Starfleet Year One

by Michael Jan Friedman

  CHAPTER

  17

  BRYCE SHUMAR REGARDED THE IMAGE OF DANIEL HAGEDORN on the computer monitor outside his bedroom.

  “So,” said Shumar, “Councillor Sammak arrived safely?”

  The esteemed Sammak of Vulcan was returning to his homeworld for his daughter’s wedding ceremony. He had left San Francisco on an Earth Command vessel, which had transferred him to the Peregrine two days earlier. Now the Peregrine was transferring the councillor to the Horatio.

  “He’s being shown to his quarters now,” Hagedorn told him.

  “How are your missions going?” asked Shumar, because he had to say something.

  “Well enough,” said his counterpart. “And yours?”

  “We’re getting by.”

  Neither of them spoke for a moment. After all, if it was a war they were fighting over the future of the fleet, neither of them wanted to give away any strategic information.

  It was a shame that it had to be that way, Shumar told himself. Hagedorn wasn’t a bad sort of guy. And he had taken Cobaryn’s side in that brawl back in San Francisco.

  Maybe the time he had spent with a crew half full of scientists had softened his position a little. Maybe with a little urging he could be made to see the other side of the issue.

  There was only one way to find out.

  “Actually,” Shumar remarked, “I’m glad we’ve got a chance to compare notes. I think you and I are a lot alike.”

  “In what way?” Hagedorn asked, his expression giving away nothing.

  “We’re reasonable men, I’d say.”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “Reasonable...?”

  “We can see the other fellow’s side of the story,” Shumar elaborated. “Certainly I can.”

  “And what side is the other side?” Hagedorn inquired. He was beginning to look wary.

  Shumar smiled in an attempt to put the man at ease. “I think you know what I’m going to say. That a strictly military-minded Starfleet would miss out on all kinds of scientific opportunities. That it would fail to embrace all the benefits the universe has to offer.”

  Hagedorn hadn’t lodged an objection yet. Shumar interpreted that as his cue to go on.

  “Mind you,” he noted, “there’s a lot to be said for combat smarts. I’ve learned that firsthand. But two hundred years ago, when man went out into space it was to expand his store of knowledge. It would be a shame if we were compelled to abandon that philosophy now.”

  Hagedorn regarded him. “In other words, you would like me to rethink my position on the nature of Starfleet.”

  “I would,” Shumar admitted, “yes. And believe me, not because I want to win this little internecine war of ours. That doesn’t matter to me one bit. All that matters is that the Federation doesn’t get cheated out of the advancements it deserves.”

  The other man leaned back in his chair. “You know,” he said, in a surprisingly tired voice, “I like you. What’s more, I respect you. And I sure as hell won’t try to tell you that you don’t have a point.”

  Shumar’s hopes fell as he heard a “but” coming. Clearly, the other shoe was about to fall.

  “But,” Hagedorn went on, “I believe that this fleet has to be a military organization first and foremost, and I can’t tell you I’d ever advocate anything else. Not even for a nanosecond.”

  The scientist accepted the defeat. “Well,” he responded in the same spirit of candidness, “it was worth a try.”

  The other man just looked at him. He seemed at a loss as to how to respond.

  Shumar could see there was nothing to be gained by further conversation. “I ought to be getting on to my next assignment, I suppose. I’ll see you around, no doubt.”

  Hagedorn nodded. “No doubt.”

  “Shumar out.”

  He was about to break the connection when the other captain said something. It was low, under his breath—as if it had escaped without his wanting it to.

  “I didn’t catch that,” Shumar told him.

  Hagedorn looked sympathetic. “I said it wasn’t. Worth a try, I mean. The competition is already over.”

  Shumar felt his cheeks grow hot. “What are you talking about?”

  “I mean it’s over,” Hagedorn said soberly. “I’d tell you more, but I’ve probably said too much already.”

  Shumar saw the undiluted honesty in the man’s eyes. Hagedorn wasn’t maneuvering, he realized. He really meant it.

  “Thank you,” Shumar replied. “I think.”

  For a moment it looked as if his colleague was going to say something else. Then he must have thought better of it.

  “Hagedorn out,” he said. And with that, his image vanished from the monitor and was replaced with the Starfleet insignia.

  Suddenly, Shumar had a lot to think about.

  Connor Dane made his decision and turned to his helmsman. “Take us out of orbit, Mr. Dolgin.”

  Dolgin shot a glance at him, his surprise evident on his florid, red-bearded face. “Sir?”

  “Out of orbit,” the captain repeated, with just a hint of derision. “That means away. More specifically, away from here.”

  The helmsman blushed. “Yes, sir,” he said with an undercurrent of indignation, and got to work.

  “Captain Dane?” said Nasir, his tall, dark-skinned blade of a first officer. He moved to Dane’s side and leaned over to speak with him. “Would you say it’s wise to move off so quickly?”

  The captain looked up at his exec. “Quickly? We’ve been here for two entire days. If the Nurstim are going to take note of us, I’d say they’ve probably done it already.”

  Nasir frowned. “Begging your pardon,” he said, “but the Nurstim may simply be waiting for us to move off.”

  “At which point they’ll attack the Arbazans?”

  “Precisely, sir.”

  “In that case,” said Dane, “maybe we should stay here forever. Then we can be sure the Nurstim won’t start anything.”

  Nasir smiled thinly. “Another day—” he began.

  “Is a day too many,” the captain told him. “Our orders called for us to stay two days—no longer.”

  His first officer nodded. “That’s certainly true. But I assure you, anyone with a military background—”

  “Can go straight to hell,” said Dane.

  That brought Nasir up short. “All I meant—”

  “I know what you meant,” the captain declared. “That I didn’t wear black and gold during the war, so I can’t possibly have the slightest idea of what I’m doing. Right?”

  The first officer shook his head. “Not at all, sir. I just—”

  Dane held his hand up. “Spare me the denials, Commander. I’m not in the mood.” He turned to the science console, which was situated behind him and to his right. “Mr. Hudlin?”

  Hudlin, who was hanging around the bridge as usual, looked up from his monitors. “Sir?”

  “Didn’t we pass something on the way here that you wanted to investigate? Some kind of cloud or something?”

  The white-haired man smiled. “An ionized gas torus,” he said. “It was trailing one of the moons around the seventh planet.”

  “Sounds intriguing,” said Dane, though it didn’t really sound intriguing to him at all. “Let’s look into it.”

  Hudlin looked at him askance. “What about the Arbazans?”

  “The Arbazans are as safe as they’re going to be,” the captain told him. He addressed his helmsman again. “Mr. Dolgin, head for the seventh planet. Three-quarters impulse.”

  “Aye, sir,” came the faintly grudging response.

  Next, Dane turned to his navigator. “Chart a course for the eighth and ninth planets as well, Lieutenant Ideko. They might have some interesting moons, too.”

  Ideko, a slender, graceful Dedderac, nodded her black-and-white-striped head. “Aye, sir.”

  Hudlin seemed unable to believe his ears. “If I may ask, sir... why the sudden interest in moons?”
<
br />   The captain shrugged. “I’ve always been interested in moons, Mr. Hudlin. It’s the scientist in me.”

  For Nasir, that appeared to be the last straw. He straightened and looked down at Dane with undisguised hostility. “It’s only fair to inform you that I’ll be lodging a formal protest.”

  The captain nodded. “Thanks for being fair, Commander. It’s one of the things I like best about you.”

  The first officer didn’t say anything more. He just moved away from the center seat and took up a position near the engineering console.

  Inwardly, Dane cursed himself. Nasir was a strutting know-it-all he should never have hired in the first place—but still, he didn’t deserve that kind of tonguelashing. It wasn’t his fault that his captain was a walking tinderbox lately.

  It was Big Ed Walker’s.

  Dane’s uncle was the one who had notified him that the Earth Command faction had carried the day. As if I were one of them, he reflected bitterly. As if I had come around, just the way Big Ed always knew I would.

  Truth be told, Dane hadn’t considered himself an ally of Shumar and Cobaryn either. But his uncle’s message had sparked something inside him—and not just resentment.

  It had made him realize that he had to take a stand in this war sooner or later. He had to choose between the cowboys and the butterfly catchers, or someone else would make the choice for him.

  All his life, he had denied his family’s glorious military history—but he hadn’t embraced anything else in its place. Maybe it was time to make a commitment to something.

  Maybe it was time to start chasing butterflies.

  Bryce Shumar watched the small, slender woman take a seat in the anteroom of his quarters.

  “Well,” said Clarisse Dumont, “here I am. I hope this is as important as you made it out to be.”

  The Peregrine had been nearly a trillion kilometers from Earth when Shumar asked to speak with Dumont. Of course, it would have been a lot more convenient for them to send messages back and forth through subspace, but the captain had wanted to see his patron in person.

  So Dumont had pulled some strings. She had made it to the nearest Earth base via commercial vessels. And now she was waiting to hear why she had made such a long and arduous trip.

  Shumar found himself in the mood to be blunt. He yielded to it. “What’s going on?” he asked unceremoniously.

  Dumont’s brow puckered. “What exactly do you mean?”

  Shumar felt a surge of anger constrict his throat. “Don’t play games with me,” he said with forced calm. “I spoke with Hagedorn. He told me that the war for the fleet is over—that his side has already won.”

  He wanted Dumont to tell him he was crazy. He wanted her to say that Hagedorn didn’t know what he was talking about. But she didn’t do either of those things.

  The only response she could muster was, “Is that so?”

  “Was he right?” the captain pressed, feeling he knew the answer already. “Is the war already over?”

  Dumont sighed. “Honestly, not yet. But it’s getting there. Unless something changes—and quickly—Starfleet’s going to be nothing more than Earth Command with a different name.”

  Shumar frowned. “You could have told me.”

  “I could have,” she agreed. “But then, you might have stopped fighting—and whatever slim chance we had would have been gone.”

  It made sense in a heavy-handed, presumptuous kind of way. He asked himself what he would have done if he had been Clarisse Dumont. It didn’t take him long to come up with an answer.

  “You should have left that up to me,” the captain told her. “I deserved to know the truth.”

  Dumont smiled a bitter smile. “How often do we get what we deserve?” She paused. “So now what, Captain? Are you going to pack it in, as I feared? Or are you going to keep fighting?”

  Shumar grunted. “Do I have a choice?”

  She nodded. “Always.”

  The woman was glib—he had to give her that. But then, she hadn’t risen to such prominence by being shy.

  “In that case,” he told her, “I’ll have to give it some thought.”

  “I hope you’ll do that,” said Dumont. “And I hope you’ll come to the same conclusion you did before, odds or no odds.”

  He didn’t pick up the gauntlet she had thrown down. Instead, he changed the subject. “Can I get you something to eat?”

  She shook her head. “Thank you, but no. I should be getting back to the base. As always, I’ve got work to do.” She smiled again. “Miles to go before I sleep and all that.”

  The captain nodded. “I understand.”

  He and Dumont talked about something on their way back to the transporter room—though afterward, he wasn’t sure what. And he must have given the order for his transporter operator to return her to Earth Base 12, but he didn’t remember issuing it.

  All Shumar remembered was what Dumont had said. Unless something changes—and quickly—Starfleet’s going to be nothing more than Earth Command with a different name.

  It was a depressing thought, to say the least.

  * * *

  In the privacy of his tiny suite on the Cheyenne, Alonis Cobaryn viewed a recorded message from his friend and colleague Captain Shumar. It didn’t appear to be good news.

  “Dumont confirmed it,” said Shumar, his brow creased with concern. “Our side is losing the war for the Daedalus.”

  Cobaryn eased himself back into his chair. He was sorry to hear such a thing. He was sorry indeed.

  “She asked me whether I intended to stop fighting,” Shumar continued, “since our cause was all but lost.” He chuckled bitterly. “I told her I’d give it some thought.”

  And what decision did you make? the Rigelian wondered.

  Shumar shrugged. “What could I do except stick it out? I made a commitment, Alonis. I can’t give up now.”

  Cobaryn nodded. Bravo, he thought.

  “I’ll expect the worst, of course,” the Earthman told him. “But that doesn’t mean I’ll stop hoping for the best.”

  Cobaryn smiled. “And they call me a cockeyed optimist,” he said out loud.

  Shumar sighed. “Pathetic, isn’t it?”

  If it is, the Rigelian reflected, then we are both pathetic. Like you, I will see this venture through to its conclusion.

  He had barely completed the thought when a light began to blink in the upper quadrant of his screen, signaling an incoming message. Responding to it, he saw that it was from Earth.

  From Director Abute . . .

  Aaron Stiles was peering at the tiny screen of a handheld computer, going over the results of his science section’s analysis of the asteroid belt, when his navigator spoke up.

  “Sir,” said Rosten, a tall woman with long, dark hair, “I have a message for you from Director Abute.”

  Stiles turned in his seat to acknowledge her, glad for the opportunity to put the asteroid data aside. “Put it onscreen, Lieutenant.”

  “Aye, sir,” said Rosten.

  A moment later, the starfield on the forward viewer was replaced by Abute’s dark, hawk-nosed visage. The man looked positively grim.

  “Good morning, Captain Stiles,” said the Starfleet administrator. “I have a mission for you.”

  Judging from the seriousness of the man’s tone, Stiles guessed that it was a real mission this time. He certainly hoped so. He’d had enough asteroid-watching to last him several Vulcan lifetimes.

  “I trust you’re familiar with the Oreias system,” Abute continued. “It’s not far from your present position.”

  In fact, the captain was familiar with Oreias. A girl he had dated for a while had gone there to help establish an Earth colony.

  “We have four scientific installations there, one on each of Oreias’s class-M planets,” the director noted. “Late yesterday, the Oreias Five colony was attacked by an unknown aggressor.”

  Unknown? thought Stiles. He felt his jaw clench.

  “I
know what you’re thinking,” said Abute. “That it may be the Romulans again. Frankly, I can’t imagine what they would have to gain by such an action, but I concede that we cannot rule out the possibility.”

  Seeing a shadow fall across his lap, the captain traced it to its source. He found Darigghi standing next to him, his tiny Osadjani eyes focused on the Earthman’s message.

  “Fortunately,” the director remarked, “no one died in the attack. However, the place is a bloody shambles and the colonists are scared to death—those on the other worlds as well as on Oreias Five. After all, whoever did this could be targeting the other colonies as well.”

  True, Stiles reflected. And if it was the Romulans, if he found even a hint that they were back on the warpath...

  “Which is why we need a Starfleet presence there as quickly as possible,” Abute declared, “to stabilize the situation, defend against further attacks, and try to determine who was responsible. Your vessel is the one closest to Oreias, Captain—”

  Stiles smiled to himself. So I’ll be the one who gets to check it out, he concluded. He was already beginning to savor the challenge when Abute completed his sentence.

  “—so it looks as though you will be the first to arrive. However, I am deploying the remainder of the fleet to the Oreias system as well. A threat of this potential magnitude clearly dictates a team effort.”

  The captain slumped in his seat. Six ships . . . to investigate a single sneak attack? If they had worked that way during the war, they would never have had time to launch an attack of their own.

  “Good luck,” said the director. “I look forward to the report of your initial findings. Abute out.”

  Abruptly, the man’s image was replaced with a starfield. Stiles frowned and turned to his navigator. “Lieutenant Rosten,” he sighed, “set a course for the Oreias system. Top cruising speed.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the navigator, applying herself to the task.

  The captain leaned back in his seat. Then he looked up at Darigghi. “I don’t suppose you’ve ever been in battle before?”

  The Osadjani shook his head. “I have not.”

  “Well,” said Stiles, “this may be your chance.”