by Peter David
“Oh, honey,” said Morgan, and she reached for her.
It was more than Robin could take. She knew that Soleta had meant well, but this was simply too much. “End program,” she said.
And Morgan blinked out of existence.
Robin Lefler ran out of the holodeck then, moving so quickly that she wasn’t around to see Morgan Lefler flare back into existence, looking around with her hands on her hips and an annoyed expression on her face.
“Well, now that was just rude,” she said to the empty room.
TRIDENT
I.
HE WAS COMING TOWARD HER, as clear as anything, he was right there in her quarters with her, and he was unmistakably, irrefutably real even though every aspect of her senses told her that it was just a dream, it had to be a dream, it couldn’t be real, because her senses were her greatest asset and they were never mistaken, just never, and she’d had dreams before, many many times, and this wasn’t like those, this was something very different, and it was Gleau, all right, Lieutenant Commander Gleau, the science officer who had used his abilities upon her, the “Knack” his people called it, and undercut her willpower so that she had willingly given herself over to him and now he was coming toward her again, and she was backing up, backing up, and suddenly there was no more room to back up, she was right against the wall, and she wanted to attack but she couldn’t, she was paralyzed, she wanted to leap, she wanted to charge right at him, but she was rooted to the floor, her claws furled, and she was trembling, but not with desire, with fear, and Gleau was drawing closer still, and she saw that sparkle in his eyes that had at one time excited her, but there was no excitement in her now, just terror, just stark, stinking terror, and she tried to call out for help but she couldn’t because her throat was constricted and there was nowhere to go and nowhere to run, and he was right there in front of her, and God, this wasn’t a dream, it was real, it had to be real, it felt real, and he leaned in close with that frightful smile upon his face and he whispered in her ear, and his breath was warm and creepy, and he said, I’m going to kill you, you know that, don’t you, because of what you did to me, because you went to Shelby, because you told her that I used the Knack upon you, and now I was forced to take an oath of chastity for as long as I’m on this vessel, and it’s your fault, all yours, and don’t you know they’re laughing at me behind my back, and pointing and looking at me with utter contempt, and it’s all your fault, M’Ress, all yours, I’ve lost face because of you, and no one does that to me, no one, not the greatest enemy that the Federation might have and certainly not some furry-skinned little nothing from another time and place, oh yes, M’Ress, you are going to die, I will come for you when you least expect, and I will kill you, yes, I will, and the best part of it, I will get away with it, yes, I will, because no one will believe your warnings and no one will accept that you’re in danger and when it does come, when I do kill you, it won’t even look like a murder, and everyone will just stand over your body and shake their heads and say, Well, it’s a pity about her, but really, she never did fit into this time and place, so it’s probably better that she’s gone, just gone, good-bye, M’Ress, your time is running out, you can’t escape it, you can’t escape me, farewell, M’Ress, farewell you little—
She woke up screaming.
II.
Kat Mueller persisted in not being a morning person.
Indeed, that was why she had always been happy being an executive officer, the Starfleet equivalent of the first officer who operated on the nightside. (Indeed, considering her ability to perform on three hours’ sleep, she was on call day and night for the Trident and consequently retained the rank of XO on her new ship.) She knew intellectually that there was no reason for her to feel preference for one time over the other. They were, after all, on a starship, bereft of natural light, having to depend upon dimming and rising of the onboard lighting to simulate a night/day shift. But night had always been her first, best love, going back to her childhood. Considering it was that ingrained, it was too late to fight it.
So as a general rule of thumb, Mueller tried not to deal with anything that looked as if it was going to be particularly challenging or aggravating when she first came on duty. Not that she wasn’t capable of doing so. She had a basic way of handling it, which was to present an outer demeanor that came across as if she were paying attention. Meanwhile, inside she just kept thinking, Go away, please, just go away, but no one could ever discern that.
Therefore, given her preferences, she would just as soon not have dealt with Lieutenant M’Ress first crack out of the box. But M’Ress had been insistent that she needed to speak with someone, and Mueller had the distinct feeling that if she didn’t handle it, the Caitian would take it upon herself to go to the captain. Certainly M’Ress seemed agitated enough to do so.
Mueller had been in her office when M’Ress had first shown up. Mueller preferred to ease into the day by spending an hour or so dealing with routine problems, ship’s issues, and such in her office, which was attached to her main quarters. It was not the general style for first officers to be anywhere but on the bridge; however, Shelby didn’t seem to mind.
On the one hand, she was concerned over what had M’Ress so worked up. On the other hand, she didn’t really care all that much and would just as soon have shut her down and sent her on her way. But she had given in to the inherent responsibility of her rank, and also to innate curiosity. As soon as M’Ress started talking, however, Mueller was regretting her decision ... particularly since it was early in the morning.
“Let me see if I understand this,” said Mueller, leaning forward, fingers interlaced and hands resting on the desk in front of her. “You’re saying that Lieutenant Commander Gleau ... ‘haunted’ you somehow? And while doing so, threatened your life?”
“I am saying that he projected himself into my mind and, while there, issued threats against me, yes.” M’Ress spoke with total conviction.
Mueller suspected M’Ress had no clue how ludicrous the things she was claiming sounded. “Do you have any clue how ludicrous this sounds?” asked Mueller.
M’Ress stared at her blankly. “No.”
Well, that confirms that. “Lieutenant,” she said carefully, then paused, and refocused her attention on her computer monitor. “Computer.”
“Working.”
“Access records, Selelvian race. Question: Do Selelvians possess any powers of thought transference, astral projection, or mind-meld?”
“Negative.”
M’Ress started to interrupt, but Mueller raised an index finger to quiet her and continued, “Question: Is a scenario in which a Selelvian inserts himself into someone’s dreams consistent with any known capabilities possessed by that race?”
“Negative.”
But M’Ress was simply shaking her head. “That doesn’t prove anything.”
“It doesn’t?”
“Commander, right up until Captain Kirk saw one on the Enterprise viewscreen, the ship’s computer at the time would have answered ‘negative’ as to whether the Romulans were an offshoot of the Vulcans.”
Mueller shrugged. “Technically, it might simply have replied with ‘Unknown.’ ”
“All right, but the point is—with all respect to the far-reaching capabilities of Starfleet records—the computer only possesses data of that which is already known. If the Selelvians are capable of doing what I know Gleau did to me, and they’ve kept it a secret, then naturally the computer won’t tell you any different.”
“I believe, Lieutenant,” Mueller said frostily, “I know the capabilities of a starship’s computer.”
“I didn’t mean to imply ...”
“In fact,” she continued, “I would daresay that just about every person who first set foot on this ship knew the capabilities of a starship’s computer, with the sole exceptions of you and your fellow displaced associate, Lieutenant Arex.”
M’Ress’s mouth became a thin line, and the tips of her fangs showed.
It wasn’t threatening, but she was clearly upset. Not that Mueller was particularly bothered by that. “Commander ... I’m not insane.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
“I know when I’m dreaming.”
“I should hope so.”
“And what happened to me ... what happened last night ... it wasn’t just a dream. It was a deliberate threat, planted there by Lieutenant Commander Gleau. Truthfully, I don’t know whether he meant it or not ...”
“Well,” said Mueller in mock relief, “it’s a relief to know that he’s got that degree of leeway.”
“... but his intention was still clearly to upset or terrorize me in a way that would leave him with apparently clean hands.”
Mueller sighed heavily. “Lieutenant, what would you have me do?”
“Bring him in. Question him.” She pointed at the monitor on Mueller’s desk. “The computer can detect when someone’s lying. Ask him if he attacked me in my dreams. See what he says.”
“Lieutenant ...” Mueller felt like tearing out her blond hair, but she continued to keep her hands firmly on the desk in front of her ... although her fingers were interlaced so tightly that the knuckles were turning white. “Lieutenant, the fact that we have devices on this vessel that can tell when someone’s lying doesn’t mean we can employ them whenever we wish. There are still Starfleet rules and guidelines, and a fundamental respect for right to privacy.”
“What about my right to privacy?” she asked in exasperation. “How can I have any privacy from someone who invades my sleep?! You have to ask him—”
“I have no basis on which to do so! Don’t you understand that?” The instant Mueller’s outburst flew from her lips, she was irritated with herself that she had allowed it to happen. She was normally proud of her ability to keep her cool, probably stemming from her German upbringing. M’Ress, for her part, looked unruffled. Mueller almost admired her for that. Almost. “I can’t,” she continued, having brought herself under control, “simply start grilling Starfleet officers for no reason.”
“There is a reason.”
“So you say.”
“I would have thought that my saying so would have been enough.”
“Lieutenant,” she said with forced calm, “if you said to me that you witnessed an incident, that would indeed be more than enough reason for me to pursue it. But the bottom line here is: You had a bad dream. Believe it or not, Lieutenant, we don’t all operate autonomously here. We have logs to keep, procedures to follow. Do you seriously expect me to list in the official Starfleet recording of my activities, ‘Cause of action: Time-displaced Caitian had a bad dream’?”
It seemed to Mueller as if M’Ress’s hackles were starting to rise. With others, that was merely a broadly descriptive term. For M’Ress, it was literal. A low hum was coming from her that sounded like something that was the opposite of a purr. “Permission to speak freely.”
She leaned back in her chair, her interlaced fingers now resting comfortably in her lap. “Knock yourself out.”
M’Ress looked momentarily bewildered. “You want me to ... what?”
“Permission granted,” she said with a sigh.
Nodding and looking slightly relieved, M’Ress said, “Commander Mueller ... I am not like you.”
“A cursory glance would have tipped me to that,” deadpanned Mueller.
M’Ress ignored the sarcasm. “To be a human ... it’s as if a large bag has been draped over your senses. You depend entirely—almost exclusively—upon your eyes. Your hearing is muffled, your taste is limited, and don’t even get me started on your sense of smell.”
“I’ll make sure not to. Is there a point to this anywhere in the offing?”
“The point is that I have a far clearer sense of the world, and everything in it, than you.” She leaned forward, looking like a caged puma. “And not only that, but I have a very clear sense of myself. I know what dreams feel like. I know how ephemeral they are in a way that you never could. And what I experienced was not ephemeral. It was not a passing fancy conjured by stray neurons. It was real. What happened was real. His threat was real. And you have to do something about it.”
Mueller leaned back in her chair, nodding, her interlaced fingers now resting in her lap. “I very much appreciate your candor, Lieutenant. I really do. Allow me to repay that candor with some of my own.”
“Hurt yourself.”
“What?” Mueller stared at her blankly, but then comprehended. “You mean, ‘Knock yourself out.’ ”
“Yes. That.”
“All right.” She smiled in a way that wasn’t reflected in any other part of her face. “From the moment you came aboard this ship, Lieutenant, you have received special treatment. That angered me, and continues to anger me. You have special circumstances. That’s nice. I don’t give a damn. Every single person on this ship has their own ‘special circumstances.’ Oh, maybe they aren’t the same as yours. Maybe not everyone fell through a time-travel device and wound up in a future century. But you know what? To all of those crew members, their problems and considerations and ‘special circumstances’ are as overwhelming and catastrophic to them as yours is to you. And none of them have received any sort of special dispensation. None of them are being held to a different standard. The fact is, you shouldn’t be here, Lieutenant. The Starfleet of which you’re a part is, literally, history. The ships you served on are relics, the people you served beside are dust, and the knowledge in your head is so antiquated as to be useless. At the very least, you should have been required to attend Starfleet Academy all over again. And if that was too much to demand of you, then perhaps you didn’t deserve to go back out into space in the first place.
“You know what, though? Starfleet didn’t feel that way, nor did Captain Shelby. Because of that, I was given orders and I have followed them. And you were placed in a position of authority in the science department that I did not feel you were entitled to. Then you became romantically involved with your superior officer, only to purport that you did not do so of your own free will. You claim you were harassed, yet he was the one who was mercilessly hounded by you and forced to sign an onerous pledge of chastity. And that apparently is not good enough. You now have the temerity to come to me and give me a flimsy story which has Lieutenant Commander Gleau rooting around in your brain and making death threats. Has it occurred to you, Lieutenant, that Gleau simply might not be thinking about you at all? Or perhaps that’s the problem. Perhaps you actually, in some perverse way, actually want his attention, but have no idea how to go about getting it. I don’t know. I don’t pretend to understand your motivations, Lieutenant, but what I do understand is that your flights of fancy are taking up an inordinate amount of my time. Get me a witness that Gleau came toward you with a knife and threatened to turn your pelt into a hat, and I’ll take action. But save the spooky bedtime stories for someone who doesn’t think you’ve been treated with entirely too much favoritism already.”
M’Ress’s eyes had grown steadily wider and wider throughout Mueller’s speech. There was a long silence after Mueller finished talking, and when she was finally done, M’Ress spoke. Her voice was low and choking, as if it was taking everything she had to suppress her genuine reaction to Mueller’s harsh words.
Instead she just said, “I ... appreciate your telling me exactly how you feel.”
“Do you.”
“Oh yes. Yes, you’ve done your utmost to make me feel welcome in this time.”
“See, that’s where the problem is,” Mueller informed her. “It’s not my job to make you feel welcome or coddle your neuroses. It’s my job to help maintain the smooth running of this vessel and carry out the captain’s desires.” She paused and then added, “You are, of course, welcome to go to the captain if you are dissatisfied with my feelings on the subject. After all, you went to her when you were convinced that Gleau had ‘taken advantage’ of you.”
“I went to the captain in that instance because I thought what
Gleau was doing was a shipwide concern,” M’Ress said slowly. “This, however, is far more personal to me. It’s my life at risk, and no one else’s. I thought therefore that it would be more appropriate to follow the chain of command and report directly to you.”
“That’s very considerate of you,” Mueller told her. “And you’re not going to go over my head now?”
“No.”
That genuinely surprised Mueller. “No?”
“No.” Whatever flashes of anger M’Ress had been displaying before were now so thoroughly reined in that Mueller saw no sign of them. “One of two things will happen. Either the captain will be forced to overrule you, which would be a most uncomfortable position for both her and you to be in, and I would just as soon not place her in that predicament. I have too much respect for the office of the captaincy to do that. Or else she will simply let stand your decision, in which case I will have wasted both my time and hers. So I see no point in either course.”
“May I ask what you intend to do?”
“Whatever is necessary.”
“And what might that be?”
“I don’t know, Commander,” said M’Ress matter-of-factly. “I haven’t decided yet.” She paused, and then asked, “May I leave now?”
“You came of your own will. Feel free to depart the same way.”
M’Ress nodded, rose, and walked out. Just before she departed, she flipped her tail in a way that made Mueller wonder if it was supposed to be some sort of obscene gesture. But she couldn’t think of any way to ask.
She leaned back in her chair, drumming her fingers thoughtfully on the tabletop.
III.
Somehow when M’Ress got into the turbolift, she knew Gleau would be there. She didn’t know how she knew; she just did. The turbolift had slid to a halt and when she stepped in, there he was. “Deck nine,” she said. The doors hissed shut and the lift continued on its way.