by Peter David
“Until the Grissom disaster.”
“Yes.”
Picard sighed deeply. “Mac . . . I’ve been where you are now. I’ve suffered . . . personal disaster. Indignities. Torment, psychological and physical. And I’d be lying if I said there weren’t times I nearly walked away from it all. When my body, my soul screamed, ’Enough. Enough.’ But destiny doesn’t simply call to Xenexian rebel leaders, Mackenzie. In a way, it calls to anyone who aspires to command of a starship.”
“Anyone such as you,” said Calhoun.
“And you. It called to you once, and it summons you now. You cannot, you must not, turn a deaf ear.”
Calhoun shook his head. “It’s crazy. You’re not actually suggesting I get back on the bridge of a starship, are you?”
“That is exactly what I am suggesting. In fact, that’s what I recommended, both to Admiral Nechayev and Admiral Jellico.”
“Jellico?” Calhoun looked up and made no effort to hide his disdain. “He’s an admiral now? Good lord, Jean-Luc, you want me to re-up with an organization so blind to talent that it would elevate someone like Jellico?”
“Jellico accomplishes that which he is assigned,” Picard replied evenly. “We all of us work to the limits of our individual gifts. Except for a handful of us who walk away from those gifts.”
“This is guilt. You’re trying to guilt me.”
“I’m trying to remind you that you’re capable of greater things than skulking around the galaxy, accomplishing clandestine missions. Yes, you’re doing the jobs assigned you. I take nothing away from your small achievements. But a Mackenzie Calhoun is not meant for small achievements. That is a waste of potential.” He leaned forward, rested a hand on Calhoun’s arm. “Twenty years ago I met a young man with more raw talent than any I’d ever encountered before . . . and quite possibly since. That talent has been shaped and honed and focused. Your service record was exemplary, and you cannot—must not—allow what happened with the Grissom to destroy you. Think of it this way: The Grissom disaster, and the subsequent courtmartial . . . your resignation, your guilt . . . these are scars which you carry on the inside. But they are merely scars, not mortal wounds, and you must use them to propel you forward as much as the scar you carry on the outside does. The fact is, there is a starship that needs a captain, and a mission that would seem to call for your . . . particular talents. Do not let Starfleet, or yourself, down.”
Calhoun leaned back in his chair, stroked his chin thoughtfully, and gazed out once more at the passing stars. Picard wondered what was going through his head.
He was a savage at heart, that much Picard knew. In some ways, he reminded Picard of Worf. But there were differences, though. Worf always seemed about as relaxed as a dormant volcano. His ferocity was a perpetual and prominent part of his nature. But Calhoun had gone much further. He had virtually created an entire persona for himself. As he’d said himself, a sort of cloak that he could wrap around himself, and use to keep the world at bay and his inward, tempestuous nature away from the world. As a consequence, he was uniquely focused, uniquely adept at problem solving, and one of the most dedicated individuals Picard had ever encountered.
What was he thinking? What great moral issues was he considering as he contemplated the thought of reentering Starfleet openly, to pursue his first, best destiny? What soul-searching, gut-wrenching contemplation was—?
Calhoun looked at Picard with a clear, mischievous air. “If I take command of a starship, Jellico will have a fit, won’t he.”
Picard considered the matter. “Yes. He probably will.”
Calhoun leaned forward, and there was a sparkle of sadistic amusement in his eye. “So tell me about this ship you want to put me on. . . .”
V.
THE LIGHT WAS BLINKING on Soleta’s computer when she entered her apartment. As she removed her jacket, she looked at the flashing light with a distant curiosity. Outside it appeared that a storm front was moving in. It was clearly visible hanging in the distance over Starfleet Academy. It had already obscured her normally excellent view of the Golden Gate Bridge.
Soleta shrugged off her jacket and hung it carefully in her closet. She made several quick mental notes regarding lesson plans for tomorrow’s class, and—since she was eminently capable of accomplishing more than one task at a time—she said briskly. “Computer. Messages.”
“Two messages,” replied the computer. “Playing first message.”
The screen wavered for a moment, and then the image of Commander Seth Goddard from Starfleet Central appeared. His hair graying at the temples, Goddard was all business. “Lieutenant Soleta, this message has a callback command built in. Wait for live transmission, please.”
Soleta sat down in front of the screen, folding her hands neatly in front of her. She wondered what Central could possibly want with her. She’d been fairly low-profile since taking on the teaching duties at Starfleet Academy. It was not precisely the life that she had anticipated for herself, but it was one that gave her satisfaction. Her journey of personal discovery as she endeavored to deal with her mixed heritage had been a long and rocky one. But that was far behind her now. She was at peace with herself.
At least, she liked to tell herself that.
The screen flickered to life and Goddard’s image appeared on it. ’Ah. Lieutenant. I appreciate your prompt response.”
“How may I help you, sir?”
“You can help me by packing.”
She looked at him blankly. “Tacking,’ sir? I don’t . . . ?”
“You’re being reactivated, Lieutenant. You’re shipping out next week on the Excalibur.”
“Sir . . . no,” she said with as much surprise as she ever allowed herself. “I do not . . . I am not seeking a shipboard position. I had thought that was clear to all concerned. That my place was here on Earth.”
“It’s called ’Starfleet,’ Lieutenant, not ’Earthfleet.’ I’m afraid you can’t hide here forever.”
“With all respect, sir, I am not hiding. I am doing a job, and a valuable one at that.”
“You’re doing a job that can be filled by at least a hundred people currently in the pipeline, all equally as capable as you. You’re needed on the Excalibur as science officer, and you are the person singly suited to the job. Besides, you came highly recommended.”
“Science officer . . . ? Recommended . . . ?” She was becoming frustrated by her communication skills, or apparent sudden lack thereof. “Recommended by whom?”
“Ambassador Spock.”
If she had not become as skilled as she was at covering her surprise, she would have had to pick up her jaw off the ground in front of her. “Ambassador . . . Spock.”
“I presume the name is familiar to you.”
“Oh yes. Most familiar. And we have met. But I am still unclear as to . . . as to why he would recommend me for anything. Science officer, sir?”
“That’s correct, Lieutenant.”
“On the Excalibur.” Despite her hesitation, she was annoyed to find a tingle of anticipation. It wasn’t as if they had abruptly decided to stick her on a science vessel and send her into the middle of nowhere. This was the Excalibur, a starship with a long and illustrious history. But then she tried, with determination, to shake off her momentary anticipation of the new assignment. “But sir, I still do not understand why, of all individuals, I am being assigned to this vessel. It has been three years, five months, and eighteen days since I logged any space time at all.”
“You’ll get your space legs back in no time,” Goddard told her. “But you’re probably wondering why we’ve zeroed in on you. Why the ambassador singled you out.”
“Yes, sir, I believe I have asked that repeatedly.”
The faint tone of criticism didn’t appear to register on him. “The Excalibur is going to have a very specific assignment, Lieutenant. Sector 221-G.”
Soleta did not even have to search her memory to pull that very familiar number up. “Thallonian space,”
she said slowly.
“That’s right, Lieutenant.”
“I had heard that there were difficulties. There were stories of refugees . . . civil war . . .”
“All that and more. And we’re sending the Excalibur into the heart of it. It’s going to be one hell of an adventure. I wish I could go with you.”
“If the commander wishes. I would most happily step aside from my new post in deference to his own desires.”
“Very funny, Lieutenant,” said Goddard. “Let’s not forget, you’re still in Starfleet. The powers that be feel that, considering you’re one of a bare handful of people who spent any time there, that your presence is essential.”
Her instinct was to protest, to go over Goddard’s head. Spock’s recommendation aside, she was happy teaching. She had no desire to thrust herself once more into the rigors and dangers of space.
But still . . .
She couldn’t help but feel that the mystery of Thallon remained an open door to her. There was something about that planet, something that intrigued her, and she’d never been able to investigate it. It had nagged at the back of her mind on and off for years, and the pronouncement from the commander catapulted it straight to the forefront.
“Very well, sir. I’ll be ready.”
“Good. Goddard out.”
His image vanished, to be replaced by a blank screen and the computer voice saying, “Second message. Visual only.”
She stared at the screen in confusion. There was just blackness; surely it was a mistake. But then, slowly, letters began to appear on the screen. Two words formed.
And the words were, Don’t move.
“Don’t move?” said Soleta in confusion. “What kind of message is that?”
And then she felt the blunt end of some sort of blaster weapon lodge itself securely in her neck. She couldn’t believe it. Whoever was behind her, either they had entered the apartment while she was speaking to Goddard, or else they had actually been present the entire time and Soleta—despite her keen hearing—had been utterly oblivious.
“It is the kind of message,” a soft but threatening voice said, “that you should pay attention to, if you know what is best for you. Now . . . you shall do exactly what I say . . . and may God help you if you do not, because no one else will be able to help you. That, I can assure you.”
BOOK TWO
INTO THE VOID
THE
EXCALIBUR
Captain’s Personal Log, Stardate 50923.1. “Captain.” Captain Mackenzie Calhoun. I thought I had left the Fleet forever behind me, and yet now I find myself not only back in the Fleet, but commanding a starship.
The Excalibur is currently a hive of activity. She’s an Ambassador-class ship, registry number 26517. Funny. I’ve only been on her for a few hours, and I’m already taking pride in her. Not all crew members have yet reported in, but the final work is even now approaching its completion. I have spoken extensively with Chief Engineer Burgoyne 172, and s/he assures me that we will be ready to launch for Sector 221-G on the expected date. Burgoyne is the first Hermat I’ve ever met, and frankly, s/he’s odd even for a Hermat, But s/he definitely knows engines, and that’s what counts.
I still can’t believe I’m here. When I was a young “rebel” on my native Xenex—battling the Danteri to try and drive those damned oppressors off my planet—I never dreamed of anything beyond the confines of my homeworld. It was Jean-Luc Picard who came to me when we were on the cusp of winning our long battle with the Danteri. He saw something in me, something that he felt should be shaped and honed into a Starfleet officer. I will never forget when he told me of the noted Earthman, the Great Alexander, who supposedly wept when he realized that he had no new worlds to conquer. There I was, having accomplished the liberation of my people before I was twenty years old. Picard realized that if I allowed that to be the pinnacle of my life, that it would not go well for me in later years. He is the one responsible for my seeking out my true destiny.
Damn the man.
I try to live my life without regrets. I did not regret resigning from Starfleet, for it was what I had to do at the time. And now I am determined not to regret rejoining. If nothing else, Picard was correct about the reaction of Admiral Jellico. Upon learning that I had been given command of the Excalibur, with the mandate to explore the fallen Thallonian Empire of Sector 221-G and provide humanitarian effort whenever possible, Jellico looked angry enough to shred a Borg with his teeth. He’s going to have to deal with it, however. That’s his problem, not mine. My problem is to focus my attention on the job at hand, and not let my core impatience with the rigmarole and high-mindedness of Starfleet interfere with my job.
Several major bits of business need to be attended to, I am still awaiting the arrival of Lieutenant Soleta, my science officer. She’s had experience in Thallonian space. Even though Xenex is on the Thallonian/Danterian border, I possess only a smattering of knowledge about the territory. Soleta has actually been into the heart of that notoriously xenophobic realm and lived to tell of it. Her view of things will be invaluable. She is currently in San Francisco, teaching at the Starfleet Academy, but she should have received her orders by now and should be preparing to join us as soon as possible. Of the rest of my command staff, Dr. Selar is in the process of getting sickbay in fully operating condition. It’s strange. I’ve worked with Vulcans before, and I’m well aware of their notorious reserve, but Selar is remote even for a Vulcan. So cold, so icy, so distant. I cannot help but wonder if she is simply overly dedicated to her Vulcan teachings, or if there is not something more going on in her head that I don’t know about. Her medical performance is spotless and she came well recommended from Picard, who in turn heard nothing but good things about her from his own CMO. Picard’s word is generally good enough for me, but to be blunt, Selar seems as if she’ll have the bedside manner of a black hole, and I hope her presence here is not an error on my part.
Security Chief Zak Kebron is a Brikar, and certainly provides a feeling of security. I constantly have to request that he walk rather than run, since his running tends to make an entire deck vibrate. I’ve seen mountain ranges that are smaller. And yet he has astounding agility for someone who’s got a hide tougher than twenty Hortas.
Astronavigator Mark McHenry comes highly recommended for helmsman, but he brings with him major caveats. I have very quickly learned that, during any conversation with Lieutenant McHenry, it seems as if he is either not listening at all, or listening to a conversation between two other people . . . neither of whom are in proximity. Yet he never seems to miss out on anything that’s being said; how his mind is able to multitask in that way is a complete mystery to me.
Operations Officer Robin Lefler is recently promoted from Engineering. She seems very sociable . . . perhaps overly so, as if she’s trying to compensate for something. “Desperately outgoing” would be the term I’d use. I’m having trouble getting a “read” on her, and will be keeping a weather eye on her for the time being.
The position of first officer remains open. I am finding the filling of that slot to be the most problematic area with which I have to deal I have a number of worthy candidates, and have already interviewed several Every single one has been eminently competent, knowledgeable, polite . . . and yet each of them seems a bit nervous around me. Intimidated, perhaps. They focus on my scar, the one I acquired in my youth when a Danterian laid open half my face. They seem to have trouble making eye contact. And they act as if at any moment I might start carving my initials in my desktop with the dagger I keep handy for sentimental reasons. I don’t see why. It’s my desk and my dagger, and if I happen to want to carve it into kindling, I damn well will
Hmmm.
Clearly I will need a first officer whom I can not only tolerate, but who will also be able to tolerate me.
SHELBY
I.
ELIZABETH PAULA SHELBY gaped at Admiral Edward Jellico. He could not have gotten a more stunned reaction out of her if he’d
suddenly ripped off his own face and revealed himself to be a Gorn wearing an exceptionally clever disguise.
Jellico was seated behind his desk, his fingers steepled in front of him. He watched Shelby pace his office with a mixture of amusement and awe. As always, the woman seemed like a barely contained dynamo of energy. When she was this upset, her face tended to darken and provide such a contrast to her strawberry blond hair that it looked as if her head were on fire. Her ire, her astonishment, were so inflamed that it took her several moments to regain her composure sufficiently to articulate her thoughts. “Calhoun?” was all she could get out. “Mackenzie Calhoun? My Mackenzie Calhoun?”
“Your Mackenzie Calhoun?” Jellico made no effort to keep the surprise out of his voice. “Commander, I’m well aware of the rumors regarding a history between you and Calhoun. Still, it’s been my impression that it’s been many years since he was your Mackenzie Calhoun.”
“Yes, yes, God yes,” she said quickly, having regretted the slip the moment she’d said it. “There’s no feelings in that regard. None. There had been a . . . brief flirtation, I admit . . .”
“How brief?”
She drew herself up stiffly. “I don’t believe that is necessarily your business, sir.”
“Agreed. How brief?”
With a sigh she said, “Three years.”
“That’s not what I’d call brief, Commander,” Jellico said doubtfully. Then he shrugged. “Well, it’s not as if you were engaged. . . .” And then he saw her look. “You . . . weren’t engaged to be married, were you? Well?”
Endeavoring to rally herself, Shelby said firmly, “Admiral, I am asking you to take my word for it that the past is squarely in the past. Furthermore, I feel I must inquire as to . . . that is, I’m curious as to the thinking behind . . .” She cleared her throat, and then forced herself to remember her place and station in life. “Permission to—”