthetics.”

  “You don’t have to be,” said Shumar. “Some things are ugly by definition. That Tellarite is one of them.”

  “Weapons range,” announced Wallace, the helm officer.

  The captain leaned forward. “Raise deflector shields and route power to laser batteries.”

  Forward of his center seat, Morgan Kelly manipulated her tactical controls. “Aye, sir,” came her reply.

  Just like old times, thought Shumar. He turned to Klebanov, his navigator. “Hail the Tellarite, Lieutenant.”

  The woman went to work. A moment later, she looked up. “They’re responding,” she told the captain.

  “On screen,” he said.

  Abruptly, the image of a porcine being with a bristling beard and a pronounced snout assaulted his viewscreen. “What is the meaning of this?” the Tellarite growled.

  Shumar could tell the alien was covering something up. Tellarites weren’t very good at duplicity.

  “I’m Captain Shumar,” he said, “of the starship Peregrine. I have reason to believe you’re carrying stolen property.”

  “I’m Captain Broj of the trading ship Prosperous,” the Tellarite answered, “and what I carry is my own business.”

  “Not so,” the human pointed out. “It’s also the business of the United Federation of Planets.”

  Broj’s already tiny eyes screwed up even tinier. “The United What?” he grunted, his tone less than respectful.

  “The United Federation of Planets,” Shumar repeated patiently. “An organization of which your homeworld is a charter member.”

  “Never heard of it,” said the Tellarite.

  Another lie, the human reflected. “Nonetheless,” he insisted, “I need to search your vessel. If you haven’t got anything to hide, you’ll be on your way in no time. If—”

  “Sir,” said Kelly, a distinct note of urgency in her voice, “they’re building up laser power.”

  Shumar wasn’t the least bit surprised. “Target their weapons ports and fire, Lieutenant.”

  Out in space, the Peregrine buried her electric-blue fangs in the other ship’s laser banks. But Shumar didn’t see that. What he saw was the wide-eyed apprehension on Broj’s face as h
e anticipated the impact of Shumar’s assault and realized that the human had beaten him to the punch.

  Suddenly, the Tellarite flung his arms out and lurched out of sight, revealing two other Tellarites on a dark, cramped bridge. A console behind them erupted in a shower of sparks, eliciting curses from Broj’s crewmen and a series of urgent off-screen commands.

  When Broj returned, his eyes were red-rimmed and his nostrils were flaring with anger. “How dare you fire on a Tellarite ship!” he snorted.

  “As I indicated,” said Shumar, “I’m acting under Federation authority. Now, are you going to cooperate . . . or do I have to take out your shield generators as well?”

  Broj’s mouth twisted with indignation. For a fraction of a second, he looked capable of anything. Then he seemed to settle down and consider his options—and come to the conclusion that he had none.

  “All right,” the Tellarite agreed with a snarl. He glanced at someone off-screen. “Lower the shields.”

  Shumar nodded approvingly. “That’s better.” He got to his feet. “Lieutenant Kelly, you’re with me. Mr. Mullen, you’ve got the center seat. Keep our weapons trained on the Tellarite—just in case.”

  As Kelly slaved her weapons functions to the navigation console, the captain headed for the turbolift. To his surprise, his first officer insinuated himself in Shumar’s path.

  “Yes?” the captain asked, wondering what the man wanted.

  “Begging your pardon, sir,” said Mullen in a low, deferential voice, “but Earth Command regs called for commanding officers to remain on their ships. Generally, it was their subordinates who led the boarding parties.”

  “Subordinates like you, I suppose?”

  The exec nodded. “That’s correct, sir.”

  Shumar smiled at him. “This isn’t Earth Command, Mr. Mullen. Starfleet has no regulations against captains leading boarding parties—at least, none that I’m aware of. Besides, I like to get my hands dirty.”

  By then, Kelly was ready to depart. Shumar clapped his exec on the shoulder and moved past him, then opened the lift doors with a tap on the bulkhead pad and went inside. After Kelly joined him, he closed the doors again and the compartment began to move.