by Peter David
And everything had gone perfectly. The Overlord sat in his chamber and smiled a rare smile. It had all gone perfectly because Xant had wanted it that way. And by this point, Atik had had his little “vision” and was likely in the midst of converting the Dogs to the cause of the Redeemers. Who could ask for better than that?
And now . . . now, with the Dogs of War well along the way from having been a nemesis to becoming, instead, a resource, all the Redeemers had to do was deal with the Excalibur and their hold on Sector 221-G, formerly known as Thallonian space, would be complete.
The Overlord was so caught up in his thoughts that it was some minutes before he noticed the trembling Redeemer standing in front of him. “Yes? What is it?” he asked with obvious irritation.
“There is ... no other way to say it, Overlord. There is dire news from Tulaan IV.”
The Overlord sat straighter in his great chair. “What ails homework!?”
“The Black Mass, Overlord. The Black Mass is on the move ... and it appears that Tulaan IV is squarely in its path.”
He couldn't believe it. After all this ... with everything coming together so beautifully ... something like this had to happen? He sagged in shock. “Are they sure?”
“Yes, Overlord. If we are not able to do something, our ages-old homeworld will be completely obliterated.”
“Then,” said the Overlord with conviction, “we will have to stop the Black Mass.”
The Redeemer looked stunned. “But . . . but Overlord ... no one has ever managed such a feat. Ever.”
“There is . . . a possibility,” said the Overlord. “The problem is ... it will require help.”
“Whose help, Overlord?”
The Overlord grimaced at the irony of his reply. “Captain Mackenzie Calhoun of the Excalibur.”
“Captain Mackenzie Calhoun, of the Excalibur. Welcome aboard. I've heard a great deal about you.”
In the transporter room, Calhoun bowed slightly to Kalinda, who was leaning on Si Cwan's arm. Her skin was not quite as dark red as Si Cwan's, although it was Calhoun's understanding that that was due to some sort of genetic treatment she had undergone.
Kalinda nodded in acknowledgment of his gesture of respect. “I am ... afraid I'm not quite myself at the moment, Captain. There's ... a lot I still have to sort out.”
“And you will certainly have the time to do so.”
The door to the transporter room hissed open and Shelby hurried in, to see Si Cwan and his sister, as well as Soleta, Kebron, and an odd-looking young man just stepping off the transporter platform. “Sorry I'm late. Elizabeth Shelby, Second in Command.”
“A pleasure, Commander,” Kalinda said.
“Yes, Commander, I was just in time to commend Lieutenants Kebron and Soleta on their fine work,” Calhoun said drily. “You lost yet another shuttlecraft while embarking on a side mission that ran contrary to my orders that you should report back here. You violated regulations and risked your safety out of a misplaced sense of heroism.”
“We've tried to learn from your example, sir,” said Kebron.
“I've taught you well,” Calhoun said approvingly. He turned to the young man. “And you would be?”
The young man slugged him.
Calhoun managed to dodge most of it, his reflexes as sharp as they ever were, but he was still partly tagged on the jaw. He staggered slightly but then regained his footing, rubbing his chin.
“I'm Xyon of Calhoun. I'm your son,” he said.
Without batting an eye, Calhoun said, “A pleasure to meet you, too.”
To Be Continued . . .
OUR FIRST SERIAL NOVEL!
Presenting, one chapter per month . . .
The very beginning of the Starfleet
Adventure . . .
STAR TREK
STARFLEET: YEAR ONE
A Novel in Twelve Parts
by
Michael Jan Friedman
Chapter Four
Chapter Four
As Connor Dane slipped into an orbit around Command Base, he saw on his primary monitor that there were still a handful of Christophers hanging around the place. He glanced at the warships, observing their powerful if awkward-looking lines.
“Can't hold a candle to you, baby,” Dane whispered to his ship, patting his console with genuine affection.
Then he punched in a comm link to the base's security console. After a second or two, a round-faced woman with pretty eyes and long dark hair appeared on the monitor screen.
“Something I can do for you?” she asked.
“I believe I'm expected,” he said. “Connor Dane.”
The woman tapped a pad and checked one of her monitors. “So you are,” she noted. “I'll tell the transporter officer. Morales out.”
With that, her image vanished and Dane's view of the base was restored. Swiveling in his seat, he got up and walked to the rear of his bridge, where he could stand apart from his instruments. After all, the last thing he wanted was to materialize with a toggle switch in his belly button.
Before long, the Cochrane jockey saw the air around him begin to shimmer, warning him that he was about to be whisked away. The next thing he knew, he was standing on a raised platform in the base's transporter chamber.
Of course, this chamber was a lot bigger and better lit than the ones he was used to. But then, this was Command Base, the key to Earth's resounding victory over the Romulans. It didn't surprise him that it might rate a few extra perks.
The transporter operator was a stocky man with a dark crewcut. He eyed Dane with a certain amount of curiosity.
“Something wrong?” the captain asked.
The man shrugged. “Honestly?”
“Honestly,” Dane insisted.
The operator shot him a look of disdain. “I was wondering,” he said, “what kind of man could see a bunch of birdies invade his system and not want to put on a uniform.”
The captain stroked his chin. “Let's see now ... I'd say it was the kind that was too busy popping Romulans out of space to worry about it.” He stepped down from the platform. “Satisfied?”
The man's eyes had widened. “You drove an escort ship? Geez, I didn't—”
“You didn't think,” Dane said, finishing the man's remark his own way. “But then, guys like you never do.”
Leaving the operator redfaced, he exited from the chamber through its single set of sliding doors. Then he looked around for the nearest turbolift.
As it turned out, it was just a few meters away, on the opposite side of a rotunda. Crossing to it, Dane went inside and punched in his destination. As the doors closed and the compartment began to move, he took a deep breath.
He would get this over as soon as he could, he assured himself. He would satisfy his curiosity. Then he would get back in his Cochrane and put as much distance between himself and Command Base as he possibly could.
The lift's titanium panels slid apart sooner than he had expected, revealing a short corridor shared by five black doors. Dane knew enough about Command protocol to figure out which one he wanted.
Advancing to the farthest of the doors, he touched the pad set into the bulkhead beside it. Inside, where he couldn't hear it, a chime was sounding, alerting the officer within that he had company.
With a rush of air, the door moved aside. Beyond it stood a broad-shouldered man in a black and gold admiral's uniform, his hair whiter than Dane remembered it.
Big Ed Walker's eyes narrowed beneath bushy brows. “Connor,” he said. He indicated a chair in his anteroom. “Come on in.”
Dane took the seat. Then he eyed the admiral. “I'm glad you recognize me, Uncle Ed. For a moment there, I thought you were confusing me with someone who had some ambition to be a star fleet captain.”
Walker chuckled drily as he pulled up a chair across from his nephew. “Funny, son. But then, you always did have a lively sense of humor.”
“I'm glad I amuse you,” said Dane. “But I didn't come here to crack jokes, U
ncle Ed. I came to find out how my hat got thrown in the ring. I mean, you and I haven't exactly been close for a good many years now, so I know it wasn't a case of nepotism.”
The admiral nodded reasonably. “That's true, Connor. But then, you can't call that my fault, can you? You were the one who chose to leave the service and strike out on your own.”
“I had no desire to be a military man,” Dane tossed back. “No one seemed to believe that.”
Walker smiled grimly. “I still don't. What you accomplished during the war, the reputation you earned yourself ... that just proves you had it in you all along. You're a born officer, son, a natural leader—”
“So are dozens of other space jockeys,” Dane pointed out, “guys who'd give their right arms to join your star fleet. But you picked me instead.” He leaned forward in his chair, deadly serious. “So tell me ... what's the deal, Uncle Ed?”
Alonis Cobaryn grunted softly to himself as he studied the scale hologram of the Daedalus- class prototype. Somehow, the two-meter-long hologram had looked more impressive in the darkened briefing room where he had seen it the day before.
Here at the center of Earth Command's primary conference room, a grand, solemn amphitheater with gray seats cascading toward a central stage from every side, the hologram seemed small and insignificant. And with two dozen grim, lab-coated engineers occupying a scattering of those seats, already making notes in their handheld computer pads, the Rigelian had to admit he was feeling a little insignificant himself.
He saw no hint of that insecurity in the other captains standing alongside him. But then, Hagedorn, Stiles and Matsura were used to the soberness of Earth Command environments and engineers. And while neither Shumar nor Dane could make that claim, they were at least Earthmen.
Of all those present, Cobaryn was the only alien. And while no one in the facility had done anything to underline that fact, he still couldn't help but be aware of it.
For some time, the Rigelian had been fascinated by other species. He had done his best to act and even think like some of them. However, after having spent an entire day on Earth, he was beginning to wonder if he could ever live as one of them.
Abruptly, Cobaryn's thoughts were interrupted by a loud hiss. Turning, he saw the doors to the amphitheater slide open and produce the slender form of Starfleet Director Abute.
As the dark-skinned man crossed the room, the engineers looked up from their pads and gave him their attention. No surprise there, the Rigelian reflected, considering Abute was their superior.
“Thank you for coming, ladies and gentlemen,” the director told the lab-coated assemblage, his voice echoing almost raucously from wall to wall. “As you know, I have asked the six men who are to serve as captains in our new fleet to critique your work on the Daedalus. I trust you'll listen closely to what they have to say.”
There was a murmur of assent. However, Cobaryn thought he heard an undertone of resentment in it. Very possibly, he mused, these engineers believed they had already designed the ultimate starship—and that this session was a waste of time.
However, Abute disagreed, or he wouldn't have called this meeting. The Rigelian found himself grateful for that point of view, considering he was one of the individuals who would have to test the engineers' design.
The director turned to Matsura. “Captain?” he said. “Would you care to get the ball rolling?”
“I'd be happy to,” said Matsura. He took a step closer to the hologram and pressed the flats of his hands together. “Let's talk about scanners.”
It seemed like a reasonable subject to Cobaryn. After all, he had some opinions of his own on the matter.
Matsura pointed to a spot on the front of the ship. “Without a doubt, the long-range scanners that have been incorporated into the Daedalus are a big improvement over what we've got. But we can go a step further,”
Abute seemed interested. “How?”
“We can devote more of our scanner resources to long-range use,” Matsura answered. “That would allow us to identify threats to Earth and her allies with greater accuracy.”
The engineers nodded and made notes in their pads. However, before they got very far, someone else spoke up.
“The problem,” said Shumar, “is that additional long-range scanners means fewer short-range scanners—and we need that short-range equipment to obtain better analyses of planetary surfaces”
Cobaryn couldn't help but agree. Like his colleague, he was reluctant to give up any of the advantages Abute had described the day before.
Matsura, on the other hand, seemed to feel otherwise. “With due respect,” he told Shumar, “you're equating expedience with necessity. It would be nice to be able to get more information on a planet from orbit. But if we could detect a hostile force a fraction of a light-year further away ... who knows how many Federation lives might be saved some day?”
Shumar smiled. “That's fine in theory, Captain. But as we all know, science saves lives as well—and I think you would have to admit, there's also a tactical advantage to knowing the worlds in our part of space.”
Matsura smiled too, if a bit more tightly. “Some,” he conceded. “But I assure you, it pales beside the prospect of advance warning.”
Cobaryn saw the engineers trade glances. Clearly, they hadn't expected this kind of exchange between two captains.
Abute frowned. “Perhaps we can table this topic for the moment.” He turned to the engineers. “Or better yet, let's see if there is a way to increase both long- and short-range scanning capabilities.”
Grumbling a little, the men and women in the lab coats made their notes. Then they looked up again.
The director turned to the Rigelian. “Captain Cobaryn? Can you provide us with something a bit less controversial?”
That got a few chuckles out of the engineers, but not many. They seemed to the Rigelian to be a rather humorless lot.
As Matsura stepped away from the hologram, looking less than pleased, Cobaryn approached it. Glancing at the crowd of engineers to make sure they were listening, he indicated the hologram's warp nacelles.
“While I am impressed,” he said, “with the enhancements made in the Daedalus's propulsion system, I believe we may have placed undue emphasis on flight speed.”
Abute looked at the Rigelian, his brow creased. “You mean you have no interest in proceeding at warp three?”
His comment was met with a ripple of laughter from the gallery. Cobaryn did his best to ignore it.
“In fact,” he replied diplomatically, “I have every interest in it. However, it might be more useful to design our engines with range in mind, rather than velocity. By prolonging our vessel's ability to remain in subspace, we will actually arrive at many destinations more quickly—even though we have progressed at a somewhat slower rate of speed.
“What's more,” he continued, “by shifting our emphasis as I suggest, we will be able to extend the scope of our operations ... survey solar systems it would not otherwise have been practical to visit.”
Stiles chuckled. “Spoken like a true explorer,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear him.
Cobaryn looked back at the man. “But I am an explorer,” he replied.
“Not anymore,” Stiles insisted. “You're a starship captain. You've got more to worry about than charts and mineral analyses.”
Abute turned to him. “I take it you have an objection to Captain Cobaryn's position?” he asked a little tiredly.
“Damned right I do,” said Stiles. He eyed the Rigelian. “Captain Cobaryn is ignoring the fact that most missions don't involve long trips. They depend on short, quick jumps—at ranges already within our grasp.”
“Perhaps that is true now,” Cobaryn conceded. “However, the scope of our operations is bound to grow. We need to range further afield for tactical purposes as well as scientific ones.”
Stiles looked unimpressed with the argument. So did Hagedorn and Matsura. However, Stiles was the one who answered him.
“We can worry about the future when it comes,” he advised. “Right now, more speed is just what the doctor ordered.”
There was silence for a moment. Without meaning to do so, the Rigelian had done exactly what Abute had asked him not to do. Like Matsura, he had become embroiled in a controversy.
“Thank you, gentlemen,” the director said pointedly. “I appreciate the opportunity to hear both your points of view.”
Cobaryn saw Stiles glance at his Earth Command colleagues. They seemed to approve of the concepts he had put forth. But then, that came as no surprise. It was clear that they were united on this point.
“Since Captain Stiles seems eager to speak,” Abute added, “I would like to hear his suggestion next.”
“All right,” Stiles told him. He came forward and indicated the hologram with a generous sweep of his hand. “Two hundred and thirty people. Entire decks full of personnel quarters. An elaborate sickbay to take care of them when they get ill.” He shook his head. “Is all this really necessary? Our Christophers run on crews of thirty-five— and most of the time, we don't need half that many.”
“Your Christophers don't have science sections,” Shumar pointed out abruptly, his arms folded across his chest. “They don't have laboratories or dedicated computers or botanical gardens or sterile containment chambers.”
It was a challenge and everyone in the room knew it. Stiles, Shumar, the other captains, Abute ... and the gathering of engineers, of course. Their expressions told Cobaryn that this was much more entertaining than any of them might have expected.
Stiles lifted his chin, accepting the gauntlet Shumar had thrown down. “I read the data just as you did,” he responded crisply. “I heard the argument for all those research facilities. My question is . . . how much of it do we need? Couldn't we cut out some of that space and come up with a better, more maneuverable ship?”