New Frontier

by Peter David

  “None.”

  “I don’t believe that,” she said flatly. “The Mackenzie Calhoun I know wouldn’t be uncaring. Wouldn’t be writing them off.”

  He had looked away from her, but now he turned to face her and said, in a very quiet voice, “Then I guess you didn’t know me all too well.”

  “That may have been why we broke up,” she mused. Then, after a moment’s further thought, she said, “Captain, there has to be some other way. Some middle ground. Some way to proceed between the extremes of simply writing off the hostages as lost, and giving in to the Nelkarites completely. Perhaps if you study precedents . . .”

  “Precedents?” He had a slight touch of amusement in his voice, which for some reason she found remarkably annoying. “Such as . . .?”

  “I don’t know specifically. Actions taken by other captains, other commanders. Some way that will enable you to find guidance. You have to find a way to work with these people on some sort of equitable basis.”

  “I understand what you’re saying, Elizabeth. And there may very well be merit to it. Still, I—”

  At that moment, his comm badge beeped. He tapped it and said, “Calhoun here. Speak to me.”

  “Captain,” came Robin Lefler’s voice, “we are receiving an incoming hail from the Nelkarites.”

  Calhoun cast a quick glance at Shelby, but she was poker-faced. “On my way” was all he said, and he moved quickly past Shelby out onto the bridge. His crew, although maintaining their professional demeanor, nonetheless looked a bit apprehensive. He knew that they had considered his pronouncement a short while ago to be somewhat disconcerting. The concept of sacrificing the hostages in the face of a greater concern . . . it was difficult for them to grasp. They were good people, a good crew . . . but, in this instance, perhaps a bit overcompassionate. It was not something that he could afford to let influence his decisions, however. “Put them on visual,” he said crisply.

  A moment later, the image of Laheera appeared, and with her was Boretskee.

  “There are some people here who wish to speak with you, Captain,” Laheera informed him. She nodded to Boretskee.

  Boretskee looked as uncomfortable as a person possibly could. He cleared his throat loudly and said, “Captain, I understand that we . . . that is to say, that you . . . have been placed in a rather difficult position. I . . . we regret this inconvenience and—”

  Laheera made an impatient noise. He tossed a look at her that could have cracked castrodinium, and then resumed what he was saying. “There are innocent people down here, Captain. People whose lives are depending upon what you will do next.”

  Laheera now spoke up. “And do not get any charming ideas about using your transporters to solve the difficulties, Captain. We’ve scattered the hostages throughout the city. They’re at no one location from which you can rescue them. For that matter, if you attempt to lock on to our transmission and, say, beam me out so that I can be used as a hostage . . . they will be killed. You’ve said that, as far as you are concerned, they are dead, and you will act accordingly. We both know it is easy to say such things. I invite you, however, to look upon the face of the ‘dead.’”

  She reached out of range of the viewer and dragged someone else into the picture. It was Meggan, the little girl with her hair tied back in a large bun, her eyes as deep as the depths of space.

  Calhoun looked neither right nor left, did not look at any of his people. Instead he kept his gaze leveled on the screen. When Laheera spoke it was with grim defiance—and yet that annoying voice of hers, with its musicality, made her life-and-death terms seem almost charming to hear. “Now then, Captain . . . your stubborn nature might be slightly more reasonable when the depths of your situation become apparent. You have said that you will open fire on us if we slay the hostages. My question to you is: Do you really have the nerve to stand there and let us kill them? You have said that the Excalibur is on a humanitarian mission. What sort of humanitarian would you be if you followed the course that you have set out for yourself, hmm? So, Captain . . . what will it be?”

  Calhoun seemed to contemplate her with about as much passion as he would if he were peering through a microscope and watching an amoeba flutter around. And then, very quietly, he said, “Very well, Laheera. You are correct. This is a pointless exercise.”

  “I’m pleased you are listening to reason.”

  But Calhoun had now turned his back to Laheera. Instead he was facing Boyajian, who was standing at the tactical station, filling in for the absent Zak Kebron. “Mr. Boyajian,” he said, and his tone was flat and unwavering. “Arm photon torpedoes one and two.”

  If Boyajian was surprised at the order, he was pro enough not to let it show. “Arming photon torpedoes, sir. Target?”

  “Torpedo one should be locked on to the origin point of this transmission. Torpedo two . . .” He hesitated a moment, considering. “Run a quick sensor sweep on Selinium. Find a densely populated section of town.”

  “Populated?” Shelby spoke up, unable to keep the astonishment from her voice. “Sir, perhaps a technological target might be preferable? Some area of high energy discharge, indicating a power plant or—”

  “Power plants can be rebuilt,” Calhoun said reasonably. “People can’t. Mr. Boyajian, have you got those targets locked in yet?”

  “Yes, sir.” Boyajian didn’t sound happy about it.

  “Projected casualty count from both torpedoes?”

  Boyajian felt his mouth go very dry. He licked his lips, checked the estimates, and then said, “Ap . . .” His throat also felt like dust. “Approximately five . . . hundred thousand, sir.”

  All eyes were now on Calhoun. From her science station, Soleta’s face was stoic and unreadable. At conn, Mark McHenry actually looked amused, as if he was certain that Calhoun would not do what he was preparing to do. Only Robin Lefler at ops was allowing her concern to show. She was biting her lower lip, a nervous habit that she’d been trying to break herself of for ten years. She wasn’t having much success, and moments like this weren’t making it easier on her.

  And Shelby . . .

  . . . Shelby was looking at him, not with anger, as he would have guessed, but with a vague sort of disappointment.

  All of this, Calhoun took in in a second or two. “Half a million. Impressive. Mr. McHenry, how long until we’re in range?” he asked.

  “At present orbital speed, one minute, three seconds,” said McHenry, without, Calhoun noticed, checking his navigation board. Below them the blue/gray sphere that was Nelkar turned beneath them as they circled it.

  “And once we’ve fired the torpedoes, how long until they reach primary targets?”

  “Forty-seven seconds.”

  He nodded and then said to Boyajian, “Engage safety locks on the torpedoes, Mr. Boyajian. Forty-four-second cut-off.”

  “Engaging safety locks, aye, sir.”

  On the screen, Laheera watched the activity on the bridge without fully understanding what was going on. “Captain, what are you playing at? May I remind you we have the fate of the hostages to consider.”

  “There’s no need. What you don’t understand is that I am determining their fate. Not you. Me. And I’m determining your fate as well. Your earlier point is well taken. There’s no need for me to stand around waiting for you to murder the hostages. For that matter, you’ve already killed one: Captain Hufmin. For that alone, you should consider this your punishment. A pity that others have to die with you, but those are the fortunes of war.” And with what seemed virtually no hesitation on his part, he turned back to Boyajian and said crisply, “Fire photon torpedoes, and then give me a countdown.”

  For the briefest of moments, Boyajian paused, and then in a firm voice, he replied, “Aye, sir.” He punched a control and two photon torpedoes leaped from the underbelly of the Excalibur and hurtled downward toward the unprotected city. “Torpedoes away,” he said. “Forty-seven . . . forty-six . . . forty-five . . .”

  It sounded as if
Laheera’s voice had just gone up an octave. Boretskee and the small girl were looking around in confusion, not entirely grasping what had just occurred. “What have you done?!” demanded Laheera.

  “I have just fired two photon torpedoes. They’ll be slowed down a bit as they pass through your atmosphere, but they’ll still have sufficient firepower to level whatever they hit.”

  “ . . . thirty-seven . . . thirty-six . . .” Boyajian was intoning.

  “You’ll kill them! You’ll kill her!” and Laheera shook the young girl, who let out a squeal of alarm. “You wouldn’t!”

  “Yes, I would.”

  “They’re blanks! You’re bluffing!”

  “ . . . thirty . . . twenty-nine . . .” came the steady count from Boyajian.

  “They’re running hot, I assure you,” he said with quiet conviction. “But they’re armed with safety locks. I can abort them during the first forty seconds. In the last seven seconds, however, nothing can turn them back. Agree to release the hostages, or within the next . . .”

  “ . . . twenty . . .” supplied Boyajian.

  “Thank you, twenty seconds . . . you’re dead. You, and about half a million Nelkarites. Gone, in one shot, because of the threats and strong-arming of you and Governor Celter for shortcuts. Decide now, Laheera.”

  For a moment she seemed to waver, and then she drew herself up and said firmly, “You are bluffing. I can smell it from here. Do your worst.”

  Calhoun’s face was utterly inscrutable. “You’re gambling half a million lives, including yours, on your sense of smell.”

  “Mine? No. No, I’m broadcasting from a deep enough shelter that I’ll be safe. As for the rest, well . . . as I said, I’m positive you’re bluffing. I’ll stake their lives on my instincts any day.”

  “If you care about your people, reconsider.”

  “No.”

  There was dead silence on the bridge, and through it reverberated Boyajian’s voice as he began the final countdown. “Ten . . . nine . . . eight . . .”

  An infinity of thoughts tumbled through Shelby’s mind. This was the time. This was the time to do it. For she knew now something that was previously unclear to her. Mackenzie Calhoun had spent his formative years as—simply put—a terrorist. It was easy to overlook that, because one tended to give him more flattering, even romantic labels such as “rebel leader” or “freedom fighter.” But at core, he was indeed a terrorist, and he had fallen back on terrorist tactics. Proper procedures meant nothing to him. Life itself meant nothing to him. All that mattered was pounding his opponents until they could no longer resist.

  “ . . . seven . . .”

  Now, her mind screamed, now! Take command, declare Calhoun unfit, and order Boyajian to abort! It’s not mutiny! No one on this bridge wants to see this travesty happen! They’re looking to me to take charge!

  . . . six . . .”

  On the screen was Laheera, arms folded, smug, confident. The stunned, shocked faces of Boretskee and the young girl were evident.

  “ . . . five . . .”

  On the bridge was Calhoun, arms behind his back, staring levelly at the screen, and then, for no apparent reason, his gaze flickered to Shelby. Her eyes locked with Calhoun’s, seemed to bore directly into the back of his brain.

  Boyajian’s lips began to form the letter “f” for four. . . .

  “Abort,” said Calhoun.

  Boyajian’s finger, which had been poised a micro-centimeter above the control panel, stabbed down, the reflex so quick that he didn’t even have time to register a sense of relief.

  • • •

  Several thousand feet above Selinium, two photon torpedoes—which normally would have exploded on impact—received a detonation command. They blew up prematurely, creating a spectacular flash of light and rolling of sound in the blue skies overhead. The people of Selinium—who had no idea that a pair of torpedoes had been winging their way—looked up in confusion and fear. No one had a ready explanation for what had just happened. A number of people had to be treated for flash-blindness, having had the misfortune to be looking directly into the explosion when it occurred. Many others had a ringing in the ears from the noise. Even as the echo of the detonation died away, Nelkarites turned to one another for answers and found none.

  But an explanation was not long in coming. For Governor Celter immediately went on citywide comm channels and, with that famed, calming presence of his, seemed to be looking into the hearts of anyone who watched as he announced, “No doubt most, if not all, of you were witness to the explosion overhead. I am pleased to announce that we have been testing a new weapons system which will—I assure you—give us a new, more secure Nelkar than ever before. This was, however, a secret test, as such things often are, and we were not able to announce the test beforehand. On that basis, I hope you will forgive us any concern that might have been caused on your part. We are, after all, working for a common goal: the best, safest Nelkar possible. No need to concern yourselves, and you can all go on about your business. Thank you for your attention.”

  And he smiled in that way he had.

  • • •

  Once again there was silence on the bridge . . . except this time it was broken by low, contemptuous laughter.

  The laughter was coming from Laheera. She could see the entire scene on the bridge of the Excalibur. It looked as if that Shelby woman was sorry that she couldn’t simply reach through the viewscreen and strangle her. Still, Shelby’s state of mind was hardly a major concern to Laheera.

  Calhoun, for his part, stood straight and tall . . . and yet, somehow, he seemed . . . smaller.

  “Now then, Captain,” Laheera said, “since we know where each of us stands . . . let’s get down to business, shall we? We can be flexible in our demands. Advance, in our weapons systems, in our warp drive propulsion . . . oh, and matter transportation, of course. We know that you’ve mastered it. Our experiments in that realm have been somewhat less than satisfying. Our test subjects have not come through the process in—shall we say—presentable condition. We trust that you will be able to aid us in these matters?”

  “Yes,” said Calhoun, in a voice so soft that it was barely above a whisper.

  Indeed, Laheera made a show of cupping her ear and saying, “Excuse me? I didn’t quite hear that.”

  “I said yes,” Calhoun repeated, more loudly but with no intensity. It was as if there had been fire in him that had been doused.

  “That’s good to hear. Very good.”

  “We would like to . . . review the information that you need,” Calhoun said. “Understand, this is not an . . . an easy thing we’re doing. We still feel that giving you what you request is fundamentally wrong and potentially harmful. Obviously we have to cooperate with you, under the circumstances. But we want to try and minimize what we perceive as the damage we may do you.”

  “That’s very considerate of you, Captain,” said Laheera, making no effort to keep the irony from her voice. “After all, we know that at this moment, the Nelkarites are likely your very favorite race in the entire galaxy. Naturally you would be placing our welfare at the very top of your list of concerns.”

  Calhoun said nothing. There didn’t seem to be any point to it.

  “You have twenty-four hours, Captain. That should be more than enough, I would think. More than enough.”

  “Thank you,” said Calhoun. “That’s very generous of you.”

  She smiled thinly. “I can afford to be generous in victory . . . just as you appear to be gracious in defeat.”

  She snapped off the viewscreen and turned to face Boretskee and Meggan. “There,” she said in that charmingly musical voice. “That wasn’t so difficult now, was it?”

  Boretskee’s mouth drew back in a snarl. He was so filled with fury that he couldn’t even form words.

  “Now then . . . the guards will escort you to your quarters,” she continued. “And there you will remain until we’ve gotten what we wanted. And if, for some reason, the Exc
alibur does not come through as promised . . . well then, we’ll get together again,” and she smiled mercilessly, “for one last time. Now . . . off you go. Oh, and have the guards be sure to take you past the Main Worship Tower. It’s very scenic, and I wouldn’t want you to miss it.”

  • • •

  Shelby was prepared to console Calhoun in whatever way she could. To tell him that he had acted correctly. That in displaying mercy, he had shown strength, not weakness. That anyone else on the bridge would have done the exact same thing. That she was not ashamed of him, but proud of him.

  She didn’t have time to say any of it, because the moment that the screen blinked out, Calhoun turned to face his crew, wearing a look of grim amusement.

  “ ‘Gracious in defeat’ my ass. I’m going to kick the crap out of them.”

  THALLON

  II.

  THALLON WAS A DYING WORLD . . . of this, the leader was certain.

  The leader was in his study when the ground rocked beneath his feet. This time around, nothing was thrown from the shelves, no artwork hurled off the walls. It wasn’t that the quake was any gentler than the previous ones; it was just that the leader, having learned his lessons from previous difficulties, had had everything bolted in place.

  Still, that wasn’t enough to prevent structural damage. The quake seemed to go for an eternity before finally subsiding, and while he was clutching the floor, the leader noticed a thin crack that started around the middle of the room and went all the way to one of the corners. His own, red-skinned reflection grimaced back at him from the highly polished surface.

  He drew himself up to a sitting position, but remained on the floor long after the trembling had stopped. This place, this “palace” once belonging to the imperial family . . . it was his now. His and his allies’.

  It was what he had wanted, what they had all wanted. What they had deserved. The royal family had ruled, had dictated, had hoarded, had been moved by self-interest for more generations than anyone could count. It was high time that the people took back that which was rightfully theirs. And if it benefited the leader, so much the better.