by Peter David
“If I did not before, I do now.”
“Lieutenant,” Selar said stiffly, “you are not to attempt such a thing again. Not ever. Not in my sickbay. Not on any vessel on which I am CMO. Is that understood?”
Soleta’s gaze fully focused on Selar for the first time. “You pulled me out. You brushed your mind with mine ... and pulled me out.”
Selar gave the. closest equivalent of a shrug in her bodily vocabulary. “You have ... extended yourself in the past to me, when I required aid. I have not forgotten that. As a fellow Vulcan, and as ship’s chief doctor, I can do no less. Nevertheless ...”
“I should never do it again.” This time she managed a nod. “I won’t. But ...” She sounded close to despondent. “What of McHenry?”
“What of him? Do you believe your ... rash ... behavior had any sort of result?”
And as the full effects of the sedative took hold of Soleta, she closed her eyes and whispered, “I have no idea,” before drifting to sleep.
III.
Mark McHenry stood in the middle of the corridor outside sickbay and stared at his hands, his feet, his body.
He was there. He was alive. He was whole.
“All right, Soleta!” he shouted with more joy than he’d ever displayed in his entire life.
At that moment he heard a cry of “Xyon! Get back here!” And here, around the corner, came Xyon, the young son of Dr. Selar and Commander Burgoyne. He was literally galloping down the hallway on feet and hands, like a small ape. Moke was directly behind him, having agreed to undertake the not inconsiderable responsibility of keeping an eye on the irrepressible half-breed child.
Xyon blew right past McHenry without a second look, but Moke skidded to a halt. His eyes went wide as he stared at McHenry.
“Moke! I’m back! Everything’s okay!” said McHenry.
Moke threw himself against the far wall, as if he needed the corridor for back support. He slid slowly along it, easing his way past McHenry while never taking his eyes off him. McHenry stared at him in bewilderment. “Moke? What’s wrong? It’s me, Mark McHen—”
And with a terrified yelp, Moke dashed off down the hallway in the same direction as Xyon had gone, limping ever so slightly, but otherwise moving with a great deal of speed.
“—ry,” he finished, not comprehending what could possibly be wrong.
Then he looked down.
And saw no shadow.
Other crewmen were walking casually past him, paying no attention to him. Quickly McHenry stepped into the path of one of them, and they walked right through him without slowing.
“This can’t be good,” said Mark McHenry.
“It gets worse,” said a low voice from behind him.
He turned and saw an elderly, bearded man with one eye standing directly behind him.
“Much worse,” said the one-eyed man.
TRIDENT
I.
KAT MUELLER STRODE into Captain Shelby’s ready room with her customary confident stride, but her face was a picture of concern. Shelby looked up as Mueller draped herself across the nearest chair and said briskly, “Our attempts to reach Si Cwan on Danter have proven unsuccessful.”
“Damnation,” muttered Shelby, shaking her head, and tilted back in her chair. “This is the most insane thing I’ve ever heard. And I’m someone who witnessed a giant flaming bird hatching out of a planet.”
“I might agree with you, Captain, if I had the faintest idea of what we were talking about.”
Shelby winced, chagrined that she had overlooked the obvious. “My apologies, XO. You’re usually so on top of matters, that it literally didn’t occur to me I hadn’t told you the latest intel from Starfleet.” She leaned forward and rested her interlaced hands on the desktop. “While we’ve been out here, looking for signs of the Beings ... apparently they’ve been setting up shop on Danter.”
“Set up shop? In what sense?”
“According to Starfleet, they are offering ambrosia—the legendary food of the gods—to the Danteri. Supposedly they are out to bring a new golden age to Danter.”
“In short,” said Mueller, “they’ve offered the Danteri the exact same deal they were putting forward to Captain Calhoun ... except the Danteri have taken them up on it. But how does Starfleet know of it?”
“Apparently they haven’t been doing much to keep it a secret,” Shelby told her. “Word’s leaking out to neighboring worlds. There’s a good deal of interest, but the Danteri are playing their hand rather closely. Supposedly the Beings were rather ‘put off’ by the initial reticence Mac displayed. So they’re carefully regulating the availability of ambrosia, endeavoring to restrict it to those who are considered ‘worthy.’ ”
“And the Danteri are worthy?” asked Mueller with raised eyebrow and a look of tolerant amusement.
“Apparently so.” Shelby blew air impatiently between her lips. “I can only think that Mac would have a fit over that. After all, the Danteri were the original conquerors of Mac’s people, the Xenexians, before Mac organized the revolt that threw them off Xenex. I doubt he’d be pleased to know that the Danteri have formed an alliance with the creatures who brutalized the Excalibur.”
“On the other hand,” observed Mueller, “he might find some amusement in the notion that the Danteri are lapping up his leftovers.”
“Yes. Yes, that might appeal to his sense of the perverse. Still, my major concern now is Si Cwan and Kalinda.”
“Why should it be a concern?” asked Mueller reasonably. “They knew the risks they were taking in getting involved with the Danteri and taking them up on their offer of a new Thallonian Empire. If the Danteri had abruptly switched allegiances, and Si Cwan has become so much excess baggage, I don’t have a good deal of sympathy for him.”
“I find that an odd attitude for you to have, XO.”
“Why?”
“Because”—Shelby shifted uncomfortably in her seat—“well ... not that it’s any of my business ...”
“You’re the captain of the Trident. Everything is your business,” Mueller said primly.
“Yes, well ...” She cleared her throat. “My understanding, from what I’ve heard—not that I listen to gossip, of course—”
“Of course.”
“—but I’d heard that you and Si Cwan were ... romantically involved.”
Mueller shook her head, strands of her blond hair swinging around her face. She brushed them back and readjusted the bun she kept the rest of her hair tied in. “That is not accurate.”
“Ah. O—”
“We simply had sex.”
“—kay.” She blinked. “Having sex isn’t the same as being romantically involved?”
“Not if you do it correctly,” said Mueller.
“Sometimes, XO, I really don’t understand you.”
“I assume you’re referring to those times that I get completely drunk and start speaking only in German,” Mueller said. When Shelby offered a guttural laugh at that, Mueller permitted a small smile, and then continued, “Are we to return to Danter then?”
“It was my first impulse,” Shelby said. “But Starfleet wants Trident to remain here.”
“Here? In the middle of nowhere? Captain, with all respect, that’s absurd. We’ve been surveying the sector, trying to find a trace of the Beings. If we now know they’re involved in planetary politics on Danter, why stay here?”
“Exactly the question I posed to Starfleet.”
“And their response?”
“They told me they wanted Trident to remain here.”
Mueller grunted at that. “Why am I not surprised.”
Suddenly the com unit whistled in the ready room. “Hash to Captain,” came the voice of the Trident ops officer, Romeo Takahashi.
Shelby immediately noticed that his customary leisurely (and most likely affected) drawl was absent, and that promptly got her full attention. If Hash was all business, something was up.
“Shelby here.”
�
�Captain, you might want to get out here. We got a Romulan ship decloaking a thousand kils to starboard. And it ain’t like any Romulan ship I’ve ever seen.”
“Shields up,” Shelby said immediately. If a Romulan ship was dropping its cloaking device, that could easily be a precursor to an attack, and she was not about to take the chance that it was otherwise. She was on her feet even as she snapped out the order, and Mueller was preceding her out the door.
II.
It was a Romulan vessel, all right. The markings, the general shape were most distinctive. But Hash had been absolutely on the money: It was like no other Romulan ship that Shelby had ever seen. “XO?” she floated the unvoiced question, since Mueller was generally rather on top of things such as odd bits of knowledge.
Mueller simply shook her head, even as she took her post at the second-in-command station. “Unfamiliar with it, Captain.”
“Talk to me, people. What have we got?”
Arex was positioned at tactical; the Triexian was running scans with his three capable arms moving in all directions at once. “Energy pattern is definitely that of a Romulan ship, Captain ... as if the presence of a cloaking device wasn’t sufficient.”
“Weaponry?”
“Two heavy-duty plasma cannons, a photon torpedo array ...”
“Are they running weapons hot?” asked Shelby, her gaze fixed on the newcomer.
“Negative, Captain. They’re just sitting there.”
“It’s not a warbird ... it’s not a bird-of-prey,” Hash was muttering. “What the hell is it?” He glanced at Mick Gold, the conn operator who was seated near him. Gold, a slender young black man who was rarely at a loss in coming up with arcane facts, simply shrugged.
The turbolift doors hissed open and Lieutenant Commander Gleau entered. The science officer took one look at the monitor screen and said in surprise, “I’ll be damned. A bird-of-paradise.”
All heads snapped around and looked at him. “A what?” demanded Shelby.
“That’s what Starfleet calls it,” said Gleau, heading over to the science station. “We don’t know what the Romulans call it. I’ve heard it described, but never actually seen it. There’s only one in the Romulan fleet. It belongs to the emperor.”
“The Romulan emperor?” asked Hash.
Gleau looked to the ops officer with a slightly withering glance. “No, Lieutenant, the emperor Julius Caesar.”
“Belay the sarcasm, Gleau,” Mueller snapped.
Gleau bobbed his head slightly in acknowledgment, but still had that smug expression on his face.
“What would the Romulan emperor be doing out here?” Shelby wondered.
“I doubt he’s aboard,” said Mueller. “If the emperor were going somewhere, Romulan protocol would certainly require an escort.”
“My surmise as well, Commander,” said Gleau. “I’d theorize that it’s serving to transport someone whom the emperor holds in high regard. To attack the bird-of-paradise would be regarded as tantamount to an attack on the emperor himself, and would earn the enmity of the whole of the Romulan empire.”
“It’d be a more daunting message if more people knew what the damned thing was,” muttered Shelby. “Arex, see if you can raise them.”
“Unnecessary, Captain. They’re hailing us.”
“Are they?” Shelby shrugged. “Well, then ... let’s see what they have to say.”
The screen wavered for a moment, and then a face filled the screen. It was not, however, the face of a Romulan, even though the angled eyebrows and pointed ears gave him a passing resemblance to one. But he was most definitely a Vulcan, and a rather aged one at that. The sides of his hair were streaked with gray, and he carried his solemnity like a great cloak.
Shelby had risen from her command chair and was about to speak when she heard a startled gasp from behind her. She half-turned to see that Arex was staring at the screen in more than just astonishment. He was gaping in what could only be shocked recognition.
The Vulcan tilted his head slightly in mild confusion. When he spoke, his voice was low and gravelly, and there was just a touch of wry amusement in his tone. “Lieutenant Arex?”
Arex managed a nod.
The Vulcan continued, “You are a long way from home, Lieutenant.”
“I could say the same of you, Mr. Spock.”
“Indeed. However, I believe it safe to say that I am somewhat the worse for wear.”
“Mis ... Ambassador Spock,” Shelby automatically corrected herself. “You have us at a bit of a loss, sir. May I ask what you’re doing out here, aboard what we believe is a personal vessel of the Romulan emperor?”
“You may indeed,” replied Spock. And then he waited, eyebrow raised in a minuscule fashion.
Shelby moaned inwardly. His reputation for precision and proper phrasing of language was obviously well earned. “What are you doing out here, Ambassador?”
“Rendezvousing with you, Captain. Starfleet tends to be rather ... cautious ... in any of its communiqués that involve me. My ongoing work with Romulus and striving for reunification with my own people remains a matter of some delicacy. I will tell you more once I am aboard Trident.”
“Very well. Send coordinates through and we’ll be more than happy to beam you aboard.”
The arched eyebrow went ever higher. “I am always wary of humans who are ‘more than happy,’ Captain. Such excess rapture often leads to most unhappy outcomes.”
“I will remember that, Ambassador,” said Shelby, trying not to smile at the gravity which the Vulcan imparted to every pronouncement, whether it be Starfleet directives or grammatical commentaries.
“In addition, Captain ... I believe I may have something that belongs to you.”
“Something that ... ?”
And Shelby was dumbfounded as Spock stepped slightly to one side, to reveal Kalinda and a slightly abashed Si Cwan standing near him. Si Cwan bowed slightly in a vaguely mocking greeting.
“Si Cwan?” said a surprised Kat Mueller. “We tried to get in touch with you on Danter, and couldn’t!”
“A most logical outcome,” Spock observed, “considering that they were aboard this vessel.”
“We were forced to depart Danter under less-than-ideal conditions,” said Si Cwan.
Kalinda added helpfully, “If you can term a stolen runabout that was so badly shot up the entire thing was breaking down as ‘less-than-ideal.’ ”
“I think that would qualify, yes,” said Shelby. “Ambassador Cwan ...”
He raised a hand and, looking a bit pained, said, “Captain ... if you’re planning to say ‘I told you so,’ at the very least do me the courtesy of waiting until I’m there rather than broadcasting it.”
“I had no intention of saying that, Cwan. Prepare for beam-over. Shelby out.” She turned and asked, “Arex? Have you got their coordinates?”
“Just coming through from the bird-of-paradise now, Captain.”
“Good. Feed them down to the transporter room. XO, Arex, with me. Gleau, you have the conn.”
“Captain,” spoke up Arex, “might we include Lieutenant M’Ress in the welcoming party. Both she and I have significant past history with the ambassador.”
Shelby cast a quick glance in Gleau’s direction, but the head of science—to whom M’Ress reported, when she wasn’t busy reporting about him—simply shrugged noncommittally.
“Very well,” said Shelby. “Have her meet us there.”
And as Shelby moved toward the turbolift, Mueller falling into step alongside her, the executive officer said in a low voice, “Si Cwan, against your best advice, gets involved with the Danteri and a passing Vulcan has to save his ass, and you have no intention of saying ‘I told you so’?”
“I said I ‘had’ no intention,” Shelby assured her. “That’s because I didn’t know we were going to run into him again. But I have that intention now.”
“Did I ever tell you how much I look up to you, Captain?” asked Mueller.
“Not nea
rly enough, XO,” said Shelby as the turbolift doors closed around them. “Not nearly enough.”
EXCALIBUR
I.
MOKE’S HEART WAS POUNDING as he sprinted down the corridor, moving so quickly that he actually went right past Xyon. The younger child, apparently in response to the pounding feet behind him, came to a complete halt. He turned and waited and then sat there in surprise as Moke barreled past without even slowing.
“Moke?”
The calling of his name was small and innocent and filled with confusion. It instantly caught Moke’s attention, and he skidded to a stop. He looked back at Xyon, who was working on forming his lips into the perfect shape for repeating the word. “Moke?” he said again.
It was the first time that the child had uttered Moke’s name. Moke walked toward him slowly, pushing his hair out of his eyes, and hunkered down in front of him. He tapped his own chest and affirmed, “Moke.”
“Mooookkke,” said Xyon, dragging it out, and then bounced up and down on his buttocks while singsonging, “Moke Moke Moke Moke Moooookke.”
For an instant, Moke forgot to be afraid, and in that selfsame instant came to the startling realization that not only didn’t he have to be afraid, but he was tired of it. He had been running from that dark, one-eyed man. Now he’d run from the specter of Mark McHenry. There was something bizarre going on aboard the Excalibur, something of which only he seemed fully aware.
He’d gone to his adoptive father, to Mackenzie Calhoun, and told the captain what he had seen. Calhoun had seemed either skeptical or uncertain as to what was to be done. Either way the end result was the same: nothing.
But when he had challenged that invisible woman, that Artemis, she had vanished the moment he’d stood up to her. That should have told him something, except he’d been too upset to fully comprehend it. Now, though, he did, or at least understood it to the degree that he was going to try and act upon it.