New Frontier

by Peter David

  Unaccustomed to subterfuge, Selar turned and met his look squarely. And, in some ways, she felt as if she was looking at him—really looking at him—for the first time.

  And she had never realized before how, with his dark hair, his squared-off jaw, his serious demeanor, Maxwell bore a passing resemblance to her late husband. To Voltak, who had died of a heart attack in the throes of Pon farr. Died while Selar had lain there helplessly, unable to aid him.

  And the rational part of Selar’s mind said, No. That is ridiculous. Pop psychology, pat and unsatisfying. Having a negative reaction to a coworker because of a passing resemblance to Voltak? It is absurd. It is not logical. That cannot be it. There must be . . . other concerns.

  Except at that moment she couldn’t think of any.

  Deciding to break the uneasy silence, Maxwell stepped forward and said, “Dr. Selar . . . I’d like to know if you’ll still be requiring my services.”

  “Do you have duties to attend to?” she asked him.

  “Well . . . yes . . . but . . .”

  “Then I suggest you attend to them. Our intended departure time has not been altered, and it behooves you to be prepared.” And she turned and walked away to her office, leaving a confused but happy Maxwell behind.

  • • •

  The first thing that Shelby noticed was the short sword mounted on the wall. She stopped and stared at it. Calhoun seemed entranced by his computer screen, more than content to have Shelby speak first. She didn’t let him down. “You still have it?”

  He didn’t even have to look up to see what she was referring to. “Of course.”

  “Mac, that sword laid your face open. It almost killed you. I’d hoped you’d outgrow the need to hold on to such things.”

  “It reminds me of the importance of keeping my guard up. As does this,” and he tapped the scar. Then he turned in his chair to face her for the first time. “I can’t say I’m surprised to see you, Commander.”

  “We’re being formal, are we, Mac?”

  “Yes.”

  Without missing a beat, she said, “Very well. Captain, I hope you will excuse my unannounced appearance, but I wish to discuss a matter of some urgency.”

  “You want to apply for the position of first officer.”

  “That is correct.” She noticed her own picture staring out from the computer screen. Calhoun was reading up on her latest stats. “Since you are already in the process of reviewing my service rec—”

  “Jellico told me not to use you.”

  She shook her head slightly as if trying to clear water from her ears. “Pardon?”

  “I received a communiqué from Admiral Jellico. He told me you would be applying, and that he could not, in good conscience, recommend you for the post.”

  “I see.” Shelby had assumed that Jellico would be backing her up. All right . . . if he wasn’t going to, then fine. Calhoun couldn’t possibly be aware of all the dynamics involved in—

  “I assume one of two scenarios to be the case,” said Calhoun, tilting his chair slightly back. “Either Jellico wanted you to spy on me, and you told him to go to hell, so that in a fit of pique he’s trying to block the assignment. Or else he’s hoping that you will, at the very least, make my life miserable . . . and by telling me not to use you, he hoped to employ a sort of reverse psychology. Like in the old Earth story you once mentioned to me, about the rabbit begging not to be thrown into the briar patch, he figured that by telling me not to use you, I would then turn around and do so.” He gazed at her blandly. “How would you assess the situation, Commander?”

  She did everything she could to fight down her astonishment. For a moment she felt as if she were clutching on to a roller coaster, and couldn’t quite understand why the sensation had a familiar feeling to it. Then she realized: She’d oftentimes felt like that during her relationship with Calhoun. Why am I letting myself in for this again? I must be insane! Those were the thoughts that went through her head. All she said, however, was “I would . . . concur with your assessment, Captain.”

  “Good.”

  She cleared her throat. “Captain,” she began, “there are some things you should know. . . .”

  “I don’t need to hear it, Commander.”

  “Sir, with all respect, I believe you do. My record has been exemplary, I have served as first officer on the Excalibur, on the Enterprise, on the—”

  “I said I don’t need to hear it.”

  “I’m the right person for this job and, to be blunt, I’m the right person for your job, but at the very least I can provide a valuable—”

  “Commander,” he said, his voice icy.

  “If you’ll just listen to me—!”

  “Eppy, will you shut the hell up!”

  Her back stiffened. “Yes, sir.”

  “Much obliged, Eppy.”

  “However, I should point out that if I am not addressing you by your first name, it would likewise be appropriate if you were not to call me by that . . . annoying . . . nickname.”

  “Elizabeth Paul. E.P. Eppy.”

  “I remember the derivation, sir. I would just appreciate your not employing it.”

  “You didn’t used to consider it annoying. You thought it affectionate.”

  “No, it always annoyed me. I was just reticent about saying so because of our . . . involvement . . . at the time.”

  He gave her a skeptical look. “You? Reticent?” He sighed and turned his back to her, swiveling his chair so that he was gazing out at the narrow sliver of starscape which was visible through the sides of drydock. “It was good seeing you again, Commander.”

  “And you, Captain. And I guess I should say . . . putting aside our history . . . that I wish you the best of luck in the reassumption of your career.”

  “I appreciate that. Where’s your stuff?”

  She stared in confusion at the back of his chair. “Stuff?”

  “Possessions. Equipment. Gear. Did you bring it with you or are you sending for it? Don’t tell me you’re going to waste time going back for it.”

  “I don’t understand . . .”

  He sighed. “Commander, we have to be out of here in forty-eight hours. I need to know if we’re going to be required to sit around and wait for you to retrieve your gear, or whether you can be ready to go by the time we’re prepared to shove off.”

  “Are you saying you want me aboard the Excalibur?”

  “Yes, that it what I am saying.”

  “In what capacity?”

  He turned to face her with a disbelieving expression. “Chief cook and bottle washer. Good God, Shelby, are you going to make me spell it out for you?”

  “I think so, yes, sir.”

  “Very well.” He stood and extended a hand. “Congratulations, Commander. You are the new first officer of the Excalibur, presuming you still want the job.”

  “Yes, I still want the job.” She shook his hand firmly, but then a cloud crossed her face. “We might face a problem, however.”

  “That being—?”

  “Well, the paperwork for my appointment has to be run past Admiral Jellico. If he was genuinely trying to block me because of—for whatever reason—that could be a problem. Procedures do have to be followed, reports must be made, and—”

  “Shelby, I cannot put sufficient emphasis on this: I don’t give a damn about reports and following procedure. The decision is mine, and the decision is made.”

  “Very well, sir.”

  She paused, as if wanting to say something else, and it was fairly obvious to Calhoun. “Well? Something else on your mind, Commander?”

  “Captain.” She shifted uncomfortably in place. “Our relationship . . . it was a long time ago. I’m over you. Way over you. I need to know if you’re over me. I need to know if you took me on because of our past involvement.”

  “No, Commander. I took you on in spite of it. Dismissed.”

  “I just wanted to say—”

  “Dismissed.”

  S
he nodded curtly, satisfied with the response, and walked out of the ready room. Calhoun turned back to his viewing port and stared out.

  There had been any number of times when there had been people who thought he was crazy. The Danteri, for one, when he had led his people in revolt against them, thrusting himself into one dangerous situation after another with an abandon that many mistook for recklessness.

  There had been fellow Starfleet cadets who were openly horrified, and secretly amused, by Calhoun’s willingness to go toe-to-toe with the most formidable professors at the Academy, never hesitating to voice his opinion, never backing down if he was convinced that he was right.

  In his sojourn on the Grissom he had learned the game of poker and quickly established a reputation as being capable of bluffing his way through any hand. Once they’d even brought in an empath as a ringer, and even the empath hadn’t been able to get a bead on him.

  The chances he had taken in subsequent years while performing the missions that Nechayev had liked to refer to as his “little adventures” on her behalf . . . well, Nechayev herself had said she thought he was out of his mind on more than one occasion, although that never stopped her from tapping him or his “peculiar skills” (as she termed them) whenever she needed something low-key handled.

  But in all those times, in all those years of people thinking that he was crazy . . . never once had Mackenzie Calhoun himself shared that opinion about himself.

  Until now.

  “I just took on my former fiancee as my first officer,” said Calhoun out loud. “I must be out of my mind.”

  “I assume she is qualified, sir.”

  The voice startled Calhoun, who swiveled around in his chair quickly to see a young Vulcan woman standing just inside the doorway. He mentally chided himself; he had been unforgivably sloppy. He’d actually been so lost in thought that he hadn’t heard someone enter his ready room. In the old days back on Xenex, such carelessness could very likely have earned him a dagger lodged squarely in his back.

  “Yes. She is eminently qualified, and that is all that matters,” said Calhoun quickly. He stared at the Vulcan for a moment, her face familiar to him. Then it clicked: he’d seen it in computer personnel files. “You’re Lieutenant Soleta.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Welcome aboard. We’ve been waiting for you.”

  “I encountered some . . . delays.”

  “I’d like to sit down with you and get a full picture of what you know of Thallonian space.”

  “As you wish, Captain. But first . . . there is a matter of some urgency that I need to discuss with you.”

  “Relating to . . . ?”

  “My luggage.”

  He considered that for a moment. “Your luggage.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He leaned forward, fingers interlaced, and said, “This should be good.”

  RYJAAN

  IV.

  “THIS IS NOT GOOD.”

  Ryjaan, the Danteri ambassador, had only recently returned to his homeworld. Now he stood in his opulent office, high above the capital city, looking out at his most impressive view. Far below him the people of Danter went about their business, unknowing and uncaring of the efforts to which Ryjaan and other government officials went for the purpose of preserving their safety.

  “No, not good at all,” he continued, and he turned to look at the person who was seated in his office. It was a Xenexian who bore a passing resemblance to another Xenexian once known as M’k’n’zy of Calhoun. The difference was that he was taller, and wider, and also considerably more well fed, to put it delicately. To put it indelicately, he was terribly out of shape. However, his hair was neatly trimmed, as were his fingernails. His clothes were extremely fancy, far more so than was common for any Xenexian. He was clad in deep purples, with high black boots and a sword dangling off his right hip. The sword was largely for ornamental purposes; the only time he drew it was to show it off for a young lady whom he might be trying to seduce. It was indeed impressive-looking; the fact that it had never been used in combat didn’t detract from that.

  “Your brother,” Ryjaan continued, “could cause us serious problems, D’ndai.”

  D’ndai shook his head in slow disbelief. “They actually put him in charge of a starship?”

  “I was unhappy about this starship business to begin with,” Ryjaan said. “When I was at the meeting aboard the Enterprise, I hoped to head this matter off. It would have served our purposes quite well to have the Danteri be the most significant starfaring presence in . . . what did they call it . . . ?” He quickly consulted a report that he had produced after the meeting. “Ah, yes. On their charts, it’s called Sector 221-G. My, the Federation has always had a knack for creative names, haven’t they.”

  D’ndai said nothing. Somehow he didn’t feel that his input was being urged. He was correct.

  “So our interests have been preempted. Oh, certainly we can come and go as we please. But we will have to move stealthily. Subtly. We cannot make any overt moves at this time.”

  “That might be fortunate,” D’ndai finally offered. “At a time when there is confusion and chaos, no one is certain whom to trust. The larger the presence, why . . . the larger the target.”

  “Indeed.”

  “Yes.” He shrugged expansively. “Let the Federation come in with their huge vessel. Let them parade around and draw fire and attention from all quarters. And once they are gone . . .”

  And then D’ndai was nearly startled out of his chair by the abrupt thud of a dagger slammed down into the desk. It had been driven into it with significant force by Ryjaan, and now it quivered there, a trembling metal representation of Ryjaan’s anger. Yet his expression was extremely placid in contrast.

  “That sounds very much to me, D’ndai, like some sort of contrived rationalization for a very unfortunate situation,” said Ryjaan, his voice having taken on a dangerously silky tone. “As I mentioned before, your brother is the captain of the vessel.”

  “I don’t understand how they could possibly have put him in charge.”

  “Nor do I. Nor am I interested in understanding, because ultimately whether we understand or not, it’s not going to make a damned bit of difference. The question is, how do we deal with it. And the answer is simple: You are to talk him out of it.”

  “Me?”

  “Who better? You’re his big brother.”

  D’ndai shook his head. “You do not understand. It is rather . . . complicated.”

  Ryjaan studied him for a moment, and then said slowly, “D’ndai . . . we have had a long, healthy and mutually beneficial association these many years. I have helped you, you have helped me. We have taken a situation that could very easily have deteriorated into chaos and fashioned it into an equitable, beneficial situation for all concerned. Need I remind you that the continued growth and strength of the Danteri government is not only beneficial for Danter, but it also benefits your homeworld of Xenex? That being the case, I think you’d best explain to me just how, precisely, it is an overly complicated situation.”

  D’ndai slowly rose from his chair and began to circle the office. “You don’t know what he’s like,” D’ndai told him. “You just don’t.”

  “I don’t follow. Are you saying—”

  “I’m saying that he’s incorruptible. That he has a strong sense of how things should be. And that he will pay little to no attention to my feelings on particular matters.”

  “But why? You were freedom fighters together. Fought side by side, won the liberation of your people from my government. Certainly he must feel some degree of indebtedness. Some sense of what the old days were like for you. It can’t be that he simply doesn’t give a damn about you.”

  “You don’t know, you don’t—”

  D’ndai leaned against the glass of the window, his palms flat against it. He was struck by how cold the pane of glass was. “We fought for . . . ideals, Ryjaan. We fought for a certain view of how we wanted Xenex to
be. And more than anything else, we fought for how we wanted to be. But once the basic freedoms for which we had fought so long and fiercely were finally won, things . . . changed.”

  “Changed how?”

  “You know perfectly well how,” D’ndai shot back, making no effort to hide the anger in his voice. “Once we won our freedom, we had to get down to the business of governing. M’k’n’zy, he discovered he had no taste for it. No interest in it. He left it to me to pull our fractured world together, went off on his damned fool career path toward Starfleet. And then he came back and he . . . he judged me.” D’ndai felt his blood boiling with the humiliating recollection of it. “He came back to Xenex, all dressed up in that crisp new Starfleet uniform, and he looked down his nose at us. Like he was so much better than we. So much smarter, so much . . .” He fought to regain control of himself and only partly succeeded. “Nothing we had done was good enough for him. The government we had set up, the lives we had created for ourselves. He accused us of selling out our people to Danteri interests. He saw the lands we had garnered, the wealth we accrued that came as a result of doing business with your people . . . and it infuriated him.”

  “You did what you felt was right,” Ryjaan said, not unsympathetically. “You did what was right. Treaties were signed, deals were made, understandings were entered into. Xenex is free, and everyone prospers.”

  “Not everyone. I prosper. Some of my peers and associates prosper. Others . . .”

  “Others eke out livings, I grant you. But they didn’t take the risks you did. You’re a leader, D’ndai. You and your peers, all leaders.” He walked around his desk and intercepted D’ndai, who was still pacing furiously. He clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Leaders earn more consideration, more rewards. Why else become a leader except to garner some special consideration?”

  “That was always the difference with M’k’n’zy,” said D’ndai bitterly. “He became a leader because the people needed a leader. The concept of accruing anything aside from danger and risk . . . it never occurred to him.”