Being Human

by Peter David

  “Mark, you saved everyone’s life! You saved mine! That . . . that bizarre feeling,” Calhoun was saying, shaking his head in disbelief, “when I was running toward the shuttle bay . . . feeling as if I was . . . was swimming through a reality that had become nearly gelatinous . . . what I was experiencing was you, bending time around me.”

  “Yessir. I hope you’re not upset.”

  “Upset!” Calhoun laughed, unable to believe what he was hearing, and he came around the desk, took McHenry’s hand and shook it firmly. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I owe you my life. I will never forget what you did.”

  “Well, that’s what Artemis was talking about when she said I had potential. The thing is . . . I’m not sure I want it.”

  “Mark, you can’t deny what you are.”

  “Captain, with all respect,” McHenry said, glancing in the direction of Calhoun’s sword hanging upon the wall, “if people couldn’t deny what they were, you’d still be back on Xenex running around being a barbarian warlord. The only unlimited energy source in the cosmos is the capacity for self-delusion.”

  “Point taken,” Calhoun admitted. “We seem to have opposing views of how you handled the destruction of the previous Excalibur, Mr. McHenry. Whereas I would be inclined to see that you were given the Starfleet Citation for Conspicuous Gallantry, you on the other hand seem rather annoyed with yourself because you weren’t capable of single-handedly preventing the entire ship from being destroyed. You never struck me as a glasshalf-empty sort of fellow, Mark.”

  “Times change,” McHenry said dourly.

  “Very true. And what we have to deal with at this point is the times that are directly in front of us. Specifically . . . the Beings.” He crossed his arms and scrutinized McHenry. He didn’t want to overburden the already fidgety helmsman, but there was simply no point in walking gently around the situation. “Mark . . . I know we’re discussing the rest of your life here. I know this is possibly the largest decision you’re ever going to be faced with, and I would love to tell you to take all the time in the world. But we don’t have that luxury. We’re faced with a race of remarkable power with an offer on the table. We have some sort of uncharted, unknown energy emission, the origin of which we still have not determined . . . and if we’re going to do so, we may have to go right into the thick of it. I will do that if necessary, but it’s always better to have too much information than too little.”

  “What do you want from me, Captain?” He did not sound at all plaintive or whining when he said it; he simply wanted to know.

  Calhoun scratched his beard thoughtfully. “You told me that Artemis came to you. That she explained this entire ‘golden age’ thing. This ‘ambrosia.’ Let’s put aside for a moment the entire concept of—for lack of a better word—worshipping these individuals. What I need you to tell me . . . from here,” and he tapped his solar plexus, “from your gut . . . whether or not these Beings can be trusted. You say you’re becoming like them? Don’t be afraid of that. Let that, instead, inform you. Let it enable you to put your mind into where their minds are. See the universe from their point of view. The best way to predict your opponent is to become your opponent. Look into your heart of hearts and tell me: Are these Beings honorable? Can they be trusted to keep their word? Are you willing to possibly stake the direction of the Federation on their offer?”

  Calhoun expected McHenry to go into deep thought. Indeed, he was fully prepared to watch McHenry stare off into space, either retreating deep into his own head or else expanding his consciousness to take in the entirety of the galaxy—or some such—before coming back with an answer.

  Instead what he got was McHenry forcefully nodding his head . . . and then he said, “Absolutely not.”

  “What?” said Calhoun, confused. “You . . . nodded yes, but said—”

  “I was nodding because I was certain, Captain. I mean . . . you know all the myths about how the gods were petty and selfish and all that? Well, as near as I can tell, it’s pretty much true, and my gut—to use your word—is telling me they haven’t changed. No, Captain. They can’t be trusted . . . and, frankly, now that I realize it, I can’t believe that I was considering, for even a moment, becoming what they wanted me to become. In fact, I—”

  And that was when all hell broke loose.

  iii.

  Soleta, shaking her head and choosing to be tolerant of Kebron’s general out-of-sorts deportment—something she’d been seeing much more frequently these days—was heading toward the science station when Kebron suddenly said, “Shields just came on!” Burgoyne had been studying a fuel-consumption report, and almost dropped it as s/he sat forward abruptly. Tapping hir combadge, s/he called “Captain on the deck!” before turning to Morgan and snapping, “Sound red alert. Soleta, get me a reading. If we have incoming, I want to know what it is, and I want to know yesterday.”

  Soleta didn’t need to be told. She moved straight to her science station, only a graceful sidestep preventing her from colliding with Calhoun as he emerged from the ready room, concern on his face. The red-alert klaxon was already sounding as McHenry, having emerged right behind Calhoun, vaulted the railing and slid into his post. “I can’t leave for five minutes . . .” he muttered.

  “Captain, detecting massive energy spikes, of the same nature we’ve been monitoring . . . only more so,” Soleta told him. “Readings are off the scale.”

  “They’re always off the scale,” commented McHenry. “We’ve just to install bigger scales.”

  “Not now, McHenry. Kebron, talk to me: What have we got?”

  “Sensors are detecting incoming at 387 mark two.”

  “Conn, bring us around. Kebron, nature of the incoming.”

  “Appears to be incoming vessels. Nothing beyond that.”

  “Soleta . . . ?”

  But the science officer shook her head. “The same scrambling of our sensors that we’ve been getting from the energy emissions is continuing to block scanners, sir. They do appear to be vessels, as Mr. Kebron reported. But size, number, configuration, all remain unknown.”

  “Can we get a visual on it. Give me something, dammit.”

  The screen wavered and there, on the screen, were small objects, getting closer by the second. There was silence on the bridge for a long moment, and Calhoun frowned. “What . . . are those? Wait, that . . . that’s not what I think it is . . . ?”

  They drew closer still, the details beginning to take shape.

  And Kebron, normally the most stoic and reserved individual on the bridge—the one so phlegmatic that he made Soleta look like a laughing hyena in comparison—said loudly, “What the frell is that . . . ?”

  “Soleta . . . ?” said Calhoun, but it was clear that he was looking for confirmation of what his disbelieving eyes were telling him.

  Soleta couldn’t believe she was saying it even as she spoke. “It’s a fleet of Greek battleships, sir.”

  And it was. A dozen ships . . . not remotely space vessels of any kind. Instead, as if the Flying Dutchman and his brothers had decided to embark on a cruise, the ships with their proud sails billowing were gliding through space.

  “Now there’s something you don’t see every day,” said Morgan.

  “Give me a closeup on one,” Calhoun said, trying to keep the astonishment out of his voice.

  Quickly the screen shifted, and they were staring at one of the ships. “It’s an Athenian vessel called a trireme,” Soleta said. “It is approximately fifteen feet wide, one hundred twenty feet long, with the keel extending an additional ten feet in the front to provide a battering ram, which itself is covered with gold armor. This one has followed the not-unusual practice of painting the ram to look like the face of a fierce animal: a boar, in this instance.”

  “Wonderful, Soleta. Now would you mind telling me what these things are doing in the middle of space?”

  “The backstroke,” said McHenry.

  “McHenry,” an annoyed Burgoyne whirled on him, “this isn’t the
time for—”

  “It is!” McHenry protested, pointing. “Look!”

  He was right. It was at that point that a massive array of oars extended from either side of the ship. They were, in fact, moving backward, and the ship—impossibly—was responding, slowing and changing its angle.

  “The trireme is readjusting its course, Captain,” McHenry said after a quick glance at the instruments. “They all are. If we maintain our current heading, we will be on a direct collision course.”

  “The one saving grace in all this,” mused Calhoun, “is that if Admiral Jellico thought my report about the Great Bird of the Galaxy was dubious, he’s really going to hate this one. Mr. Kebron, try to open a hailing frequency. Can those ships hurt us in any way?”

  “Not a clue, Captain,” rumbled Kebron.

  “Best guess.”

  “No, they can’t.”

  “Captain, they’re opening fire!” called a stunned McHenry.

  Through the darkness of space they came: arrows. Dozens of them. Hundreds of them, hurtling through the vacuum, leaving streaks of power behind them, and they slammed into the Excalibur from a dozen different directions. The mighty starship was rocked, crewmen being slammed every which way. Relays started to overload but Morgan held them in check. Calhoun almost flipped out of his chair from the impact, and it was all everyone else could do to maintain his or her positions.

  “Permission to change best guess, Captain,” said Kebron.

  “They’re spreading out, coming in on all vectors,” Soleta warned. “They’re trying to surround us.”

  “McHenry, zero degree on the Y axis. Drop us like a rock.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  Obediently the Excalibur descended away from the ships, which were all approaching on a single plane as if riding the crests of unseen waters. Ludicrously, the oars were thrusting away against the nothingness of space.

  Calhoun was out of his chair, leaning in toward McHenry. “Mr. McHenry,” he asked, in a surprisingly calm, conversational tone, “is it possible that Artemis was somehow aware of the conversation that we had in my ready room, and what we’re seeing is their response to your comment about their trustworthiness?”

  “I’d say it’s eminently possible, sir.”

  “More of them!” Soleta suddenly called out. “ Directly to port. They came out of nowhere! Five seconds to collision!”

  “All hands, brace for impact!” shouted Calhoun.

  The Greek war galleys slammed into the Excalibur, and the ship shuddered under the hammering of battering rams first designed in the sixth century B.C. The starship rolled, momentarily out of control until McHenry managed to bring it back on line.

  “McHenry,” Calhoun called, “target phasers aft, and target photon torpedoes on the forward vessels!”

  “Phasers aft, aye! Torpedoes locked and loaded, Captain!”

  “Fire!”

  The Excalibur cut loose at the triremes. They watched as the phasers made contact with the vessels, saw the ships shudder under the contact. “Damage to enemy vessels?”

  “No appreciable damage, Captain,” said Soleta. “We, on the other hand, have sustained forty percent loss of shields.”

  “This is getting out of hand,” said Calhoun, “and I’m not even sure what the hell it is we’re fighting about. Mr. McHenry, get us out of here, best possible speed.”

  “Aye, sir, best poss—oh hell . . . ! Captain, another half dozen, coming in at 291 mark four.”

  “Incoming!” called Kebron.

  “Hang on!”

  Once again the “arrows” blazed through the darkness, slamming in from all sides. Individually they could not do much damage, but the sheer number of them caused the ship to rock furiously under the bombardment.

  “Shields at fifty percent and dropping!” Morgan called out, the ops systems screeching warnings throughout the ship. “Lights out on deck three! Turbolift system out between decks five and seventeen!”

  “Still no answer to hails, Captain.”

  “All right, that’s it!” called Calhoun. “All hands! Attention all hands! Prepare for saucer sep! But this is not an evac, repeat, not an evac! Stardrive and saucer sections will both be used in battle! Mr. McHenry, the moment you’re ready, separate the saucer from the warp section.”

  Kebron looked puzzled. “Sir . . . the battle bridge . . . ?”

  “With the turbolift out, there’s no time to get down there. Mr. Burgoyne . . . Miss Primus . . . looks like we’re about to test some of those modifications.”

  iii.

  Crewmen were at their posts on the battle bridge, but the command chair and the helm station stood empty. The officers looked around as the great rumbling sounding throughout the ship signaled that the saucer section had disengaged from the warp section. And then, just like that, Morgan Primus and Mackenzie Calhoun appeared there.

  They looked around, slightly disoriented for a moment. Then Calhoun looked at the battle bridge crew and said, “As you were.”

  “My God, it worked,” said Morgan, appearing mildly impressed. “I know the test runs operated flawlessly, but still . . .”

  “You can admire your handiwork later, Morgan.” Quickly he moved to his command chair while Morgan took her place at the helm. The battle bridge had both conn and ops at one station, and Morgan operated it with confidence. “Bring us around, heading 221 mark eight. They want ramming? Let’s give them a ramming they’ll never forget.”

  “Let’s give them a ramming they’ll never forget,” said Calhoun on the main bridge of the Excalibur.

  He was in his command chair, a large visor over the upper half of his head, covering his eyes. Some feet away, Morgan was at the ops station, wearing a similar device.

  Soleta saw that Ensign Pfizer, standing near her, was looking on in astonishment. “I . . . don’t understand . . .”

  “Brand-new Holotechnology . . . one step beyond the new Starfleet Holocommunicator,” Soleta explained, keeping an eye on her sensor readings. The armada seemed confused over the fact that there were now two opponents as opposed to one, and had been reconfiguring their attack courses in order to accommodate the new battle scenario. “The captain and Miss Primos are able to see everything the holos see. The computer built into the helmets has a synaptic engram link, so their very thoughts are able to manipulate the holobodies. The captain can effectively be in two places at once.”

  “Mr. Burgoyne,” called McHenry, “warp sled engaged.”

  And that was another perk of the new Excalibur that Soleta appreciated. In the past, saucer sections had been limited in their maneuverability owing to the fact that the faster-than-light engines remained with the warpdrive section of the ship during separation. But the Excalibur was different. It had been outfitted with an experimental warp sled, based on the type that was standard issue on most shuttlecraft, but designed to propel the significantly larger saucer section. The warp sled had limited range and power, and didn’t go much above warp one. That, however, was more than enough for the type of emergency battle situation in which they now found themselves.

  “Triremes regrouping,” announced Kebron.

  “Bring us around at 118 mark four,” said Burgoyne.

  “Bring us around at 228 mark two,” said Calhoun. Morgan guided the warp section of the ship with precision as Calhoun called to the tactical officer, “Goodwin, reroute power to forward shields! Prepare to fire aft torpedoes! Primos, full speed ahead. Take us right through them!”

  “If they don’t scatter . . . ?”

  “They’ll scatter,” Calhoun said confidently. Goodwin, when they do, fire a full complement of photon torpedoes!”

  “Eight vessels, coming in fast to starboard, Burgy!” warned McHenry. “Four more to port!”

  “Hard to starboard!” ordered Burgoyne. “Fire phasers!”

  The starship’s phasers cut loose, pounding the approaching Greek vessels. The ships rocked under the assault.

  “Energy surge!” Soleta called o
ut. “I think they’re about to fire another wave of those energy arrows!”

  “Port pursuers are closing fast!” warned Kebron.

  Burgoyne thought quickly for a moment, and then said, “Mr. McHenry, get ready to roll the saucer section ninety degrees!”

  “Burgy, the stress that will subject the hull to—”

  “I know exactly what this ship can handle, Mark. Get ready . . . keep approaching . . . don’t slow . . .”

  A broadside of arrows, propelled by unseen godly archers making impossible shots, were suddenly unleashed from the array of vessels ahead of them.

  “Now, Mark!”

  Propelled by warp speed and McHenry’s firm hand, the saucer pivoted ninety degrees on its axis. The arrows, however, had been aimed at a horizontal target. Although several struck home in the front section, the damage to the saucer was minimal. The vast majority of the arrows, however, sailed right past their intended target . . .

  . . . and smashed into the four ships that had been in pursuit of the saucer. Although they showed considerable resistance to the weaponry of the Excalibur, their own energies directed at them had a much more devastating affect. The ships erupted, overloaded on their own power, and a moment later they erupted, blowing apart in all directions.

  In a most un-Vulcan display of enthusiasm, Soleta cried out, “Got them!”

  “Sir, they’re not scattering,” said Morgan. There was a touch of concern in her voice.

  Calhoun leaned forward, watching the image on the screen. “Maintain course and speed. They’ll move.”

  They drew closer, closer, and the galleys held firm, drawing in toward one another.

  “Captain . . . twenty seconds to collision,” warned Morgan. “Even with forward shields at full, I am not certain we can survive a head-on collision.”