Star Trek - NF - 11 - Restoration

by Restoration(lit)

  "You cannot execute us for doing as we were commanded!"

  Shuffer cried out. The other scientists were wailing in fear. "I do not believe this! It cannot be happening!"

  "He keeps saying that," observed Brandi, who seemed grimly amused by it.

  "But the Ferghut would not do this to me!"

  There was something about the way he said that that caught Shelby's attention. "Why not? Why would the Ferghut consider you deserving of special consid-"

  "He's my brother!"

  There was a gasp from the other scientists, almost with one voice, and they took several steps back from him, as if distancing themselves from something unclean.

  Shelby couldn't understand the reaction of the others, and ap-parently Hauman saw the confusion on her face. "Shuffer has committed something of a breach of protocol. He who is the Fer-ghut remains anonymous, you see. All family members are to keep their identities unrevealed to the public. It is... an odd custom, but a longstanding one. And, as I'm sure you know, a custom of long standing becomes sacred, no matter how stupid it may be."

  The scientists ignored the casual slam to their tradition, still caught up in the shock of the revelation. Shuffer, in the meantime, was saying, "I have to contact the Ferghut. He couldn't have meant to do this... not to me... not after everything we've..."

  "I doubt he'll be wanting to speak with you, considering what you've just done. In any event... you're no longer of use to him, Shuffer," Hauman told him. There was an extremely nasty look in his eyes. "You can, however, be of use to me."

  Shuffer took a step back, and then, with desperation in his face, he turned to Shelby and drew himself up with as much dignity as he could muster. "I demand political asylum, Captain. We are aboard a Federation starship. We ask for asylum. You cannot refuse us."

  Cocking an eyebrow, Shelby said, "I can't?" She turned to Gar-beck. "Is he correct, Number One?"

  Garbeck seemed surprised that Shelby was asking. But Shelby simply looked at her blandly, and, slowly, Garbeck said, 'Techni-

  cally, Captain... you actually not only can refuse him... but you are obliged to do so."

  "What?" It didn't seem possible that Snuffer's voice could have gone any higher, but it did. "How can she conceivably be obliged to do so?"

  "Tell him, Number One."

  Garbeck looked from one to the other, looked at the terrified faces of the scientists. "According to the Prime Directive, we can-not interfere with interplanetary politics-"

  "Cannot interfere! You put your starship in between our fleets to stop a war!"

  "That is true. But..." She paused and looked to Shelby, who was not interrupting her. "But the captain has broad discretionary powers. And Starfleet tends to be... elastic... when it comes to a captain exercising that discretion in favor of saving lives."

  "Then save our lives!"

  "If I save your lives," Shelby said implacably, "then millions will likely be lost. Because if I give you asylum... then nothing will be able to forestall a war. And that war will be fought either between your respective races... or between this vessel and the Makkusians. Neither of those options are acceptable."

  "And sending us off with them... ?" His hand trembled as he pointed at Hauman. "That is acceptable?"

  "I've found, in my experience, Snuffer, that often command is less about doing what's right... than it is about doing what's the least wrong."

  Snuffer was shaking his head vigorously. It was as if he was disconnected from what was happening. "You can't do this... you can't..."

  Shelby shrugged. "There are worse things I could do." Then she tapped her combadge. "Shelby to transporter."

  'Transporter room. Mankowski here."

  "Mr. Mankowski, prepare to beam-"

  "No!" Shuffer suddenly screamed, and lunged straight toward Shelby.

  Shelby didn't budge from the spot. Kahn, however, was on the other side of the room, unable to physically intercede. She went for her phaser to take down Shuffer...

  ... and at that moment, Garbeck stepped in between them, her jaw set and her fist cocked. She swung a fast right cross and caught Shuffer squarely on the side of the head. Shuffer went down, loud and hard. Even as he lay on the floor, dizzy and unable to move, he kept saying, "Can't be happening... can't be..."

  "Are you all right, Number One?" Shelby asked solicitously as she saw Garbeck shaking out her fist. Garbeck winced, but nod-ded. Kahn, meantime, was already hauling the stunned and con-fused Shuffer to his feet. Shuffer was continuing to shake his head in disbelief. The other scientists didn't appear to be in much better shape, emotionally.

  "Number One, would you be so kind as to escort Hauman, Brandi, and then:... prisoners... to the transporter room, so they will be able to return to then* vessel," asked Shelby.

  Garbeck nodded and turned to the scientists. They were cluster-ing together, as if hoping to be able to draw strength from one an-other. "Talk to her!" one of them said to Garbeck. "Ask the captain to spare us!" The others took up the cry, and they started pawing at Garbeck, as if hoping she could heal their critical situa-tion with her touch. She worked to push them away, and it took Kahn's summoning other security personnel to manage the es-corting of the scientists down to the transporter room. Surrounded as they were by Exeter security guards, it didn't stop them from pleading with Garbeck, asking her to do something, anything, since clearly the captain wasn't going to lift a finger to aid them.

  "It's regulations," Garbeck kept saying to them, and she cast a stricken look at Shelby.

  And Shelby saw it right there, saw it in her eyes. Saw a silent pleading for Shelby to come up with some alternative, to think of something, so that these pleading, pathetic specimens would not be sent off to certain death on a world that they had tried to de-stroy. But Shelby held firm, shaking her head. "Commander Gar-

  MOKE

  beck is quite correct. It's regulations. And we can't go around breaking them whenever we feel like it, can we, Commander?"

  "No, Captain. We can't," she said tonelessly as she led the shrieking scientists away.

  Hauman nodded approvingly to Shelby. "Well done, Captain. I'm sure that wasn't easy for you. But we all have to make com-promises, don't we? After all... we must never forget the big picture. And please inform your United Federation... that we would be honored to join."

  "That's wonderful to hear," said Shelby, as a piece of herself died within every time she replayed, mentally, the cries of the sci-entists. She remained in the conference lounge long after every-one had left, not especially wanting to emerge.

  "ARE you going to marry my mother?"

  Calhoun had been sitting tilted back in his seat, looking quite at ease. Over in his cell, the semipermanent resident of the jail, Ku-sack, sat up with interest.

  Moke had wandered in during what was a pleasantly slow day. A number of citizens of the town were out at his home, endeavor-ing to rebuild the place and doing a respectable job of it. The thing that was most remarkable about it was the way in which his mother seemed to be reacting to the whole business. They had, after all, been responsible (or at least some of them had, appar-ently) for causing the house to burn down in the first place. But you'd never have known it from the way Rheela was handling it all. She was going around and offering people water from her pri-vate stores, or little cakes that she had baked, or juice that had been freshly harvested. These offerings had been greeted very guardedly at first, but slowly they had warmed to the notion that Rheela was a generous woman who-astoundingly enough- wasn't holding any grudges. Moke had even heard her saying something to Calhoun about "this being the thing that finally got through to them." Moke wasn't entirely certain what she meant by that, and considering that Calhoun simply grunted in response, it

  seemed as if he wasn't entirely convinced of it. Still, what mat-tered to Moke was that the house was getting rebuilt, and he and his mother would be able to stop sleeping in a tent (while Calhoun chose to sleep under the stars).

  What also mattered to
Moke was how his mother seemed to dwell on Calhoun. She never discussed it with him, of course. But, one night, his mother's tossing and turning had awoken Moke, and he sat up, confused and blinking in the darkness. He heard her saying something about "Mac," over and over.

  He said nothing of his being aware of the dream to his mother, because he felt oddly as if he had been eavesdropping or some-how invading her privacy, even though he'd had no reasonable way of avoiding doing so. It did, however, give him cause to pon-der what he had overheard, and, in doing so, coming to the deci-sion that Calhoun's presence clearly made his mother very happy.

  Naturally, Moke himself was rather taken with the notion of having a father around as well. But, really, his first and foremost concern was his mother's happiness, and if Mackenzie Calhoun possessed the power to do something to make that happiness per-manent, then Moke felt obliged to do something about it.

  So Moke had asked his mother's permission to ride into town while she supervised the work at the house. She'd hesitated at first, for Moke had never gone off on his own into the city before. But he'd assured her that he was going in to spend time with Cal-houn, and this alleviated his mother's concerns somewhat. So off he'd gone, and now he was standing in the Majister's office, pos-ing the question without even offering a "hello" first.

  Calhoun didn't move from his position behind the desk. Ku-sack snorted in amusement from his cell, but didn't offer any commentary. "Where did this come from?" Calhoun inquired after a moment's consideration.

  'This what?"

  "This question."

  "Oh. From me," said Moke.

  "No, I mean..." He sat forward so that the front chair legs,

  tilted back before, were now resting on the ground. "... what prompted you to ask about that?"

  "Because you make my mom happy. And she makes you happy." Moke hesitated. "Doesn't she?" he asked in a very small voice.

  Calhoun smiled, and Moke instantly relaxed. "Yes. She makes me happy," Calhoun told him.

  "So, are you going to marry her?"

  "Yeah, are ya?" called Kusack.

  Calhoun didn't even bother to look at him. Instead, he remained focused on Moke. "It's... not as simple as that, Moke."

  "Why not?"

  "Well, for one thing-"

  "Your mother is lousy between the sheets!"

  This last comment of Kusack's so amused the outlaw that he practically fell over laughing. Calhoun bobbed his head slightly to Moke and said, "Give me a moment." Then he walked over to Ku-sack. Moke never clearly saw Calhoun's hand move. One moment it was relaxed, at his side, and the next it was a blur, and then Ku-sack was laid out on the floor. His eyes were open, but he didn't appear to be seeing anything through them, and a large bruise was already appearing on his jaw. Calhoun turned back and returned to his seat, regarding Moke thoughtfully before continuing to speak. "Now... as I was saying..."

  "What did he mean about sheets?"

  Without missing a beat, Calhoun said, "He was saying your mom doesn't make the bed very well."

  "Yes, she does!" Moke protested. "She gets the sheets nice and clean and flat!"

  "That's why people like him are in gaol," Calhoun pointed out. "Now, Moke... you see, the problem is... I'm just passing through."

  "What does that mean?"

  "It means I'm only going to be here for a short while."

  "My ma says that everyone is only here for a short while."

  Calhoun smiled at that, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he

  did. 'That's true enough," he said. "But what I mean is that I'm not going to be staying around here forever."

  "How do you know?"

  Calhoun seemed ready to give a quick answer, but then he closed his mouth and thought about it. 'Truth is... I don't," he admitted. "I might be here... a lot longer than I'd intended. But, sooner or later, Moke, the odds are I'd be moving on."

  "Then you can take us with you."

  "No. I can't," said Calhoun.

  "Why not?"

  "It's complicated."

  "I thought grown-ups could uncomplicate and explain anything to kids."

  "Well," Calhoun sighed, "there's some people who say I'm more kid than grown-up."

  "/think you should marry her," Moke said, a bit sullen. "I think you should marry her and stay here with us forever."

  "That would be nice, Moke."

  "Then do it."

  Calhoun smiled once more and shook his head. "You don't let up, do you, Moke? You'd make a good-" Then he stopped.

  "A good what? What were you going to say?"

  "Majister," Calhoun told him.

  Moke had the oddest feeling that that wasn't what Calhoun had been about to say, but before he could press the matter further, the door of the office suddenly burst open.

  Once again Calhoun's hand was a blur, and he was on his feet with the plaser pointed straight at the door. His face was set, his eyes steely and focused. The relaxed man that Moke had been speaking to an instant before was gone, replaced by a taut and prepared warrior.

  It was, however, unnecessary, at least for the moment. Standing in the doorframe was Spangler, and the newspaper editor seemed-to say the least-agitated.

  "Majister!" he cried out, apparently oblivious to the fact that there was a gun pointed at him. "You'd better come quick!"

  Calhoun had glided the gun back into his holster with such ease that the movement had not caught Spangler's attention. But his readiness for trouble did not let up at all. "What's the matter?" he said, although it didn't sound like a question when he said it.

  "There's a... I think it's a man! A green man! Over in the tav-ern! Calling for you!"

  "A... green man," Calhoun said slowly.

  "That's right! He's like..." Spangler looked completely flus-tered. "... like nothing I ever seen before! I mean, hell, Majister, we've had the occasional mutant through here before..."

  "Including you," Moke pointed out helpfully to Calhoun.

  "Thank you, Moke. And this mutant... is nothing like me?" Calhoun asked Spangler. "He's green, you said?"

  "Yes."

  "Any antennae?"

  Spangler stared at him blankly. "Any what?"

  "Like these. Sticking out of his forehead." Calhoun extended his index fingers from his forehead and waggled them.

  "No, he didn't have no fingers sticking out of his head," said Spangler.

  Calhoun closed his eyes briefly in what appeared to be a mo-ment of pain, and then he opened them again. "Nothing at all un-usual sticking out of his head?"

  "No."

  "Eyes set in his face like mine? Were his ears pointed?"

  "Yes to the eyes, no to the ears."

  "I assume he had two arms, two legs, five fingers on each."

  "Don't know if he had fingers on his legs, Majister."

  "Grozit," moaned Calhoun. "On his hands. Five fing-never mind." He waved him off impatiently. "He's over in the tavern, you said?" Spangler nodded. Calhoun turned to Moke and said firmly, "Stay here."

  He and Spangler headed out for the tavern.

  Moke waited ten seconds and followed.

  When Moke had passed by the tavern earlier, he'd been im-pressed by the amount of noise that was generated by such a rela-tively small place. But now the quiet impressed him even more. He might not have noticed it if he'd just been passing by, but it provided such a stark contrast to what he'd been hearing from there before that it couldn't help but snag his interest.

  Carefully, Moke peered through the large swinging double doors that allowed entrance into the tavern, and he couldn't quite believe-or even understand-what he was seeing.

  There was Mackenzie Calhoun, the Majister, staring up at the single most impressive, and most intimidating, individual that Moke had ever seen. His head was shaved, his skin was a dusky green, and he carried so much hatred in his body that it seemed as if his frame was unable to contain it all. In the way that he studied Calhoun, he seemed to be evaluating everything the Majister had ever d
one in his entire life, and endeavoring to determine whether Calhoun was, in fact, worth his time.

  The two of them were standing and facing each other from op-posite sides of the tavern. Moke, still looking in from around the edge of the doorframe, his breath caught in his throat, watched goggle-eyed. Their hands were at their sides in what appeared to be a relaxed, even leisurely manner. But both of them were obvi-ously whipcord tense.

  "So," the green man said after a time. The patrons were looking from the green man to Calhoun and back again. No one seemed inclined to leap to the aid or defense of the Majister. "You are the Majister. The 'Mackenzie Calhoun' people in these parts seem to talk about with such... enthusiasm."