by Peter David
“We can’t do it, Murphy. I wish I could give you a better answer, but look for yourself.” He gestured at Crane, still lying on the exam bed. “This is the answer. We can’t do it.”
“Maybe there’s another way—”
“There isn’t.” McHenry’s voice was unnaturally harsh. “Not with what you’ve got. You could go back to square one, Murphy, and start over. But you can’t do it with what you’ve got.”
“Then we’ll go back to square one. We’ll try a new approach, new designs. Go in a new direction. We have a good team here.”
McHenry felt the words as though they were physical blows. He could never be a part of the team. Not now. Not when he knew the danger his abilities posed to the others.
“Yes,” he said. He clenched his hands into fists, hidden behind his back, channeling his tension and frustration into the rigid muscles. He kept his face calm and his voice steady. “You have a good team. But I can’t be a part of it any longer. This has always been a voluntary assignment, and I am requesting immediate reassignment.”
Murphy swallowed the news as though it were a particularly bitter pill. But he took it. Closing his eyes, he stood immobile for a few seconds, then shook his head.
“That’s it, then. I’ll recommend the program be restructured. You,” he nodded at McHenry, “and any others that request it, will be reassigned.”
Murphy left, his rigid posture silent testimony to his steely control.
McHenry watched him go, feeling like a traitor. But it was the only thing he could do.
He turned back to Crane. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah. I owe you a beer, though. Thanks.” Crane started to say something more, but something in McHenry’s face stopped him. He shifted uncomfortably in the bed, and glanced around the room as if looking for some way to change the subject.
Crane turned back, and his face lit with a tentative smile, but he wasn’t looking at McHenry. He was looking past him. McHenry looked behind him, and saw Jill Harris coming through the sickbay doors.
“Yeah,” McHenry said. “I think you are.”
McHenry slipped out of sickbay as Jill came to Crane’s bedside. He glanced back in time to see her take his hand in hers, and saw Crane’s smile grow. The baby-faced pilot was going to be fine.
Murphy had told them to expect reassignment, but McHenry couldn’t wait for orders. He now knew he could never be just one of the gang, and that truth was going to take some time to accept.
He had some leave coming. It was time to go.
AREX
The Road to Edos
Kevin Dilmore
Arex served a distinguished tenure on the U.S.S. Enterprise under Captain James T. Kirk in the latter days of that ship’s historic five-year mission. After being accidentally sent forward eight decades in time, he was assigned to the U.S.S. Trident as chief of security under Captain Shelby. When he first arrived in the twenty-fourth century, however, he had to assimilate into the future. “The Road to Edos” takes place during that transition period in Arex’s life.
Kevin Dilmore
After fifteen years as a newspaper reporter and editor, Kevin Dilmore turned his full attention to his freelance writing career earlier this year. Since 1997, he has been a contributing writer to Star Trek Communicator, writing news stories and personality profiles for the bimonthly publication of the Official Star Trek Fan Club. With Dayton Ward, he has written a story for next year’s Star Trek: Tales of the Dominion War, six installments of the continuing eBook series Star Trek: S.C.E., and a forthcoming two-book Star Trek: The Next Generation tale, with more to come. Look for Kevin’s interviews with some of Star Trek’s most popular authors in volumes of the Star Trek Signature Editions this fall from Pocket Books. A graduate of the University of Kansas, Kevin lives in Prairie Village, Kansas, with his wife Michelle and their three daughters.
Still fumbling with his data padd, Agent Stewart Peart rushed down the hallways of Starbase 211 as if he were racing time itself. Hardly looking up from his handheld display, he sidestepped the contents of a toolkit splayed across the floor near a pair of busy technicians, then nearly jogged into the path of a workman’s antigrav cart before spinning himself out of the way. All the while, his eyes never stopped scanning the data before him.
Although rushed, Peart found himself smiling at his own enthusiasm, a feeling that caught him somewhat by surprise. Despite the hasty, on-the-run scan of the padd’s mission dossier—his mission—the young man surged with confidence. His mind raced with ideas, wanting to leave nothing to chance once his superiors put him in charge.
He slowed to a walk while hastily keying several commands into his padd. Stilling his hand until the padd softly beeped in confirmation, he then looked up and strode between a pair of sliding doors bearing its designation with little fanfare.
STARFLEET COMMAND—DEPARTMENT OF TEMPORAL INVESTIGATIONS.
His stride was abruptly broken by a reception desk that blocked his access into the array of suites beyond. As he panted to catch his breath, he awaited some acknowledgment from an older, neatly coiffured woman at the desk, who stayed intent on a flat viewscreen on the desktop’s surface. He cleared his throat somewhat lightly, and the woman almost imperceptibly raised herself to look Peart in the eyes. Her lips barely parted as she spoke.
“Yes?”
“Yes, good afternoon,” Peart said in a crisp voice too loud for an office. Catching himself, he lowered his volume. “Good afternoon. Um, Temporal Displacement Division?”
“Two doors down on the left,” the receptionist replied, now staring Peart down as he shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
“Yes, thank you,” Peart said, pausing again as he noted that the woman was making no moves to facilitate his entry. “Um…Special Agent Dulmer?”
“Two doors down on the left.”
“Yes…he, um, called me to a meeting?”
The woman drew a heavy breath and let it escape slowly. “Son, I need your identification.”
“Right! Of course,” Peart said as he set his padd on the desk and fished into his shoulder bag to produce a slim metal card. He thumbed a sliding switch on the card’s face, revealing a data wafer encoded with his likeness, Starfleet serial number, and security clearances. As the woman studied the card, letting her eyes flit from it to Peart’s face, he could not help but note how free from motion she remained in her chair. He wondered whether her limbs would creak if she tried to reach for something, let alone walk.
The receptionist nodded but slightly. “Hmm…first assignment?”
His eyes widened as a noise escaped his startled lips. He leaned closer to the woman and spoke in a low voice. “Does it show?”
Without a spoken response, the woman invisibly triggered a mechanism causing what had appeared to be an extension to her desk to slide into the adjoining wall. “Second door—”
“To the left, right,” Peart finished for her as he snatched up his padd and stepped through the newly opened access. “I mean, ‘correct’ right. It’s on the left, I mean.”
The woman silently pivoted in her chair, never allowing her gaze to leave Peart’s face.
“Um, right,” he offered as he broke off to head down the hallway. In a few jogged steps, he reached the door and pressed his finger to a translucent plate next to its frame triggering a chime to announce his arrival. The door silently slid away and Peart stepped into the room, his blood pounding in his ears more from excitement than from exertion.
“Ah, Agent Peart, I appreciate your haste,” said a blond, tousled-haired man as he rose from a chair behind the office’s lone desk. While never having met the man in person, Peart immediately recognized Temporal Investigations Special Agent Dulmer from his required scourings of department communiqués and classified files. It did not take long for him to pick up on the fact that Dulmer’s name figured time and again among those agents taking part in temporal cases of the highest profile.
Any feelings of famili
arity faded, however, as he turned to the individual seated across the desk from Dulmer. Peart was certain that he never had encountered anyone quite like this in his life.
“Peart, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Arex Na Eth,” Dulmer said, smiling. “Arex was among a shuttlecraft party carried to 2376 just yesterday courtesy of a wormhole in the Argolis Cluster.”
Peart took a hesitant step toward the lieutenant, who was unlike any being that Peart had met in person. Not that Peart was unnerved merely by the appearance of the displaced Starfleet officer, who rose on three spindly legs from his seat. He did not flinch when his proffered hand was taken in greeting by a three-fingered, red leathery mitt on an arm connected to the center of Arex’s chest. Arex seemed to raise a question in Peart’s mind, more of a nagging feeling for the young agent.
Shake it off, Stew. Be on top of your game, here.
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir,” said Peart, hoping a confident tone of voice would put him more at ease. “And, welcome.”
Arex’s bony, bald head more teetered than shook on his slim neck as he seemed to force his angular face into an uncomfortable approximation of a humanoid smile. “Thank you, Mr. Peart. It’s good to know that Starfleet continues to thrive after these…what…seventy-one years, is it?”
Peart knit his brow at the sound of Arex’s gravelly voice. The unspecified question continued to nag at him, but he shrugged it off as his appreciation for Arex’s situation began to sink in.
Seventy-one years. A generation at least—probably more. What would I do if I were in his place? My family and friends…all gone. My whole experience changed. Where would I even begin to rebuild my life, my place in this new world?
“From the logs of your shuttlecraft, Mr. Arex, that’s what it appears,” said Dulmer, retaking his seat as Peart and Arex did the same. “It’s a brave sacrifice you have made for the Federation, Lieutenant, one that could be surpassed only by giving up your life. Starfleet wants to honor that sacrifice, and I have been authorized to put this department and its personnel at your disposal.”
Arex nodded once again. “I appreciate that offer, Mr. Dulmer, which is why I have approached you with my request.”
Peart straightened himself in his seat, sensing that Dulmer was ready to address him and dole out his first assignment as a Temporal Investigations agent. He sat ready to puzzle out the nature of the wormhole and its impact on the timestream. He was prepared to correct this temporal anomaly using any means necessary and reset the course of history. He was ready to wrestle time and space to put all as it should be.
“Agent Peart,” Dulmer said, “your job is to accompany Mr. Arex, with all haste, to the home of his parents.”
He felt his shoulders slump. “Um, that’s it? That’s all I am supposed to do?” Peart felt a chill in his veins as Dulmer’s eyes widened to glare back at him. He blurted out before silence could continue to fill the office. “Oh! Right! Absolutely I can play the valet—I mean, um, attaché to Mr. Arex.”
Dulmer’s voice took a more threatening edge. “I want to impress upon you, Agent Peart, that escorting the temporally displaced is not a duty we take lightly in the department, particularly in this case. Mr. Arex needs your help in getting home within the next twenty-four hours.”
Peart turned to Arex, who was staring downward at his three clasped hands. “It is a solemn time for my family as tradition dictates we gather at our ancestral home. My arrival has coincided with a grave event. The Day of Death is upon my father.”
“Your father is still alive?” Peart regretted his words of surprise as soon as they shot from his mouth.
Arex looked up at Peart with yellow eyes and attempted his twisted form of a polite smile. “You seem surprised to learn this? It is no secret that my people are long-lived by your standards.”
“Right, but of course they are. Please excuse my rudeness.” Peart laughed, hoping his words would cover what he was sure came across to the others as self-doubt as he put his finger on the nagging question.
His people…his people…dammit, Stew, think…
“While they are not members of the Federation, we owe a lot to Mr. Arex’s kin and culture,” Dulmer said. “Their contributions to science, architecture, mathematics, and the arts would be hard to calculate. And Starfleet has gained much from the service of officers with the physiological advantages of Mr. Arex and other—”
Aha!
“Yes!” Peart’s outburst startled them all as his mind seemed to engage anew. “Yes, right. Contributions all discussed in detail in xenosociology classes at the Academy. How could I forget, I mean, um, lose sight of that?”
Peart tried a polite laugh as a cover for his refreshed memory as he turned his attention to his trusty data padd. He worked feverishly, his fingers speeding through commands as silence returned to the room. In less than a minute, he looked up at Dulmer with a renewed sense of pride. “Sir, I’ve accessed Starfleet vessel assignments and course filings from the starbase computer, and we’re in great luck. The U.S.S. Musgrave, a ship assigned to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers, is headed on assignment to Starbase 129. With some discussion with its captain, I am sure we can arrange a high-warp trip there and catch passage on the U.S.S. Prokofiev, which in ten hours is headed from there to Gamma Trianguli—but not before a stop at Mr. Arex’s homeworld. I daresay that it’s a trip we can make well within your deadline.”
“Nice work,” Dulmer said, nodding agreeably as the edge faded from his voice. “Mr. Arex, I will turn you over to Agent Peart, who can brief you on any aspect of life today as you travel.”
“But we need to leave right away, as the Musgrave ships out in fifteen minutes,” Peart said, adopting his best ambassadorial tone. “Mr. Arex, I tend to travel light, so I am ready to go. May I assist you with your belongings?”
Arex shrugged. “I have no belongings. I was told that the contents of my living quarters were shipped to my family fifty years ago.”
Peart winced inside as Dulmer spoke, trying to sound apologetic. “It’s Starfleet policy to declare a missing officer as ‘presumed dead or displaced’ after twenty years.”
“Please, Mr. Dulmer, I do understand,” Arex said.
Dulmer rose from his seat. “You two need to get moving. Mr. Arex, I am sure that anything you might need for the trip can be replicated for you onboard ship. And I’ll get to work on reactivating your personnel file, security clearances, and duty status so by the time your visit home is over, you’ll be free to move about the quadrant just as you used to do.”
Arex sprang to his three feet and extended his center hand to Dulmer. “I cannot express my appreciation enough. This is a grievous time for me and my family, so you are doing us all a great service.”
“It’s the least we can do in return for your sacrifice of seventy-one years. Travel safely and I am sorry for your loss,” the supervising agent said as the travelers set off. “Oh, Agent Peart, can I have one more moment?”
As Arex left the room, Peart drew a breath to speak. He wanted to leave with one last bit of confidence. “Sir, I’ll take care of everything.”
“See that you do, Peart. So far, you’re off on the right foot,” Dulmer said as he leaned forward on his desk. “This is your shakedown cruise. Pull it off, and trust me, it will be a tight pull, then we’ll see what we can do about beefing up your case rotation.”
“Yes, sir!”
“But blow this case, Peart, and you’ll be done in this department. Plenty of people want to be where you are, and we don’t have time for second chances,” he said in a stern tone. “Am I clear?”
Peart felt his stomach flutter. For years, he had worked toward a posting in DTI. His boyhood dreams had been filled with the possibilities such a posting offered, such as traveling through time, observing history firsthand or glimpsing the future, and possibly meeting some of the legendary figures of Starfleet and Federation lore. And it all seemed to be riding on his making two flight connections with an amiable alien d
enizen of the past.
How hard can this be?
“You are clear, sir. I’ll check in when the assignment is complete,” Peart said. Striding to the door, he let loose his urge to lighten his supervisor’s concerns. Turning, he said, “And next time, maybe we’ll run into Captain James Kirk or something.”
Dulmer froze. “Don’t talk to me about James Kirk, Agent Peart. Just don’t.”
Peart broke into a jog down the hall, catching up with Arex at the reception desk. The gray-haired woman continued to sit all but motionless as he passed her. “Let’s be on our way, shall we?”
As the two left, Arex said, “She does not move all that much, does she?”
Peart laughed. “Maybe she’s drying out.”
“I thought the same thing,” Arex said. “It made me a little wistful for home.”
The young agent puzzled that comment out briefly before tapping his combadge. “DTI Agent Stewart Peart to U.S.S. Musgrave. Two to beam aboard, please.”
Within seconds, a hum filled Peart’s ears as the room faded amid a cascade of shimmering light. He always sensed a slight light-headedness at the peak of transportations, although he assumed it owed more to his imagination than to his physical discorporate state. Once his mind—his whole being—was translated into energy particles, the concept of his continuing to have a train of thought or physical sensations was one he internally disputed. Clarity quickly returned, however, as his new surroundings shone through the fading light and he found himself in a palpably different location.
“Permission to come aboard?” Peart asked, and smiled, but only because he had few opportunities to do so. The transporter chief of the Musgrave confirmed and reported to the bridge as he gestured for Arex to lead the way off of the pad. They were met by a Gnalish officer, who showed the pair to separate quarters, something that Peart admitted he appreciated.