by Peter David
“Do you think your superiors will buy your story?” he asked. “I imagine many questions will be raised about what happened here today.”
Sirol nodded. “It would not be the first time that ambition was the undoing of a younger officer. My report will show that Taelus, eager to demonstrate the power of the new cloaking technology, was unable to wait for more experienced engineers to inspect the device and certify it safe for testing. While examining it, he accidentally triggered the hidden self-destruct protocol and was killed in the resulting explosion. He will not be missed.”
Tempted to ask about the story that would explain the other Tal Shiar agents’ fates, Calhoun instead thought better of it. The less he knew about Romulan internal politics, the happier he would be.
“If you feel that the investigations might not go in your favor,” he said, “I have authorization to offer you asylum in Federation space.” Nechayev had believed from the beginning that Sirol could be convinced to assist with the cloak’s destruction, as well as to accept an invitation to defect to the Federation as reward for his efforts. While his instincts had proven the admiral correct on the first score, Calhoun himself was not so sure about the second.
Sirol confirmed his suspicions.
“It is a tempting offer, Mr. Calhoun, but I am a creature of duty. My place is here, with my crew. If there is one positive aspect about this situation, it is them.” Sighing in acceptance, he added, “This matter is far from over, after all, and the Tal Shiar’s investigation will be lengthy and thorough. By standing with me, my crew has placed themselves at great risk, and it would be disloyal of me to abandon them for the relative safety offered by asylum. I hope you understand.”
“Loyalty is one thing I most certainly understand, Commander,” Calhoun said.
If there was one loose end about this entire affair that was worth resolving, it was the one not directly related to the mission at all. Instead, it was the matter that had hung over Calhoun’s head for years, since Picard had recommended him and supported him for entry into Starfleet. Calhoun had never, in his own opinion at least, found a way to repay the debt he felt he owed the captain.
He had not undertaken this assignment out of some burning desire to preserve the peace between two governments. The politics of the situation did not concern him, nor did he care about any of the people who had created the embarrassing mess he had been sent to clean up.
When it came right down to it, he had accepted the mission out of loyalty to a friend. As far as Calhoun was concerned, so long as the spirit of Jean-Luc Picard’s intentions remained intact, everyone else involved in this ridiculous situation could all go straight to hell.
A futile wish, Calhoun knew. After all, they will only stay there until they call on me again.
ELIZABETH SHELBY
All That Glisters…
Loren L. Coleman
Elizabeth Shelby’s career path has taken her from the head of Borg Tactical to the bridge of the Starship Enterprise, from first officer on the Chekov and the Excalibur to captain of the Exeter and the Trident. But all journeys begin with a single step—“All that Glisters…” goes back to Shelby’s tenure on the U.S.S. Yosemite as an engineer trying to find her way onto the command track, telling a story that takes place about nine months prior to the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode “The Best of Both Worlds.”
Loren L. Coleman
Loren L. Coleman has been writing fiction professionally since 1994. His fourteenth novel is due to be published at the end of 2003, as is his two-part Star Trek: Starfleet Corps of Engineers eBook. He lives in the Pacific Northwest with his wife Heather, three children, three Siamese cats who believe they are children, and a confused dog who believes he can herd both children and cats.
All that glisters is not gold.
—William Shakespeare, The Merchant of Venice, Act II, Scene 6
From the door to her quarters, Lieutenant Elizabeth Shelby threw her commendation across the room. The electronic padd sailed through the air in a flat spin, thumped into the middle of her bed, and bounced once before fetching up against the stiff roll of Rigelian memory cotton that she used as a pillow.
Her door whispered closed.
Shelby’s pro forma smile slipped wearily away and her hands balled up into fists. For this outstanding service and dedication…Strong words. Great, even. So why did she let them get to her every time? With fifteen minutes’ grace before her team assembled in transporter room one, she decided to brave the enemy’s door. She tugged at the hem of her gold tunic, squaring up her uniform. Then, with a deep breath, she stepped up to the replicator.
The replicator was the enemy. It was evil. From its memory buffers came chocolate. Sweets.
Caffeine.
Shelby leaned in to rest her forehead against the cool metal skirting as she deliberated her choices. Here, at least, she was free to chart her own course. Mostly. “Double raktajino,” she said, ordering the strong Klingon coffee. “Laced with chocolate and peppermint.” If she satisfied any more vices in a single drink, Starfleet would probably classify it as illegal.
A hum of resequenced energy heralded the arrival of a thermal-insulated mug. She picked it up, warming both hands around the mug’s tall, metal sides. A waft of strong coffee and chocolate mint assailed her, but she resisted the urge to drink too fast. Raktajino was best served at near scalding. She sipped carefully, blowing a veil of steam from the top. Heaven. She should find a quiet seat and enjoy the moment, and not worry about the rest.
But like a comet circling its star, Shelby was drawn back to the padd Captain Blackswan had handed her. She dropped down onto the bed, pinned her mug between one hand and the side of her leg, and fished over the device. From within the picture on her bedside table, her parents watched, smiling with confidence. Shelby avoided their holographic stares. Instead, she glanced again to the padd’s selected text. Amber letters glowed on the small, dark screen. Everything she needed to see in one short display:
U.S.S. Yosemite, NCC-19002, Stardate 43095.1
did help the U.S.S. Yosemite surpass all expectations. For this outstanding service and dedication to the field of engineering, Captain Patricia Blackswan does hereby commend Lieutenant Shelby and recommend her for promotion at the earliest possible
She could scroll back up, to read the list of accomplishments Captain Blackswan had so meticulously logged. Or down, for more glowing recommendations to be appended to her personnel file—for her next captain to read and wonder why a Starfleet officer with such glowing reviews had moved through six vessels in eight years. But this was the meat.
No mention of her leadership abilities.
No recommendation for command.
Shelby flicked one polished nail at the screen, tapping the glowing power-off icon, which shut down the padd’s display. A quick glance bedside. Her parents in spotless dress uniforms of red and black and each with the boxed pips of admiral’s rank. In this picture, mom had just made vice-admiral. They smiled their approval. They always did.
Then again, they had smiled approval over her brief engagement to Mackenzie Calhoun, and look how well that had turned out….
One of the first things Shelby noted after beaming down was that nature had barely begun to reclaim the devastation visited on Science Outpost D5. It had been over a year since the complete loss of the Federation’s outpost here. Her team saw it nearly as the original investigating crew must have. As though a giant hand had reached down to the planet’s surface and scooped up every living body, building, and artifact.
They had beamed down near the center of the concave depression, three kilometers wide and almost perfectly circular on the perimeter. Its depth sank down to approximately two hundred meters—she would have Chief Jodd Pako take precise measurements. The ravaged ground still showed striations in the clay, although weather and erosion had begun to blur the lines a little. A small, stagnant lake, little better than a pond, pooled over the bottom of the basin, and some stunted vegeta
tion crowded around the brackish waters. A few hardy plants claimed footholds along the sloping sides, but it would be years before softer, soil-loving vegetation returned.
And her first scan of the area showed some residual energy traces still lingering after all this time. That was good.
“Spread out and take readings,” Shelby commanded her away team. The handful of engineers and science specialists picked their way over rocks and stretches of mushy clay, instruments out, samples being taken. “Chief, get me physical baselines on the entire area.”
“You got it,” the Iotian said, his nasal voice distant as he buried his gaze into a tricorder. Belatedly he added, “Lieutenant.”
Better than “sweetheart,” Shelby decided. The Iotian tried hard, but as adaptive and imitative as he was, he had yet to shed all of his culture’s rough social skills.
Shelby tapped on her personal recorder. “Engineer’s log, supplemental. Initial evaluation of Science Outpost D5 shows no obvious trace signatures previously unrecorded. We are in the process of conducting a detailed survey.”
Which they would compare with the earlier surveys, and surveys taken at a Romulan outpost that had suffered a similar fate, looking for anything that had been missed. With their updated data pool, the Yosemite’s crew would then compare and contrast the D5 data with detailed files provided specifically by Starfleet for this operation. They weren’t being told what to look for, what Starfleet wanted them to prove, which was as frustrating for her team as it was challenging. And with the ship-to-ship grapevine carrying rumors that Starfleet was looking for someone (or someone s) with solid engineering experience, a fast-track candidate, there was no little buzz among her people that this was some kind of test. An engineer’s Kobayashi Maru.
“I see no scarring that would indicate destruction by weapons fire,” Shelby continued her official log entry. “Scans show negative for any known energy footprint, including all variations on known Romulan technology.” All in keeping with initial reports.
“Lieutenant,” Ensign Davidson called out. “We looking for anything in particular?”
How to answer that? “You’ll know it when you see it,” she said. “In the meantime, soak up everything you can for the data pool. Information is never wasted, Ensign.”
“Yes, Lieutenant.”
Not that she expected to find anything new. The initial responding team had come from the Enterprise. It wasn’t likely they had missed anything.
But if they had…
Shelby combed her fingers back through her ash blond curls. She tested the mineral scent of the air, as if she might sniff out what was hidden. What would have kept the Enterprise from discovering a crucial clue to the outpost’s fate? She pulled up the data on her tricorder, looking over the initial findings. There. Their chief engineer reported high-spectrum flux, which in itself could be considered an unusual footprint. Maybe individualistic enough to track to a source.
“It could also be interference,” Shelby whispered aloud.
Ensign Rocha was close enough to overhear. “What was that, Lieutenant?” the earth-sciences specialist asked. Her blue uniform was already streaked with rusty-brown clay.
“HSF.” This time Shelby spoke up for everyone to hear. “The Enterprise reported high-spectrum flux. Look for any trace signals that might have been masked by HSF.”
Davidson looked askance at her. “How are we supposed to guess what might be masked by HSF?”
Shelby couldn’t answer that. It was something you had to feel your way toward. For the young ensign’s benefit, though, she shrugged and said again, “You’ll know it when you see it.”
She set herself to work.
But when she found it, she still couldn’t help wondering how much more she was cementing her career in engineering and sciences.
Freshened from a hot shower and change of uniform, Shelby exited the turbolift with a crisp, purposeful stride. Shift change was over and engineering had settled into the easy silence of the evening watch. The entire space smelled slightly of ozone, common on most engineering decks. She checked the logs out of habit as she passed by a wall-mounted command station, double-checking crew assignments and the maintenance schedule.
She felt eyes on her; the members of her away team who now waited around the Yosemite’s largest workstation. They could wait. Attention to detail was part of what made her an exceptional engineer. That, and thinking outside the box, as she had just proven down on D5.
It also, in her weighty opinion, made her exceptionally qualified for command, though chief engineer on the Yosemite was the best she had risen to as yet.
As yet. Twenty-nine and on the cusp of being promoted to lieutenant commander. Command was in her future—had to be; it just wasn’t here yet. What did she expect of herself?
Everything.
Still, in her lighter moments she had to admit that her career would be enviable from any of a dozen different viewpoints: from the perspective of the cadets she had graduated with out of Starfleet Academy, from the perspective of maybe even the engineers working around her on the Yosemite. The thought made her smile, which made a few of the younger officers visibly nervous. Shelby? The Shellfish? Smiling?
Well, she wasn’t aboard the Yosemite to make friends. She was here to learn and to try and convince Captain Blackswan to recommend her for command. A recommendation she had failed to get so far. That was enough to erase the smile from her face.
“What have we got?” she asked, spearing Chief Pako with her opening question.
The Iotian had a knack for organization. “New?” he asked. “Most of our data conforms to the regular degradation of trace signals and energy patterns recorded in the initial survey.” He ran down the entire list, from the most obvious entries to the ones that had taken her team hours to prove. “Only the one new trace you discovered appears to be of original origin.”
It was a low-end quantum signature. Might be nothing. Background noise. Then again…
Rocha tried a tentative smile. “Polishing your boots for that posting at Starfleet yet, Lieutenant?” Twellum, the Delbian transporter and tractor specialist and the only other alien on her team, found this amusing. His chuckle sounded like a soft flute.
“No interest,” Shelby said in clipped tones.
Davidson started. “You’re kidding, right?” Though Shelby doubted any of them had ever known her to kid. “I mean, it’s Starfleet Command.”
Earth-based and with little to no opportunity for command experience. Shelby wasn’t immune to the rumors; she had checked up on what a posting like that meant to an engineer. The chance to work on incredible new systems, maybe help develop the next warp-core advancement, or on a special-projects team like the Starfleet Corps of Engineers. All well and good if your mind was completely into the toys, and not the tactics that went with them.
“I have other things on my mind right now,” Shelby said, which was true. “Like what we can make of the data comparison, first and foremost.” It was, in fact, neither. Though it was in the top two.
Davidson had been assigned to do the initial run-through. “Nothing,” he said in disappointment. He had a nervous habit of tapping his teeth with his fingers as he thought. “Nothing obvious, anyway.”
“The computer is only as smart as our questions,” Shelby reminded him. “Let’s get to work.”
Davidson’s pronouncement held up for the better part of two hours, though, and Shelby quickly saw why. The data sent to the Yosemite had been sterilized. There was no record of the mission, the ship, the place of encounter. Raw data flooded the display in page after page of sensor readings, mostly to do with power signatures, tractor-beam displacement, and phase differentials. But there was no context whatsoever. Some of it could be inferred—the obvious contest between shields and phasers, the push and pull of starship tractors dueling with each other. It was a battle. But what a space battle had to do with the vanished outpost, Shelby could not begin to guess.
They found some s
imilar cases of high-spectrum flux, but nothing that proved conclusive. Of course, there was no quantum reading like the one Shelby had found. No one had thought to look for it, or it was masked behind the HSF interference.
“This is ridiculous.” Shelby finally surrendered, resting forward with tight fists knuckle-down on the workstation’s glassy surface. “If Starfleet wants a real analysis, why not give us real data?”
“A question you can certainly put into your report,” Patricia Blackswan, the Yosemite’s captain, told her, stepping into the engineering work area. The woman was short and compact, of a similar build to Shelby, with straight, raven black hair and a dusky complexion that still told of her Native American bloodline. “But I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Captain.” Shelby stiffened to a semblance of attention, though it wasn’t mandated by the informal setting. Only the tall Delbian seemed to remain relaxed in the presence of their captain. The Delbian always looked relaxed, though, a skill Shelby secretly envied at times.
“I’ve kept up on your progress,” Blackswan informed the team, stepping up to the workstation and reading the layout with a practiced eye. “Good work getting behind the high-spectrum flux, Lieutenant. We’ll have to copy the Enterprise on your discovery.”
“Thank you, Captain. I wish we had better news to report on the comparative analysis with Starfleet’s data files.”
“You haven’t found any definite ties. That is something in itself.”
“Nah,” Chief Pako said dismissively, his mind still buried in the analysis, “it’s nothin’. The doll’s right. We’re shootin’ in the dark here.”
Blackswan did not run a strict ship, but she did require basic decorum. Before the captain could upbraid the Iotian, though, Shelby stepped in to shelter the oblivious engineer behind one shoulder. “My people are working hard, Captain. If there is anything here, we’ll find it.”