Star Trek: Captains Table
Once Burned
Book 5 of 6

FIRST ENCOUNTER

You NEVER FORGET the first man you kill. Man.
 Well... that may be an exaggeration.
    I was fourteen seasons at the time, a youth on my
homeworld of Xenex. My father had died several
seasons before that, beaten to death in the public
square by our Danteri oppressors as a signal to all my
people that we should know our place. It is my
everlasting shame that I did not immediately retali-
ate. Instead I stood there, paralyzed. I can still re-
member my older brother digging his fingers into my
shoulder, keeping me from attacking. That was what I
wanted to do at the time. I wanted to charge from the
crowd, leap upon the man who was inflicting such
punishment upon my father, and sink my teeth into
his throat. I wanted to feel his blood fountaining
between my teeth.
    Unfortunately, I was a child. My brother was prob-
ably concerned--not without reason--that I would
be cut down before I got within twenty feet of my
father's tormentor. So I stayed where I was, and
watched, and wished the entire time that I could tear
my eyes from my sockets, block out the cries from my
father's throat.
    Such a proud man, he was. So proud. What they did
to him...
    It fueled me several years later when I began my
campaign against the Danteri.
    There was a tax collector, a rather hated Danteri
individual named Stener. A short, squat individual,
he was, with a voice like a rockslide and a viciousness
in attitude and deportment that made you cringe as
soon as you look at him. He rode about on this
mount, a large and hairy creature called a Pok that
had been specially bred by the Danteri to be a sort of
all-purpose steed. He always had several guards with
him. On this particular day, he had three. They were
massively broad, although it was difficult to get a
precise idea of their build beneath their armor. They
were not wearing helmets, however, possibly because
it was hot and the helmets were sweaty. Instead their
helmets were tucked under their arms. That would
prove to be a costly mistake.
    It was a very hot day, I remember. Very hot, the last
day of a very hot week. Tempers were becoming
ragged as it was, and whispers of my rabble-rousing
were already beginning to reach the ears of the
Danteri. At that particular time, though, they dis-
missed me as nothing they need concern themselves
about. I was, after all, merely a loudmouthed teenager
insofar as they knew. Perhaps more erudite than
many, but nothing much more than that. Still, they
saw the growing anger in the eyes of my people. The
downward casting of glances, the automatic subservi-
ence... that seemed to be present less and less, and
it very likely concerned the Danteri.
    I was determined to give them more than cause for
concern. I wanted to send them an unmistakable
message. To let them know that my people would not
tolerate their presence on my world any longer. To let
them know that their torture of my father--rather
than serving as a warning--had instead awakened the
slumbering giant of Xenexian pride. And I wanted my
hand to be the one that struck the first blow, that
hammered the gong which would chime out the call to
freedom.
    Stener had collected the taxes in my home city of
Calhoun, but he had very likely tired of the epithets,
the curses, the increasingly aggressive sneers that
greeted him. Nothing actionable or worth starting a
fight over, but it very likely grated on him. He didn't
know that I was following him, stalking him. He can
be forgiven for his obliviousness. There were any
number of scruffy, disheveled Xenexian youths
around, so there was no intrinsic reason for him to
focus on me any more than on anyone else. I stuck to
the shadows, skulked around buildings, and whenev-
er any of his men happened to glance in my direc-
tion, I managed to melt into the background, to
disappear.
    To a certain extent... it was a game. I was in the
throes of youth, pleased with my skill and alacrity. As
I paced them, keeping to myself but never letting
them from my view, I felt an increasing sense of
empowerment. Even--dare I say it--invincibility.
That is naturally a very dangerous state of mind.
Under such circumstances, one can become exceed-
ingly sloppy. One should never underestimate an
opponent, and I do not for a moment recommend it
for anyone.
 They reached the outskirts of Calhoun and still had
not spotted me. Had they then decided to return to
their vessel and depart, they might very well all have
survived. But they didn't. That was their greed, their
own arrogance and sense of invincibility... as dan-
gerous to them as to me. Stupidity is remarkably
evenhanded.
    Since they were certain that my people were too
subservient to pose a serious threat, they decided to
make their way to the neighboring, smaller village of
Moute. Everything was happening spur-of-the-
moment. Had I given the matter any thought at all, I
would have gone into it with something approaching a
plan. But I was flying on instinct alone, which was a
habit that I would thankfully not continue to indulge
in for my future dealings.
    There was only one road between Calhoun and
Moute, and I knew they were going to have to take it.
Stener's Pok was moving at a fairly slow pace, and
his three guards had to walk slowly to match it. As a
result I had more than enough opportunity to get
ahead of them. I moved with an almost bizarre
recklessness, searching out and finding higher
ground along the rocky ridges that lined the road.
Ideally there would have been something with suffi-
cient altitude that I could have sent an avalanche
cascading down on their damned heads. Unfortu-
nately the territory was fairly low, the ridges rising
no more than maybe ten feet, so that wasn't an
option. So I had to resort to other means to accom-
plish my task. I examined the stones beneath my feet
and around me as I kept in careful pursuit, selecting
those stones that best suited my purposes. The best
were smooth and round, capable of hurtling at high
speeds if thrown with enough strength. Believe me,
the way I was feeling at that moment, my strength
was more than sufficient. Such was the confidence I
had in myself that I only selected three stones. It never
even occurred to me that more might possibly be
required.
    I moved with speed and stealth, getting farther
ahead until I was satisfied with the distance I'd put
between myself and my targets. Crouching behind one
of the upright outcroppings, I held one stone in either
hand, and popped the third into my mouth for easy
access. I listened carefully to determine if there was
any useful information ! could derive from whatever
chitchat I might overhear, but there was no crosstalk
at all. They rode in an almost eerie silence, as if they
existed only to be my victims and otherwise had no
lives up until that point.
    The sun was beginning to descend upon the hori-
zon, but it would still be quite some time until night. I
had no interest in waiting until darkness. I wanted to
see their faces clearly. I wanted them to know that
even in broad daylight, there was still nowhere safe
that they could hide. Besides, they'd be easier targets
in the daylight. However, everything was going to
depend upon my speed.
    My back against the outcropping, I took a deep
breath to steady my racing heart. I knew that the
main thing I had going for me was the element of
surprise. The moment that was lost, only pure speed
could help me. I sprang from my hiding place and
hurled the first rock, flipped the second rock to my
throwing hand as I spit the third out. The first rock
struck the closest guard squarely in the forehead. It
knocked him cold. The second guard whirled around
to see what had happened to his associate, but the
second rock was already in flight and this one struck
as accurately as the first. The third guard didn't even
have a chance to turn; my last missile hit him bang-
on in the back of his head. He went down without a
sound.
 It had all happened so quickly that Stener hadn't
fully had the opportunity to comprehend what was
going on. His Pok was turning in place in alarm. It
was everything that Stener could do to keep his grip
on the beast. "What's happening? Who's there?!" he
called out.
    I admit, at the time I had something of a flair for
the dramatic.
    I leaped down from the rocks, landing in a feral
crouch. My sword was still strapped to my back.
Perhaps it was because of that that Stener didn't yet
realize he was in any danger. The fact that three of his
men had just been dropped in rapid succession didn't
jibe with the unkempt teenager who was approaching
him. He likely considered me some sort of prankster.
"You, boy! Are you responsible for this?"
  I took a mocking bow. "The very same," I said.
    "These are my men! This is official business! How
dare you--?"
    "How dare you," I snarled back, quickly losing
patience with the oaf. "How dare you and your people
think that you can abuse my people indefinitely.
Today begins the day we strike back. Today is the day
we begin the long march toward freedom."
    ! unsheathed my sword, drawing it slowly from the
scabbard on my back for maximum effect. It was that
threatening sound, and probably the look in my eye,
that made Stener truly comprehend that his life was
being threatened. "Now, wait just a minute, young
man," he said, but even as he spoke he tried to angle
his Pok around, in obvious preparation for trying to
make a break for it.
    He need not have wasted his time. We were in a
fairly narrow pass, after all, and it was no great trick
to angle myself around and block his only real escape
route. I brandished my sword in a reasonably threat-
ening manner. Stener began to stammer a bit, his
bluster become tangled with his concern for self-
preservation. "Now... now wait just a minute .... "
    "I have waited long enough already," I replied. "All
my people have. We wait no longer. Today we strike
back."
    That was when a sword seemed to flash from
nowhere.
    My block was purely on instinct as I brought my
sword up to deflect the blow. One of the guards I had
struck--the one from behind--apparently had a
harder head than I had credited him for. Perhaps it
was a lesson I was being taught for attacking from the
rear--a less than heroic tactic, I fully admit.
    Our swords locked at the hilt. He was bigger than I
was, and very likely stronger. But he was still slightly
dazed from the blow to the back of his head. Even
were I not the superior fighter, the fact that he was
fighting at less than his best would have been more
than enough to tilt the battle in my favor.
    He tried to push me off my feet~ but I disengaged
my sword and faced him. He had put his helmet on,
and it obscured his face, although his eyes seemed to
glitter with cold contempt. He appeared to take the
measure of me for a moment and then he swung his
blade. Our swords clanged together, the impact echo-
ing in the soundlessness of the place.
    Stener was reining in his panicking Pok and at-
tempting to send it back in the direction from which
they had just come. I wasn't concerned; I was certain
that I could dispatch my opponent and still catch up
with Stener in time to kill him as well. Such confi-
dence I had. Such confidence considering that I had
never taken another life. The other two guards were
unconscious only, as this one was supposed to be.
Stener was intended to be my first blood, but my
feeling at that moment was that the guard would do
just as nicely.
    He fought well, I'll give him that. For a moment or
two, I actually found myself in trouble as his sword
flashed before my face, shaving a lock of my hair off. I
didn't even realize it until I found strands on the
ground later. There were no words between us. Really,
what could we have said? An exchange of names?
Pointless. A mutual request for surrender? Beyond
pointless. We both knew what was at stake, both knew
that there would be no backing down. This was no
coward I was facing; he was willing to die to do his
job. Likewise, he must have known that I would never
have staged the assault if I had not intended to see it
through.
    A parry, another parry, and I fell back. He smiled.
He probably thought he had me, since I was retreat-
ing. He didn't understand that I was simply watching
him expend all his "tricks" as I studied his method of
attack, his offensive skills. They were, I quickly dis-
cerned, limited. I knew I could take him. I waited for
the best moment, and eventually it presented itself. I
appeared to leave myself open and he went for the
opportunity. I blocked the thrust and my blade slid up
the length of his sword, off, and then my blade
whipped around and I struck him in the helmet with
such force that I actually shattered the head covering.
Understand, my sword was not some delicate, polite
saber. This was a large blade, four feet long, heavy as
hell. In later years, I'd be capable of knocking an
opponent's head from his shoulders with one sweep.
But I was still a young man, and hadn't quite "grown
in" to my weapon yet. Nonetheless, the impact caved
in the side of his skull.
     Just that quickly, his body was transformed from
 something of use into a sack of bones with meat
 surrounding it. He went down with as sickening a
 thud as I'd ever heard. The abruptness, the violence
of the moment, brought me up shortú It just...
caught me off-guard. I wasn't prepared somehow for
the finality of it.
    I heard the pounding of the Pok's feet as it put
greater distance between us. I should have been
concerned. I should have been immediately in pur-
suit. Poks are not renowned for their speed; even on
foot, I could have overtaken it. But Stener was
already forgotten. Instead my attention was focused
on the guard. The other two were lying unconscious
nearby, but they could well have been on one of
Xenex's moons for all that it mattered at that mo-
ment.
    I crept toward him. In retrospect, it's amazing how
tentative I was. It wasn't as if he could be any threat to
me. I had, effectively, killed him. But on some level
that hadn't really registered on me. So I approached
him as if he still might somehow strike at me. I drew
closer, closer, until I was standing right over him. He
was staring straight up, and he looked... confused.
He didn't appear aware of where he was or how he
had gotten there, and certainly he was unclear as to
what had happened.
    It was the first time that I actually had a chance to
study him close-up. The pieces of his broken helmet
had fallen away from his face, and I was able to see
him clearly. I was stunned by his youth. He only
looked several years older than I was. There was no
belligerence in his face. He did not look...
    ú.. evil. That was it. I was expecting him to look
evil. He was, after all, an agent of the enemy, a
supporter of the evil oppressors. So his demeanor
should have reflected that.
    Except that I didn't know what evil was "sup-
posed" to look like. The face of the enemy was not a
great, monolithic thing, but rather millions upon
millions of individuals, each with his own hopes and
dreams and aspirations. And this face, this nameless
face that was staring at the sky with a profoundly
confused expression, had just had all his dreams
shattered along with his helmet and his head.
    I didn't know what to do. The Pok was long
forgotten, Stener's getaway assured, and yet I didn't
care. There were emotions tumbling through me,
emotions that I had no clue how to deal with. Odd,
isn't it. With all those emotions present, you would
think that "triumph" would have been one of them.
But I didn't feel that at all. In fact, it might well have
been that I felt everything but that.
    And then he said something that utterly confused
me. He said..."Hand."
    I was clueless as to what he was talking about. The
word, bereft of context, meant nothing.
    Then I saw that his fingers were spasming slightly.
It took me a moment more to grasp fully what he
wanted.
    Slowly--even, I hate to admit, a bit fearfully--I
reached out. Understand this: In the heat of battle, I
was capable of slicing a man open, ripping his still-
beating heart from his chest and holding it up into his
face, and I say that with no sense of hyperbole. I
actually did that, on several occasions throughout the
years. I was not what anyone would call squeamish,
and certainly had no trepidation over touching a dead
or dying man.
    But in this instance I did. My hand was actually
trembling. I realized it and became angry with what I
saw as my weakness. Taking a deep breath, I seized his
hand firmly, still in a quandary as to why he appeared
to want the gesture.
    His fingers wrapped around mine and he looked
into my eyes with infinite gratitude. I don't think he
knew who I was. He didn't realize that I was the one
who had struck the fatal blow. His mind was a
million miles away. All he knew was that I was
another being, another living, breathing soul. He
knew that... and he knew, I have to believe, that he
was dying.
    In a voice that was barely above a hoarse whisper,
he said, "Thank... you .... "
    I knew that he was beyond help, and furthermore,
that more of the Danteri would be back before too
long. Not only that, but the unconscious soldiers
would come around sooner or later. I tried to get up,
to get away, to extricate my hand from his, but he
gasped out, "No." He didn't seem afraid of dying. He
simply didn't want to be alone.
    I lifted him, then. I was surprised by how light he
was. The entire business had taken a most bizarre
turn, but I didn't dwell on any of that. I was operating
purely on instinct, answering some moral code that I
couldn't truly articulate quite yet. I ran with him, ran
to an area of caves and crevices that I knew about not
too far away. It was a labyrinthine area which I had
known about for quite some time, and explored
extensively in my youth. I knew I could hide there
indefinitely, and there were underground passages as
well so it wasn't as if anyone could reasonably lay
siege to it.
    I brought the young guard there, my mind racing
with confusion. I was unable to determine any reason-
able answers as to why I was doing what I was doing. I
brought him to a secluded place within the caverns,
and there I sat with him.
    This was the enemy. I kept reminding myself of
that, over and over again. He was the enemy, his
people had enslaved my people. I had no reason
whatsoever to feel the slightest bit of empathy for
this individual. But I did. Here I had had my first
taste of destruction, had taken down my first
opponent... and I have never felt weaker. I wanted
to get up, to flee the caves, to leave his rotting corpse
for whatever scavenger creatures might take a fancy
to it.
    Instead I stayed. Perhaps I felt that leaving him
behind would have been cowardice. Perhaps I needed
to prove to myself that I was capable of taking it.
Perhaps I was simply morbidly curious. It may have
been all of those or none of those. In the final
analysis... I just couldn't. I sat there with him, and
his grip did not lessen on my hand. Every so often he
would tremble, shuddering, his body convulsing
slightly. He faded in and out, and never once that
entire time did he comprehend that the man who had
killed him was next to him.
    I was looking into his eyes when he died. He had
lain there, in the cool of the cavern, staring into
space as if searching for some sort of answer. He
said nothing. And then his head rolled slowly in my
direction, his gaze fixing on me--truly fixing on
me--for the first time. "You..." he managed to
say.
    I waited for the rest, or at least whatever it was he
was able to manage. You destroyed me. You bastard,
you took my life. You are the one who is responsible.
You did this to me. Anything, everything, I was ready
for it.
     "Thank... you..." he told me. Then his head
 lolled to one side and I heard a sound that I would
 come to know all too well: a death rattle, his spirit
 leaving the meaty shell in which it had spent its
 mortal existence.
     I stared at him for a very long time, and then I saw
 a large spot of wetness appear on his face. It took me
a moment to fully comprehend what it was. It was
a tear. It was not, however, from him. It was from
me. Large, fat tears were rolling down my face, and I
was so numb that I was unaware of it at first. Then
they came faster and harder. My body started to
tremble, great racking sobs seizing me. I couldn't
believe it. I fancied myself already as a hardened
warrior, determined and ready to lead his people to
freedom. What sort of warrior and leader allows
himself to fall apart in the face of killing an enemy?
But the more I tried to pull myself together, the more
the tears flowed.
    I tried to stand up, tried to run, but there was no
strength in my limbs. I collapsed and continued to
cry, and I have no idea for how long it continued. It
was probably minutes, but it felt like days.
    Eventually it subsided, the sobbing tapering off.
Still I lay there for some time, feeling the coolness of
the stone against my face. Then I pulled myself
together and dusted myself off. I picked up the body
of the first man I had ever killed. He was significantly
larger than I, and his body was even heavier dead
than it had been alive. But my strength was rather
formidable and I had no trouble hauling him out to
the mouth of the cave. Prudence would have dictated
that I simply leave him... it... there. After all, I
was putting myself at risk weighing myself down, and
if there had been any Danteri hunting parties passing
by at that particular moment, I would have been at a
disadvantage. The sun was already quite low in the
sky, the shadows stretching like darkling fingers
across the plains, as I left the corpse behind me and
set off into the darkness.
    I've often looked back on that day and wondered
what possessed me. After all, I had known that slaying
others would be necessary if I were to accomplish my
goal and lead an insurrection that would result in
Xenex's freedom. Why, then, did it affect me in such a
way?
    Perhaps I was mourning my lost innocence, or at
least what passed for innocence. Never again would I
be anything other than a slayer.
    Perhaps the tears, in some way, were an expression
of fear. In having irretrievably made that first strike, I
had determined a course not only for myself, but for
my planet. The Danteri would demand Xenexian
blood by the ton in exchange for the assault upon
their collector and the death of one of the guards. My
people would not stand for itmthat I would see to
personally. Perhaps I was shedding tears in advance
for those of my people who were destined to die in the
insurrection. With a stroke of my sword, I had
doomed them. They would die fighting for a greater
cause, but they would die just the same, and so those
deaths would be on my head.
    Or perhaps it was simply because I never knew my
victim's name, or anything about him. Did he have a
wife back on Danter whom I had just transformed
into a widow? A son who would never see his father
again? He himself had parents, that was likely. How
would they react upon learning that their son was
dead? Would his mother still hear the cries he uttered
as an infant, like a haunting, mournful song in her
head, and cry until her heart broke over the loss of
that child? Or perhaps he was an orphan, with no
parents, and had not yet had time to marry or sire
children. In that case, he would leave no one behind
to mourn him or those accomplishments that he
might have achieved had his life not been cut short.
Here I was, planning to lead a rebellion that--if it
succeeded--would definitely give me a permanent
place in the annals of Xenex, and the first casualty in
that course might be a young man who was so without
attachment to the world that he might as well not
even have lived in it.
    There was no way for me to know, no way for me to
ever know, and perhaps that was what caused me to
cry my heart out. But once it had been cried out, I
then carefully and meticulously began to build a great
wall of brick around it. The slaying of the young man
was the first brick, and more bricks would follow
while their thickening blood provided the cement
between them.
    In the final analysis, it might have been all of those
plus one more: the evil irony of a young man dying
while thanking the one who had killed him since his
delirium had prevented him from understanding who
I was.
    I returned home, told my older brother, D'ndai,
what I had done. He blanched considerably, and
then his jaw set in grim determination. At the time
he had no great love for the Danteri, and was as
susceptible to my exhortations as was any other man.
Although I would be designated warlord within a
very short time, at that time I was given the appoint-
ment of a rank we called "r'ksha"... or what you
would term "captain." D'ndai had several private
fliers, all of which were pressed into work as our
preparation for battle against the Danteri loomed.
The largest one was given to me, out of deference to
the fact that my determination was setting the entire
situation into motion. I also had my first crew, and
ten truer and braver men never walked the surface of
Xenex. "Men." What a word. More like young boys,
they were. We all were, although we felt much older,
of course.
    Sadly... I was the only one who grew to become
older. The rest of them died within the first year of
combat.
    The last of my crew was wiped out in a devastating
raid on a Danteri outpost which went horribly
wrong. I had had several early successes, you see, and
became emboldened as a result. Consequently, I
became sloppy. I trusted a tip from a source who
proved to be not as reliable as I had previously
thought. What I had intended as a surprise attack on
a strategic outpost turned out to be a crafty trap by
the Danteri. I have a "sixth sense" for danger, I
always have. Just before their trap sprang shut, I
sensed that we were heading into an ambush and
tried to get us out of there before it was too late. In
one respect, I accomplished that goal. Had I not
realized when I did, we would have been slaughtered
within seconds. As it was, we narrowly avoided cap-
ture, but the firefight that resulted from the nearly
perfect ambush was catastrophic. My vessel limped
back to the city, with my urging every last bit of
speed out of its failing engines. I was hoping, praying
that I would be able to save at least a few lives of the
handful of men--boys--who were left to me. But by
the time I made it back to the city, it was too late.
The last of my crew died in my arms. Unlike the time
with the first man I killed, though, this time I felt
nothing. Absolutely nothing. The wall that I had
built around my heart was a strong one by that point,
and not easily pierced. No more tears would I, could
I, shed over the deaths of others, be it at my hand or
not.
    That was the theory, at least. Nonetheless, the guilt
weighed heavily upon me, despite D'ndai's assurances
that it was not my fault, that I had no way of knowing.
That was no excuse. I should have known. It was my
first major setback, my first major loss to the Danteri,
and part of me was angry that I had survived while
the men who had been counting on me had lost their
lives. My resolve was not shattered... but for the
first time, I began to doubt myself. I had never
wavered in my belief that I would triumph over the
Danteri... until that moment.
    I wandered the streets of Calhoun aimlessly that
night. I had a slight limp from an injured leg, and I
had not washed off the smoke and soot from battle or
the crash of my vessel. My hair was wildly askew. In
short, I wasn't especially pretty to look at, I can tell
you. I passed the fortifications that had been erected
around the city of Calhoun. The perimeter guards
saluted me, nodding in approval as I passed, gave me
gestures of assurance. All of it felt hollow, empty.
They still had confidence in me, but I did not have it
in myself.
    Understand, I knew every foot, every square inch of
the city. Nonetheless, after walking aimlessly for a
time, I found myself in an area of town that was oddly
unfamiliar to me. Furthermore, I was drawn to one
particular door that had an odd sign hanging on it. In
Xenexian, it read, "R'Ksha Foldes." Or, to translate
into English: "the Captain's Table." I had no idea
what it was referring to. I had never heard of the
establishment, if such it was, and that alone was very
odd since I had thought I knew every place of
business in all of Calhoun.
    ! placed an ear against the door and heard what
amounted to a faint murmur from within, but noth-
ing I could distinguish. It sounded like voices, but I
couldn't make out anything that anyone was saying.
For a moment I thought of turning away, but some-
thing within me rebelled at the notion. It smacked too
much of cowardice, and therefore was an intolerable
option.
 Taking a deep breath, I pushed open the door.
 It was a very odd sight.
    In many ways, it seemed no different than a stan-
dard Xenexian tavern. Weapons hung upon the wall
as a convenience for drunken customers, as was
always the case in Xenexian taverns. The reason, you
see, ~s that customers who allow themselves to get too
drunk to fight, but try and do so anyway, are too
stupid to live and therefore duels with such individu-
als should be facilitated. That way they won't contin-
ue to cause mischiefi
    But there was something about the place that I
couldn't immediately identify. A scent, perhaps, like
sea air, and a breeze wafting through which was of
mysterious origin considering that outside on that
night there had been no breeze at all. Furthermore--
and this, I assure you, was the oddest partmI couldn't
help but feel that the floor was rocking ever so gently.
Not a quake, most definitely, but just a very delicate
swaying motion, as if I were standing on the deck of a
ship of some sort.
    What was most peculiar of all, however, was the
astounding mixture of alien races who populated the
place. At sturdy wooden tables were representatives of
all manner of species, including any number that I
could not identify. It's not as if Xenex has a large
number of visitors. Despite the fact that Calhoun was
one of the larger cities, Xenex wasmand is--largely
the province of Xenexians. Nevertheless, there were
individuals with blue skin, green skin, red skin...
every permutation of the spectrum, it seemed. Some
with antennae, others with multiple eyes or no eyes,
one with tentacles, another with a spotted shell and a
perpetual scowl.
    There was one man off to the side at a table by
himself. Of the species I now know as "humans," he
was dressed in blue, with a trim white beard. He was
simply shaking his head as if in perpetual annoyance

and confusion, and there was the sadness of the grave
in his eyes. He kept muttering the same words over
and over again: "Damned iceberg. Goddamned ice-
berg." I had no idea what he was talking about. I
started to approach him, and then felt a hand on my
shoulder.
    I whirled because, of course, I had no idea who was
behind me. I was conditioned to anticipate attacks at
all times.
    "Just leave him be, son. You'd be wasting your time
anyway. Poor devil's off in his own world."
    The man who had spoken, who had stopped me
from going near the bearded man in blue, had some-
what unkempt white hair himself. He wore an apron,
and had a ready smile that I found comforting some-
how. He was not Xenexian, but in an odd and fleeting
way, he reminded me of my father. "They call me
Cap," he said.
  "Are you the owner of this place?" I asked.
    "Yes and no. In a way, we're all owners of this
place. You, me," and he gestured to encompass the
rest of the bar, "them. This is your first time here, but
eventually you'll understand." He smiled. "Congratu-
lations, by the way."
    "For what?" For a moment I bristled. I was still
angry, bitter over what happened to my men, and
some part of me thought he was sarcastically alluding
to that tragedy.
    "For being the youngest captain ever to visit the
Captain's Table. Previously the youngest we had was
Alexander. He was only here once, and then on a
technicality, since in truth he was a king. But he
fancied himself a captain of great armies, and that
was sufficient to gain him entrance in a sort of
probationary status. It was just the one time, though.
He tried to take over the bar." He shook his head
resignedly. "Should have expected that."
"Should I... know this person you're speaking
Of?."
    Cap tilted his head back and declaimed as if in the
theater, "'And Alexander wept, for he had no new
worlds to conquer.'" The mention of the name drew
glances from several of the other patrons, and there
were what appeared to be grim smiles of acknowledg-
ment and recollection.
    I decided not to pursue it. As if sensing my
thoughts, he guided me to a small table to one side. "I
think it best, what with this being your first time and
considering your age, that you simply observe rather
than try to interact extensively. We do not, after all,
want to have any problems."
    "I... suppose not," I said. I was having difficulty
understanding where I was or what was happening.
Without really paying attention, I sat down at a
table.
    "No, not that one," Cap said quickly, and he
pointed off to my left. "The one over here."
    I was beginning to become annoyed. The eccentrici-
ty of the place, the odd atmosphere that was a bizarre
blend of strange-yet-familiar, and my own state of
mind thanks to my recent setbacks, were serving to
put me on edge a bit. "This one seems fine," I told
him. "I think I will stay right--"
    A huge dagger slammed down into the tabletop
with such force that it threatened to split the wood in
haiti The hilt quivered slightly.
    "Captain Gloriosus," Cap said with clear warning
in his voice. "You know the rules."
    Slowly I glanced up, and up, at the man whose
powerful hand had wielded the dagger. He was
dressed in glittering chestplate armor and a metal
skirt that ended at about midthigh. His legs were
powerful, his arms no less so. He had a long, bristling
beard so thick that it looked like wire, and a fierce
scowl that showed from beneath a plumed helmet.
The scabbard for his dagger was on the inside of his
right calf, and from his left hip hung a massive
sword.
    "This pup is at my table," the one called Gloriosus
said.
    I did not appreciate the tone of his voice, and told
him so. This seemed to amuse the one called Glorio-
sus, and he laughed in a booming tone that was
unbearably condescending. "Cap," he bellowed, 'are
we letting any upstart who wishes it to sit at the
Captain's Table? Have we no standards anymore?"
    "The standard is that patrons have to be captains of
one sort or another," Cap told him as if addressing a
small child. "He fits the criteria, Miles, as do you. As
does everyone here."
    The others were making no pretense of looking
away anymore. About forty or so pairs of eyes took in
the entire confrontation. They sat back and observed
as if watching avid or an adventure in a holosuite.
    "That means," continued Cap as if unaware that
this situation were anything other than the most
intimate of disagreements, "that he is under the
protection of the bar... as are you, Miles."
    "A captain of the Roman legions needs no protec-
tion from a whelp," the one called Miles Gloriosus
said.
    I didn't like this tone, or his arrogance. More, I felt
as if he had made it a point to try and shame me in
front of the others who were scattered around the bar.
I had no idea why the opinions of these strangers
mattered, but something within me simply refused to
allow myself to be treated as a laughingstock.
    Captain Miles Gloriosus was continuing to boast
about his own general fabulousness. I didn't bother
to listen. Instead with my right hand I yanked the
dagger from the table, and with the left I reached up
and grabbed a fistful of his copious beard. Before he
was aware of what I was doing, I yanked down as
hard as I could. His head hit the table and I brought
the dagger around and down, driving it squarely
through the beard and into the tabletop with a
resounding thud. Gloriosus was pinned, momentar-
ily immobilized as his beard was entangled with the
blade. Given time, of course, he would have man-
aged to pull it loose, but time was not something I
was inclined to afford him.
    I was on my feet then. I could have used my sword,
which was strapped onto my back, but instead I
yanked out the Roman captain's own sword from his
scabbard. He yelped in frustration and grabbed at the
knife to extricate it from his beard... and suddenly
he became very quiet, probably because he felt the
edge of his own blade against the back of his neck.
One movement downward and I could have severed
his head.
    The tavern, which had been bustling with energy
only moments before, suddenly became very quiet.
Every single individual was watching with stony,
impassive silence. It was impossible to tell whether
they approved or disapproved of my actions. Cap said
nothing, but merely stood there with his arms folded,
inscrutable.
    I had his sword in a firm double-handed grip, and
the blade did not waver so much as a centimeter. I
had one of the cutting edges of the blade tucked just
under the bottom of his helmet. Very quietly, very
deliberately, I said, "It would appear you need some
protection from the whelp after all. Wouldn't you say
that's true?"
     He muttered something that sounded like a curse,
 and I repeated, "Wouldn't you say that's true?" To
underscore my point, and the delicacy of his situa-
tion, I pressed the blade down ever so slightly. A thin
line of blood welled up. I couldn't see his eyes from
the angle I was standing, but from the sudden tensing
of his body I was quite sure he felt it.  
"M'k'n'zy," Cap said warningly.
  And then Miles Gtoriosus growled, "Yes."
    "Yes what?" I wasn't going to let him get off quite
that easily.
    "Yes... on reflection, I would say it's true...
that I could have used..." He hesitated, and I
applied just a hair more pressure. "Protection
against the whelp!" he practically spat out as quickly
as he could.
    I stepped back then and he spun with a good deal of
speed, forcibly tearing himself away from the table
with such violence that a generous chunk of his beard
was torn right from his chin. He didn't seem to notice.
He was too busy focusing the fullness of his ire upon
me. For a moment, just for a moment, I envisioned
what it would be like to face him on a true battlefield.
I had a sense of him, a feeling of the environment
from which he came. I realized that the truth was that
I had been rather fortunate. Had he not been so
swaggeringly confident, I never would have been able
to manhandle him so easily.
    He extended a hand and I thought he wanted to
shake mine. Then I realized that he wanted his sword
back. I handed it over to him hilt first. This was a
tactical gamble--some would say error--on my part.
I was holding the blade as I offered the sword to him.
Had he wished to do so, he could have grabbed the
hilt, swung the sword around and tried to gut me like
a freshly caught fish. Whether he would have suc-
ceeded or not is debatable, but he certainly could have
had a good shot at killing me. Instead, however, he
took his sword from me without comment and slid it
into his scabbard. I was impressed by the soundless-
ness of it, since both the steel and scabbard were so
well oiled. There was no hiss of the metal against the
leather; instead it went in noiselessly, and presumably
was pulled in much the same manner.  
"You," he growled, "were lucky."
  I couldn't disagree. I felt the same way.
    "You would be well advised to stay out of my way,"
continued Gloriosus, "lest things not turn out quite so
well for you the next time." Pulling together what was
left of his pride, Gloriosus swaggered away.
    My gaze swept the other captains who were in the
bar. Many of them didn't seem interested in meeting
my glance, but were instead suddenly very preoccu-
pied with looking in other directions entirely. I felt
very unwelcome and unwanted, and had no idea what
the hell I was doing there. I started to rise from my
seat, intending to head for the door, but Cap put a
hand on my forearm and quietly said, "Stay. You have
as much right to be here as anyone else."
  "I doubt that," I said, but I sat anyway.
    Cap placed a mug in front of me. I have no idea
from where he pulled it, but there it was. "First drink
for a first-time customer is always on the house," he
said, gesturing to it. I reached for it tentatively.
    My general paranoia and uncertainty made me
hesitate, but then I sniffed at it and looked up
curiously. "What is this called?" I asked.  "Beer."
     "Bihr." I rolled the unfamiliar word around in my
 mouth, then took a sip of it. It was more pungent than
 I'd expected, but had a certain degree of kick to it. !
 must have been quite a sight: the scruffy barbarian,
 surrounded by men and women who were, for the
 most part, far more cultured and civilized than I
 could ever hope to be. Everyone was watching me,
 even those who were pretending to look in another
direction. They probably wondered what I was doing
there. So did I.
    I swallowed half the beer and found the sensation
somewhat relaxing. I looked at Cap, a gentle warmth
beginning to develop in my gut, and I realized, "You
called me by name before. How did you know my
name?"
    "How did ! know you?" He feigned surprise that
such a question could even be posed. "Why, everyone
knows the name of the great M'k'n'zy. Weren't you
aware of that?"
    "I was not aware of any greatness," I said bitterly.
"My men were depending on me, and I let them
down. It was my fault."
 "Yes. It was," Cap said, matter-of-factly.
    I looked up at him. His comment was a stark
contrast to D'ndai's words of consolation. "What
should I have done, then? How could I have avoided
it?"
    "Oh, you couldn't have," said Cap. He had seated
himself opposite me, and was holding an empty glass,
which he was wiping clean with a white cloth. "There
was nothing you could have done differently. You
made all the correct decisions based upon the infor-
mation you had available to you. Any other person
here, in your position, would have done the same
thing."
"But... you're still saying it's my fault .... "
"Of course it is. You're the captain. You're the
leader. That makes it your responsibility. All these
people," and he nodded his head in their direction,
"oversee vessels or armies or crews, some of them
numbering in the thousands. And whatever happens,
these people here are the final authorities. Theirs is
the final responsibility. Even when it's not their
fault... it's their fault. Tell me, M'k'n'zy..." He
leaned forward in a conspiratorial fashion. "Do you
feel something filtering through the air? A sort of
sensation, a distant heaviness that seems to settle
around your upper torso?"
    "I... suppose. Yes... yes, I think I do at that." I
flexed my shoulders. "What... is that?"
    "It's the weight of the world," Cap said with a
ragged smile. "Everyone here carries it on them, and
it just kind of leaks around and filters through the
atmosphere of the Captain's Table. The nice thing
about this place is that we all share each other's
weight, and that makes it all the more bearable."
    I stared at him skeptically, unsure whether he
literally meant it or not. I found my gaze resting on
the man in blue once more, the one with the beard
who was off by himself. "What's his problem?" I
asked.
    "He lost his vessel," Cap told me. "Over a thou-
sand souls perished, claimed by icy waters. As his
vessel was sinking, he discovered a door on his deck
that he had never noticed before. He stepped through
it... and found himself here. He's been here ever
since. Nothing for him to go back to, really."
  "How long has he been here?" I asked.
    "A few minutes. A few centuries." Cap pulled
thoughtfully at his chin. "It's all subjective, really.
Never an easy answer to that one. Somewhat like
being a commander, really. The easy answers don't
always present themselves readily."
      A slow, eerie feeling began to creep over me.
"Cap..." I said slowly.  "Yes?"
  "Am I... are we... dead?"
    He laughed loudly and boisterously at that. "No,
young M'k'n'zy. We, and you, are not dead. Oh, in a
sense, we're dead to the world, I suppose, in a small
way. It's really the only way this bar can function,
because there is so much responsibility borne by its
patrons that they'd be pulled out of here by those
demands if those requests could reach them. But in
the standard sense, we are very much alive. The land
of the living awaits just beyond the exit."
    ! looked in the direction he was pointing, and then I
asked suspiciously, "How do I know that, if I pass
through that door, I won't wind up splashing about in
the icy waters that took his vessel?" I indicated the
white-bearded captain.
    "So many things you desire to know, young
M'k'n'zy," Cap said, and if a man less charming had
said it, it might have sounded patronizing. "I'm afraid
that there will be some matters which you will have to
take on faith. Besides, you have a destiny to fulfill,
and that destiny certainly doesn't include sinking
beneath the surface of the Atlantic Ocean."  "Of the what?"
  "Of an ocean," Cap amended.
  "And what would this destiny be?" I asked.
    "How would I know that? I'm simply a bartender,
M'k'n'zy. I'm not God."
  "Are you certain of that?"
    He didn't seem to answer at first, but merely smiled,
and then I realized that the smile itself was indeed the
answer. "If you need a refill," he said, "just hold up a
hand and someone will attend to you directly. And
M'k'n'zy... be aware of something ...."
 "Yes?"
    "Every single person here has had failures, set-
backs, and frustrations. Every one has blamed him-
self, sometimes rightly and sometimes wrongly. The
important thing is to keep to the hope of all the
things you can do to benefit others. You can do great
good, M'k'n'zy. Never forget that your men are
depending upon you... but also never forget that
you are not a god. You are not infallible. You are
simply... a captain. Just worry about being the best
captain that you can be, and let the rest sort itself out
as it will."
    "That's too easy, too facile an answer," I told him,
but he wasn't there anymore. He'd moved away from
the table, and a quick glance around the room did not
reveal him.
    I sat there for a time longer. A waitress would bring
over another beer whenever I wanted it, although
interestingly I never actually had to ask her for it. It
was simply there. And when I had enough, the table
space in front of me remained vacant.
    I realized that Cap was right. What made me realize
it was that I kept going over and over it in my mind,
and I wasn't feeling any better over what had hap-
pened, but on the other hand I wasn't coming up with
anything I would have, or could have, done that
would have made it any better.
    Eventually, I knew it was time to leave. To this
day, I don't know whether the impulse came from
within or without. But I was already in motion
before my mind had fully adjusted to my imminent
departure. I had left a random amount of Xenexian
currency behind as a tip, having no clue as to how
much would be appropriate. But Cap, who was
behind the bar, tossed off a salute. I had never seen
one before, since Xenexians tend to bow in deference
to commanding officers. But I returned the gesture
and from his approving smile I surmised that I had
done so correctly. "M'k'n'zy," he called to me. I
turned and waited expectantly. "Next time," he said,
"a story."
  I looked at him oddly. "A story? You'll tell a story?"
  "No," he told me. "You will."
  "About what?"
     He shrugged. "Whatever." Then, effectively ending
 the conversation, he picked up another glass and
 whistled as he wiped it down. I was going to continue
to ask him what he was talking about, but decided
that it would be best simply to be on my way.
    I walked out of the tavern back onto the Xenexian
street. The evening had grown colder. I had no idea
how much time had passed while I was in there.
Drawing my cloak more tightly around myself, !
started down the street... and then hesitated. His
words about a story were still with me, and I felt
myself overwhehned with curiosity. I turned and
retraced my steps so that I could ask Cap for clarifica-
tion.
  I couldn't find the place.
    I was certain that I passed the tavern's location
several times. It wasn't as if there was now a vacant
area where once the tavern had been. The shops and
eateries had simply closed ranks, as if they were
hiding one of their own from prying eyes. On the off
chance that I had headed down the wrong street, I
went to the nearest intersection and circumnavigated
the block. Nothing. Gone. Completely gone. It
wasn't at all possible... but it had happened. The
Captain's Table had somehow managed to make
itself scarce.
    I thought of ghost stories that I had heard, strange
tales of visions and such that I had always half-
kiddingly traded with my friends. I was convinced,
though, that this night I had had an experience very
much along those lines. Perhaps I had been given a
preview of an afterlife set aside for warriors... such
as your Earth's Norsemen, I would learn in later
years, described their Valhalla. Or perhaps I had
wandered into what could best be termed a haunted
house. Perhaps some bizarre interdimensional anom-
aly had situated itself smack on a side street of the city
of Calhoun and had allowed me into it.
 Or perhaps I just wasn't getting enough sleep.
 Resolving to do something about the last circum-
stance, at least, I went into the night without a
backward glance. This was deliberate: Part of me was
afraid to admit that I would not see the place again
when it had so clearly been there, and the other part
was concerned that the Captain's Table had somehow
sprung into existence again. If the latter occurred, I
would not be able to resist entering once more...
and it might be that, given a second opportunity, I
might never leave at all.
  That was my first time at the Captain's Table.
  This...
  This is the second ....

SECOND ENCOUNTER

I WAS GOING OUT of my mind with boredom.
    I read over, for what seemed the hundredth time,
the dispatches from Starfleet regarding the Dominion
War. When the chime sounded at the door of my
ready room, I didn't even hear it the first time. That's
how absorbed I was in the recounting of the various
battles and skirmishes. In fact, it took the voice of my
first officer, Elizabeth Paula Shelby--"Eppy," I called
her, when I felt like being either affectionate or
annoying--calling, "Captain!" through the door to
get my attention.
    I glanced up impatiently, wondered why she wasn't
standing in front of me, and realized that she was still
on the other side of the door waiting for permission to
enter. "Come," I called.
 The door slid open and Elizabeth entered.
 Now there is something you should understand
about Elizabeth: I love her. Deeply. Madly. Com-
pletely. Even when we broke off our engagement, I
never stopped loving her. Even when looking at her
was a knife to the heart, I never stopped loving her.
She is my soul mate, my better half, my significant
other... any nickname you choose to give it, that is
what she is to me. However I can never tell her that. I
know myself, you see. I need to be in control of
situations, and to admit to her how I feel would be to
surrender a part of myself that I am not willing to give
up. In order for me to love Elizabeth as truly as I wish
to, I must bring myself to a state of mind where I
cannot live without her. In my time, however, I have
seen too much death, too much slaughter. I have lost
too many loved ones, time and again. I cannot re-
member a time where death was not a reality rather
than an abstract concept. My very first memory, in
fact, is someone dying. I don't remember the details; I
could not have been more than two seasons old. But I
remember the blood, and the death rattle, and staring
into lifeless eyes before the strong hand of my father
yanked me away.
    If I ever reach a point where I cannot live without
Elizabeth, then I will feel as if I have attached a
beacon to her back that is serving to summon the
Grim Reaper. I cannot leave myself as vulnerable as
that. It would be wrong. Wrong for me, wrong for the
crew... just... wrong.
    So I keep my silence, wrap my feelings for her
within a cloak of toughness mixed with irreverence.
When I argue with her, what I truly want to do is hold
her tight. Every time I say her name, I imagine myself
brushing my lips across hers. She doesn't know any of
this, or at least I pray she does not. Otherwise she
might think the less of me. For in some ways, that
mind-set makes me a coward, and it would pain me if
she regarded me in that manner.
     "Commander," I greeted her formally with a slight
 nod.
     "Are you all right, Captain?" she asked without
 preamble.
  "Fine. Why do you ask?"
     "Well, you got those recent war updates, and you've
 been stewing in here ever since."
     "Stewing?" I raised an eyebrow in mild offense. "I
 wouldn't say 'stewing.'"
"Then how would you term it... sir?" she asked.
I didn't reply immediately, because to be honest,
"stewing" wasn't all that far off the mark. Finally I let
out an annoyed sigh. "'Smoldering,' perhaps. I have a
good deal of anger, Eppy, and no clear idea of what to
do with it."
    "Anger? Why?" She sat opposite me. I could tell she
was concerned about my state of mind, because she
allowed my use of her hated nickname to pass without
comment.
    "We should be there," I said, tapping my computer.
On the screen there was a display of Federation space
with key points in the ongoing war marked for easy
reference. "The Excalibur is as good a starship as any
of them, Eppy, and this is a damned fine crew. A little
odd in places, I admit, but I'd gladly lead any of them
into battle and be confident that they'd give as good a
fight as any opponent is likely to get. Instead we're out
here, in ThaiIonian space. We're..."
    "We're pursuing our mission, as per our orders,
Mac," Elizabeth reminded me.
    "Our orders, our orders. To hell with our orders.
Grozit, Commander... Captain Picard ignored his
orders when the Borg assaulted Earth. Starfleet had
him rooting around the Neutral Zone. He followed
his conscience and if it weren't for him, Earth would
be the sole province of the Borg by now." I pointed in
the general, vague direction of Federation space.
"There are men and women I trained with in the
midst of one of the most formidable wars since the
Romulans first swarmed their borders, and I'm re-
duced to hearing about it secondhand."
    "It was a different situation with Picard, Mac,"
Shelby replied. "He'd been assimilated into the col-
lective at one point, and that made him suspect as far
as the Fleet was concerned. But as he proved, it also
made him uniquely suited to attack and defeat the
Borg. That was a one-in-a-million set of circum-
stances."
  "Our place is with the Fleet," I said firmly.
    "Our place is where we're told to be," she shot
back, but she didn't do so in an angry manner. I could
tell that she was as torn up about the conflict as I was.
For all I knew, she'd love to sit there and voice the
same complaints. But it's part of Shelby's value to me
that she will readily take an opposing viewpoint, if for
no other reason than to make me think more carefully
about whatever it is I'm saying. The fact is, she
challenges me and I learn a lot from her. Not that I
would admit that, of course.
     "I smell Jellico behind this," I told her. At that
 point I rose from behind my desk and pulled my
 sword off the wall. It was the sword that I had taken
 off an enemy, back when the bastard had sliced open
 the right side of my face and left me with a permanent
 scar... or, at least, a scar that I had chosen to leave
 permanently. "He doesn't trust me any more than the
 rest of the Fleet trusted Picard. Perhaps I should
 respond the same way that Picard did." I swung the
 sword through the air. It made satisfying, sharp
 hissing sounds as it cut. Elizabeth flinched slightly;
 perhaps she was worried it was going to come flying
 out of my hand and decapitate her.
     "It's more complicated than that, Mac. There's not
 one big battle going on where we can ride to the
rescue. Besides," she continued in a less strident tone,
"has it occurred to you that this might not simply be
Admiral Jellico?"
    "Believe me, Eppy, if anyone is capable of doing
something to annoy me, it's Jellico?'
    "Perhaps," she admitted, "but Mac, the bottom
line is: We don't know truly how the war is going. We
know what Starfleet is admitting to, but it might be
worse than they're letting on, and what we're hearing
already isn't that great to begin with."
    "Starfleet, less than candid?" I feigned horror at the
very notion. "Careful, Eppy. You might cause the
entirety of my world to come crashing down around
me."
    She didn't seem the least bit impressed by my
dazzling repartee. I couldn't entirely blame her. The
subject matter didn't lend itself to it; it felt clumsy
and forced. Considering what she said next, I can
somewhat understand why the conversation seemed
labored.
    "Have you considered the possibility that the Fed-
eration... could fall?"
    It was not an easy question for her to pose. It was
more than just a case of her tossing out a scenario and
asking whether I had thought about it. In a way, she
was voicing her own greatest nightmare.
    I stared at her. The fact was, it hadn't even occurred
to me. "Of course I've considered it," I lied smoothly.
    "No, you haven't," she said, reminding me of the
typical futility in trying to put something past her.
"You're so convinced of the intrinsic 'rightness' of
your 'side' that you haven't thought for a moment
that the Federation might end up on the short end of
the stick. If that happens, Mac, if things go badly,"
she said patiently, "they're going to need ships that
they've held in reserve. Not only that, but those ships
will need to be captained by the men with the most
experience at operating on their own, without any
guidance from home."
    I knew precisely what she was referring to. All
captains, particularly starship captains, function with
a good deal of autonomy. But there are some cap-
tains... more than I care to think about, really...
who are referred to as "homebodies." They check
with Starfleet constantly about every move they
make, wanting an official stamp on everything they
do in order to avoid second-guessing or potential
charges.
    I was definitely not one of those types. Eppy knew
that all too well. If anything, I tended to operate from
the philosophy that rules were not only made for
other people, but for other galaxies. If Starfleet disap-
peared tomorrow, I wouldn't give a single glance
back.
    "You're more comfortable on your own, Mac. Hap-
pier. Not only that," and she leaned forward on her
elbows, "but how many captains out there actually
have experience in rallying troops against oppressors.
You led an entire planet in revolt before you were
twenty. If you were brought in now, you'd simply be
part of the fleet. You'd probably feel that the situation
was cramping your style. Ahhh, but if it goes badly
with the Federation, and we discover ourselves in a
sort of frontier situation, who better than you to try
and rebuild the society we've all come to know."
      "I..." I let the thought trail off for a moment, and
then shrugged. "I suppose you're right."  "Of course I am."
    Her flat tone certainly sounded like the old Eppy. I
smiled gamely at her. "Your confidence is most appre-
ciated."
    "One of us has to be confident." But then she
reached across the table and took my hand. Her voice
softened and she said, "Mac... I know you've spent
your whole life refusing to settle. You look at the
world around you and you say, 'How can I change it?
How can I make it better? How can I improve upon it
so that it better suits the needs and desires of one
Mackenzie Calhoun?'"
    "You make me sound like the most self-centered
bastard that ever walked the galaxy."
    "No," said Elizabeth ruefully. "That title belongs
to the guy I dated right after I broke off with you. I
was never so angry, before or since, with a man. We
won't discuss him."
    "I owe him a great debt, then. How many men
make me look good in comparison?"
    "The point is, Mac... that mind-set of yours has
made history. You looked upon the people of Xenex,
saw where the problems were, saw what had to be
done, did it... and an entire people breathes free
because of you. That's one hell of an accomplishment,
and no one can ever take that away from you. But
sometimes, you just have to settle for the way things
are. You have to allow things to happen in their own
time and way. I can give you an example, from
centuries ago..."
  "I don't need to hear this."
    "Yes, you do." She settled into her chair. "It used to
be that when children's feet turned sharply inward,
causing them to walk oddly, orthopedists would pro-
vide all sorts of elaborate braces and heavy-duty
tools. And eventually the child would walk normally.
And the doctors were all quite pleased with them-
selves until they did a study and noticed that all the
children left untreated... eventually, they walked
normally, too. There was no cause and effect; if left
alone, the problem righted itself as time passed. All
they had to do was let matters develop naturally. You
see what I'm saying?"
 "Yes. You're saying that if I trust in the natural
order of things, then sooner or later my efforts will
prove pointless and I'll be out of a job."
    She sighed once more. "You're hopeless. And will
you please put the sword away? I know it satisfies your
notions of male posturing, but I'm always afraid it's
going to fly out of your hand and give me another
navel."
    "That'd be a waste, considering you already have
three." I replaced the sword on the wall. "I'm sorry,
Commander. The fact is, I know I'm hopeless. My ex-
fiancee has informed me of that, any number of
times."
    "Mac..." She regarded me with open curiosity,
more so than I could recall in the past. "Speaking of
ex-fianc6es and such... do you ever wonder what
would have happened if we... uhm... if we..."
  "No," I said quickly.
  "Neither do I," she was just as speedy to reply.
  And we left it at that.
 I wasn't able to sleep.
    Despite my lengthy conversation with Elizabeth,
despite the fundamental belief that we were doing
what we were supposed to do, where we were sup-
posed to do it... I still felt a sort of gnawing frustra-
tion. I was supposed to be doing my duty as a Starfleet
officer, continuing on my mission of mercy in the
former ThaiIonian space, Sector 22 I-G. And besides,
Elizabeth was likely correct. The Excalibur was very
possibly being held in reserve, minding our own
business in ThaiIonian space while at the same time
ready at a moment's notice to fight on behalf of the
Federation. Perhaps it was my famous ego talking, but
I was convinced that somehow, in some way, we could
wind up making a difference.
    But it was becoming quite clear that we weren't
going to be given the opportunity. At best, we were
being held in reserve. At worst--to speak in the spirit
of the Borg--we were irrelevant, depending upon
what angle you wished to view the matter from.
    I was in my quarters, bursting with energy and
having no outlet for it. I did some brisk exercises,
trying to burn off some of the frustration. I imagined !
had a sword in my hand, practiced stabbing and
thrusting, my old instincts coming to the fore. I had
removed my shirt and was moving so quickly I would
have been a blur to any observers. At least, ! like to
think so. One does have one's mental images of how
one looks.
    After an interminable time, I stopped. There was a
thin coat of sweat on my chest. Knowing that I wasn't
going to be getting any sleep, I dried myself off with a
towel, got dressed, and exited my quarters.
    As I walked the hallways of the Excalibur, I tried to
look as if I were heading somewhere definitive, or had
deep thoughts on my mind. Anything except appear-
ing simply as a restless commanding officer who
didn't know what to do with himself. I nodded briskly
and greeted assorted crew members, but didn't bother
to engage in small talk. I wasn't feeling especially
chatty.
    For reasons that I didn't even fully comprehend at
first, I stopped in front of the main holodeck. The
controls on it indicated that it was not in use. The
timing was fortuitous. Obviously I was meant to try
and use the holodeck to let off some steam.
    "Rigel Nine. Main marketplace, Tamaran City." I
said. I was literally picking it at random. I'd been to
Rigel IX once, many many years ago. Briefly stopped
in at Tamaran City, had a look around, got rather
drunk and consequently had little memory of the
place. But I was reasonably sure that it was in the
memory of the holodeck computers, since it was
frequented by any number of Starfleet personnel.
    Moments later the doors had opened and I was
standing in a perfect replica of Tamaran City. As soon
as I was in, the doors hissed shut behind me and
blended seamlessly with the rest of the environment. I
should have been used to it, I suppose; that was the
whole purpose of the holodeck, to foster the illusion
of reality if one was willing enough to accept it.
    And what an illusion it was. The rather pungent
smell ofTamaran City's marketplace filled my nostrils
as I began to stroll along the main boulevard. Frying
meats, and assorted potatoes on open grills, and every
block that I walked more merchants would be running
out into the streets with their wares. None of them
were real, and yet they performed with such eagerness
that one would have thought their very livelihood
hinged on their making a sale. I politely nodded off
each one of them. I didn't want anyone--even fake
beings--to perceive me as an easily targeted sucker.
Odd, when one thinks about it, how pervasive pride
can be.
    I wandered the streets, moving into the back sec-
tions, making my way through the alleys. I wasn't
heading anywhere in particular; I was simply seized
with an urge to amble aimlessly about. I still wasn't
getting tired; not the slightest bit of fatigue was
pulling at me. From the corner of my eye, I noticed a
man sneaking valuables from the pocket of another--
a holy man, of all things, a Tellarite. I stepped in and
snagged the thief in the act. He pulled away from me
and bolted into the crowd, and I was about to take off
after him when I realized that it seenled rather absurd
to be chasing a criminal hologram. That might be
taking the compulsion for crime and punishment just
a bit too far. So I allowed him to escape and started to
turn away when the Tellarite's hand was on my
shoulder. I turned toward him slowly. Most Tellarites
were aggressive and warlike, but there was a small
white-clad religious sect that was not only harmless,
but generally considered wise, pious, and peaceful.
Even among their own, they didn't really fit in.
  "Are you troubled, my son?" asked the Tellarite.
  "I'm fine. Really," I said, turning away.
  "Do you know what you need?"
  "I said that I would be fi--"
  "You need a drink."
    It was startling words to hear coming from a
holodeck replication. I turned back and looked
thoughtfully into his face. There seemed to be no
artifice, no sense of guile. For someone who was fake,
he seemed one of the most "real" individuals I had
ever met.
  "A drink, holy man?" I replied cautiously.
    "Yes. A drink. I think that may be where you want
to go," and he pointed toward the end of the street. "I
have heard good things about it."
    I looked where he was pointing, and couldn't even
begin to believe what I was seeing. A sign hung
outside. The logo was in Rigelian, but the meaning
was abundantly clear:
 The Captain's Table.
    By that point I was nothing short of stunned, for
even though my encounter with the Captain's Table
had occurred decades ago, the memory of the place
was as vivid as if it had happened the previous day.
Was it staggering coincidence? Two places in two
different star systems, both with the same name?
    And what was most bizarre about the situation was
that I had walked those actual streets in the past. Not
holos of them, but the real items. If the holodeck was
supposed to be an accurate representation of the area,
why would it have manufactured a doorway to a
tavern that wasn't there?
 I turned back to the holy man, but there was no sign
of him. He had disappeared back into the crowd. I
looked to the door and rubbed my eyes, as if doing so
would somehow expunge the contradictory sight. But
no, it was still right there. I felt as if it were mocking
me.
    "All right. Enough's enough," I said. I walked up to
the door of the Captain's Table and pushed it open.
    The weight of the world was still there. It hit me the
moment I entered. Somehow, though, it didn't seem
quite as heavy as before. Perhaps I had built up
strength in my upper torso from years of carrying it
myself.
    There was also that faint aroma, the smell of sea
air. As opposed to the first time, when it had puzzled
me, this time I felt invigorated. I inhaled deeply, and
my lungs fairly tingled from the sensation.
    Then my rational mind took over and informed
me that this simply couldn't be. It was flat-out
impossible for the Captain's Table, for the real
Captain's Table bar, to somehow have materialized
within the holodeck. Perhaps it was some sort of
elaborate prank. Perhaps it was just wishful think-
ing. No matter what the case, there was no way that I
was going to allow it to continue. The memories of
that place were too deep, too personal to me. I
couldn't permit a shadow of it to exist. Since I was in
the holodeck, of course, there was a simple way to
put a stop to it.
  "End program," I said.
    Nothing happened. The patrons of the bar contin-
ued in their conversations, although one or two of
them might have afforded me a curious glance. It
wasn't like the last time, when the presence of the
incredibly scruffy and disheveled barbarian youngster
immediately captured the attention of all the patrons.
I was older, more "normal"-looking. Still, in many
ways I was just as confused as I was the first time I'd
walked into the place. I was simply a bit more
polished in my presentation.
    "Computer, end program," I repeated. Still nothing
happened. That was a flat-out impossibility. "Com-
puter, end program!" When I received no response, I
tapped my communicator. "Calhoun to bridge." No
response.
    I started to head for the door, and then a very
familiar voice stopped me. "Leaving so soon,
M'k'n'zy? Oh, that's right. You go by 'Mac' these days.
At least, 'Mac' to your friends."
    I turned, knowing ahead of time what I would see.
Sure enough, there was Cap. The fact that he was
exactly as I had remembered him from more than
twenty years earlier was almost proof positive that I
was in a holodeck re-creation. "I'd like to think,"
continued Cap, "that I can still count myself among
your friends. That is the case, isn't it?" 
"How... is this possible?" I asked.
    He looked at me strangely as if he found it puzzling
that I could even question it. "Why shouldn't it be
possible? It's the most natural thing in the world. You
saw a door for the Captain's Table, you walked
through it, and 1o and behold, you're in the Captain's
Table. It's not as if you entered a door with our sign
on it and found yourself in the middle of a baseball
field."
"It would make equally as much sense," I said.
"Mac," and he shook his head disappointedly, "are
you going to spend all your time here complaining
and questioning? Or are you going to..." He
stopped and stared. "What's wrong?"
    I had totally lost focus on what Cap was saying,
because I had spotted... him... across the bar.
 He was just as I remembered him. The only differ-
ence was that he seemed a bit younger than he
appeared to me when I'd first seen him. Maybe it was
because I felt so much older, or maybe it was...
  ú.. maybe it was something else.
    His hair was that same odd combination of gray
with white at the temples. The same heavy eyebrows,
the same jowly face and eyes that seemed to twinkle
with merriment which gave him, in some ways, an
almost elfin appearance. His Starfleet uniform was as
crisp and clean as I remembered it. And his comm
badge was right in place, with no drop of blood on it.
He was engaged in an active discussion with several
other captains of assorted races, and he didn't even
glance my way. I might as well have been invisible to
him.
 "Kenyon," I whispered. "Captain Kenyon."
    He didn't hear me, of course. I was on the opposite
side of the tavern. But I was going to change that very
quickly.
    "Mac," Cap said. I knew that tone of voice; it was
the same warning tone that he had used when I had
confronted the Roman captain. In this case, it
sounded even more firm and strident than it had the
previous time. But I didn't care; it wasn't going to
slow me down for a moment.
    I started to make my way across the pub, toward
Kenyon. That was when things started to happen.
    It was subtle, at first, and then it became more
pronounced. A waitress getting in my way, turning me
around. Then a crowd of revelers moved between
Kenyon and myself. When they passed, I had lost
sight of Kenyon... and then spotted him, apparently
as he had been before except it seemed as if the table
had relocated somehow. I angled in that direction...
and encountered more bar patrons, another waitressú
A bus boy dropped a stack of dishes, and I reflexively
glanced in the way of the crash. When I looked back,
Kenyon was somewhere else again, except there was
no indication that he'd moved.
 "What the hell?" I muttered.
    Cap was at my elbow. "Sit down, Mac," he said
firmly.
 "Cap, I..."
 "Sit... down."
    Had someone else taken that tone of voice with me,
I would have bristled, barked back, had any of a
hundred reactions, all of them aggressive. But some-
thing in Cap's look and tone prompted me to sit down
as meekly as a first-year cadet. More meekly, actually,
come to think of it, considering that in my first year at
the Academy I dislocated the jaw of a third-year
student when he made some condescending remarks.
    There was sympathy in his eyes, but also firmness,
as he sat opposite me. "There are certain rules of the
Captain's Table, Mac," he said not unkindly. "And
one of the big rules is that no one here can do
anything to change the timeline or fate of anyone else.
That falls under the category of duty, and at the '
Captain's Table, one is expected to leave one's duties
at the door."
    "But I can't just let him sit there and not know...
not when I can tell him..."
    "That, Mac, is precisely what you not only can do,
but have to do. No man should know his own destiny.
No man can know; otherwise he just becomes a pawn
of fate and no longer a man."
    "That's a nice philosophy, Cap. And I'm supposed
to just stand by and--"
    "Yes, Mac," and this time his tone was flat and
uncompromising. "Rules of the house. I'm afraid that
that is exactly what you're supposed to do."
    I stared forlornly across the tavern at him. Never
had the clich6, "So near and yet so far" had quite as
much meaning to me. "Why am I here, then?" I asked
in annoyance. "I mean... I would have thought that
the reason one comes here is to relax."  "It is."
    "How can I relax? How am I supposed to do that
when I see Kenyon there, right there. It's within my
ability to help him, to warn him..."
    "It wouldn't help, Mac. In fact, it would very likely
hurt, in ways that you can't even begin to imagine.
You can't say anything. More to the point, you won't
say anything."
    My temper began to flare ever so slightly. "And if I
simply choose to walk out the door rather than stay
here under your rules?"
    "All of us have free will, Mac. You can go as you
please."
  "But not necessarily come back?"
    He smiled thinly. "We've always been a bit of a
catch-as-catch-can operation, Mac. If you're looking
for a guarantee that you'd be back, well... no prom-
ises. But if you did continue to try and flaunt the rules
of the house, well..." He shrugged noncommittally.
  I looked down. "I've never been much for rules."
  "Yes, I know that," he said. "Sometimes that has
  served you quite well. After all, if you stuck to the
  rules, your homeworld would still be under the thumb
  of the Danteri. And you would not be as good a
  captain as you are."
 "You think I'm a good captain?" I asked.
 "Yes. But why does it matter what I think?"
    "I don't..." I considered the question, and then
said, "I don't... know. But it does. Maybe it's you.
Maybe it's this place."
    "Maybe it's a little of both," said Cap. "We bar-
tenders, we're surrogates. Surrogate parents, father
confessors, what have you. We try not to judge."
  "That a house rule, too?"
 "No. Just a bit of common courtesy." Suddenly he
turned and snapped his fingers briskly once. I was
confused for a moment, but then a waitress came over
as if by magic and, without a word, deposited a beer
in front of me.
    "I take it your tastes haven't changed, even though
your appearance has somewhat," he said. "The scar,
in particular. Very decorative."
    "Thank you," I said ruefully. "Sometimes I consid-
er allowing someone else to lay open the other side of
my face so that I'll have balance."
    "Not a bad idea," Cap replied, and I couldn't
entirely tell whether he was being sarcastic or not.
    The glass was frosted, and the beer felt good going
down. I lowered the mug and tapped it. "I take it I'm
old enough that my drinks are no longer free."
    "You take it correctly. There is a price attached. A
story."
    "A story. You mentioned that last time. You want
me to tell you a story? It sounds rather juvenile."
    "Not me," Cap said in amusement, as if the mere
suggesting of such a thing was an absurdity. "No, I'm
just the bartender."
    "There's something about you, Cap, that makes me
think you're not 'just' anything."
    He let the remark pass. "No, the tales told here are
for the customers, Mac. For your fellow captains, who
love tales of adventure and derring-do."
    "I don't think my do is particularly derring. Be-
sides, I... don't particularly like stories. Especially
stories about myself."
    "I'm surprised you would feel that way, Mac. I
would have thought that someone like you, a plane-
tary hero, would be accustomed to hearing stories of
his adventures bandied about."
    "I am. That's part of the point." I took another sip
of beer. "When I worked to liberate Xenex, I heard
tales of my adventures and endeavors, spreading from
town to town. Sometimes a storyteller would speak to
an audience spellbound by the manner in which he
wove tales of my exploits. And I would sit at the outer
fringes of such gatherings and gather no notice at all,
for the M'k'n'zy of Calhoun who featured in those
tales was seven and a half feet tall, with eyes of blazing
fire, muscles the size of mighty boulders. His pre-
ferred weapon was a sword so massive that it took
either one M'k'n'zy or three normal men to wield it,
and when he walked the ground trembled beneath his
mighty stride and beautiful women threw themselves
upon him and begged him to sire their children."
  "And none of that was true?" Cap asked.
    "Well... maybe the part about the women," I
allowed.
    We both laughed softly for a moment, and then I
grew serious. "But I knew that these fables were just
that, Cap... fables. They bore no resemblance to the
real world. In those stories, I single-handedly slaugh-
tered hundreds--no, thousands--of Danteri troops.
My troops supposedly stood in awe of my prowess
and fell to their knees in worship of me. It was all
nonsense. Stories are not real life. In real life, good
does not always triumph, and decent people suffer for
no purpose and receive no final redemption. Stories
are the antithesis of life, in that stories must have a
point. I live in the real world, Cap. Sweet fictions have
no relevance to me."
    "Don't sell such fables short, Mac. You do them,
and you, a disservice. Consider the effect such stories
had on your own people. When they heard tales of the
great M'k'n'zy, they drew hope from that. It sustained
them, nourished their souls in their time of need. So
what if there were exaggerations? Who cares if the
reality did not match the fancy? What was important
was that it took them out of themselves, gave them
something to think about besides the difficulties of
their lives. Dreams are very powerful tools, Mac. By
hearing the stories of your great deeds, the Xenexians
dreamed of a better life. From the dreaming came the
doing. Life imitates art which imitates life in turn,
and stories of your adventures are just part of that
cycle."
 "I suppose .... "
    "No supposing. Take my word for it. And now,
Mac, this is what you're going to do: You're going to
find another captain or captains here, and you will sit
him, her, or them down, and you will tell a story of
your exploits. If you feel constrained to adhere to
reality... if you must tell a story where good does
not triumph, or decent people suffer... if that is
what's required for you to maintain the moral purity
of your soul, who am I to gainsay you?"
    "Who are you indeed?" I asked. "That's actually
something I've been wondering about. Who are you
when you're not being you, Cap?"
    "I am," Cap smiled, "who I am." He patted me on
the shoulder as he rose. "Find a willing audience,
Mac. Find it and share something of yourself. You
owe it to them, to yourself..." He touched the mug
of beer. "... and to your tab."
    I watched him head back to his bar. I noticed for
the first time that he walked with a very slight limp. I
had no idea why, nor could I find it within me to ask. I
had the feeling that I'd just get another roundabout,
vague answer.
    For a moment I considered getting up and heading
out the door. But part of me was concerned that I
really wouldn't be able to find the place again, no
matter how hard I looked. I still wasn't entirely sure
what I was doing there in the first place, or how I'd
gotten to it. But it had become apparent that, when it
came to questions about the Captain's Table, less was
generally preferable to more.
"I still think it's a waste of time," I called after him.
He slowed long enough to say over his shoulder,
"There are some things in this galaxy that are for us to
think about. And there are other things that are for us
to do. This is one of the latter. Understand?"  
I didn't, but I said that I did.
    I suppose the real truth of it is that I simply don't
like to share things. I don't like to say what's going on
in my mind. Call it my military upbringing, if you
will. I tend to dole out information on a need-to-know
basis. Otherwise I tend to keep things to myself.
    But I like Cap, and I like this place. I would hate to
think that I should never find my way back to it again,
be it by happenstance, cosmic direction, destiny, or
plain dumb luck. So for once even the mighty, rule-
flaunting Mackenzie Calhoun will play by the rules.
You seem like a worthy individual to tell my story to;
indeed, you may be the best qualified here.
    My previous post to the captaincy of the Excalibur
was as first officer aboard the Starship Grissom.
    Perhaps the name should have cautioned me. It was
named after an Earth astronaut, Virgil "Gus" Gris-
som. His career in space started off impressively
enough. Grissom was the second American in space,
flying a suborbital vessel called the Liberty Bell, which
was part of the Mercury program. He flew in the
Gemini program after that. He was well liked and
respected, and his career was on the fast track for
greatness... just like mine seemed to be.
    And then he died. He did so horribly, asphyxiating
aboard a flight simulator which erupted in flames. A
man like that, if he were to die in action, deserved to die
in space. That's where his heart was, where his destiny
was. Instead his career was cut short thanks to a terrible
accident. It should not have happened that way.
  That reminds me of me as well.
 But I knew none of that when the assignment
aboard the Grissom was presented to me. I simply saw
it as an opportunity, a chance to advance in the career
that I was quite certain was to be mine by divine right.
    I was to learn otherwise. And it all ended... rather
badly.
 Here's what happened.

THE INTERVIEW

CAPTAIN NORMAN KENYON was the epitome of the
word "avuncular." (That means "uncle-like," in case
you do not wish to scramble to a dictionary.)
    Kenyon had been something of a lady's man in his
younger days, and the ladies ostensibly loved it. In
fact it was rumored--although never proven, at least
to my knowledge--that there was a secret society
which called itself "the Norman Conquests," and that
it was something of a badge of honor to join the club.
I have no idea whether meetings were held, secret
handshakes were established. For all I know, the
entire matter was apocryphal. I never quite mustered
the nerve to ask the captain himself about it. Since
Kenyon was always one of the more gentlemanly of
men, I suspect that if I had, the question would likely
have elicited nothing more than an enigmatic smile.
And that, I daresay, is how it should be.
    However, even the most rakish of men tends to
settle down at one point or another. The good captain
eventually married (and again, perhaps apocryphally,
the Norman Conquests had a symbolic wake) and
produced a daughter who was, by all accounts, quite
impressive, a lively and intelligent daughter named
Stephanie. I shall tell you more of her a bit later.
    The marriage was quite happy, and Kenyon and his
wife served together as a research team, while rising up
the ranks together, and Kenyon eventually achieved
the rank of captain. His wife--Marsha was her name,
as I recall--served as his science officer aboard Ken-
yon's new command, the U.S.S. Harriman. However,
two months into their tour of duty, the Harrirnan was
caught in a crossfire between a Klingon and Romulan
vessel. Casualties were light... but unfortunately,
Marsha Kenyon was among the few. Light, I suppose,
is cold comfort when it's your lover who is lying cold in
the cargo bay awaiting transport back to Earth.
    Norman Kenyon was devastated by the loss, of
course. Starfleet offered him a leave of absence. He
didn't take it. Stephanie was grown and following her
own career, and to Kenyon, Earth was simply another
alien world for all the meaning it had to him. Starfleet
had a hearing over it, because they were concerned
about his state of mind. Those who were witnesses
said that Kenyon spoke on his own behalf in quiet,
controlled tones that nonetheless were so moving that
even hardened admirals were having trouble choking
back tears. "I have lost my love," he told them. "Do
not take my life from me as well."
    They gave him command of the Grissorn. From
what I understand, the crew wasn't sure how to act
around him at first. Obviously a captain is to be
treated with respect, but the mood that can best be
ascribed to the crew at that point was "tentative."
They knew that he was mourning his loss, and conse-
quently acted in a cautious manner. They needn't
have done so. Kenyon was all business at first, and
after a bit of time passed, became downright pleasant.
As a captain, he was absolutely unflappable. Calm,
patient, easygoing... and yet he never came across
as a pushover. He had no trouble making the tough
decisions, but never did so in anything other than an
unhurried manner. In no time at all he knew the
name, first and last, of every single person on the ship,
and greeted them by name rather than rank. If he
encountered a crewman who had some sort of prob-
lem, no matter how much the crewman tried to cover
it, Kenyon always knew. Some people believed he was
part Betazoid, even though he was born in Kansas
from two very human parents. And Kenyon would
take the crewman aside, even take him to Ten-
Forward, and talk the difficulty out. Sometimes he
came up with some angle that the crewman hadn't
considered, sometimes not, but talking to him always
managed to at least make the man in question feel
better.
    And no matter what situation he faced with other
races that he encountered, not only did he always
appear in control of matters, but he met every crisis
with coolness and more than a modicum of charm.
He had a ready smile, and even opposing captains
tended to find him rather likable. It was easy to see
how he would have been capable of amassing so many
female admirers that he would have acquired his own
followers, but once he became captain of the Grissom,
and a widower, he had no known involvement with
any women on board ship, or even on shore leave. He
was urbane, even flirtatious on rare occasions, but
that was as far as it went. Even though his wife was
gone, he was still loyal to her. It was sweet in a way.
Bittersweet, really.

    There are command officers who are respected,
there are those who are admired, there are those who
are simply obeyed. Kenyon was all that and more: He
was beloved. By the time I came on the scene, there
wasn't a man or woman on the ship who wouldn't
have been willing to walk barefoot on broken glass for
him. He'd been serving as captain for two and a half
years by that point. Kenyon's first officer, Paullina
Simons, had just gotten her own command aboard the
U.S.S. Houston. So Kenyon was interviewing for a
new first officer.
 Enter one Mackenzie Calhoun.
    I already had something of a reputation as a hell-
raiser. However, I also had a major supporter within
Starfleet. His name was Admiral Edward Jellico, and
considering how matters eventually turned out be-
tween us, it was really rather ironic that it was his
recommendation which jumped my name to the top
of the pile.
    I cooled my heels at Starbase 27 for a couple of
days, waiting to rendezvous with the Grissom. Mostly
I kept to myself. It wasn't all that difficult; the savage
known as M'k'n'zy Calhoun was much nearer to the
surface in those days than now. I had managed to
cloak him with respectability, paint him over with a
thin veneer of civilization. But I would still reflexively
appraise anyone who came near me, sizing them up,
dissecting them with a glance. Looking to see if they
had weapons, whether they were spies, whether they
appeared to be a threat. It wasn't as if I was some
spring-loaded, demented nut who was prepared to
leap to attack at any time. I had that much reined in,
at least. It was simply reflex, looking for danger at
every turn. It was instincts that had served me well
and saved my life any number of times, particularly
back on Xenex when the Danteri started sending in
spies to infiltrate us. One of them got so close to me
that I barely had time to disembowel him before he
took a shot at me. Got blood on my boots. It was quite
a mess.
  I'm getting off track here.
    The point is that what had served me so well on
Xenex was somewhat off-putting to the more civilized
tastes of Starfleet and associated races. People rarely
said anything about it directly to me because, really,
what was there to say? I never said anything threaten-
ing, never attacked, never did something untoward.
Were they supposed to go to their COs and say, "That
guy over there with the scar and the purple eyes is
looking at me funny!"
    I was an object of curiosity, but not much more
than that.
    So I sat around and thought for two days. My life at
that point was split into two times: Before I joined
Starfleet, and after. It was a very curious circumstance
for me, the first Xenexian to join up. I suppose that,
deep down--or perhaps not so deep down--I felt a
bit of a fraud. To me, everyone else who was in
Starfleet seemed born to it. They had every business
being there, and I didn't. No one else had that deep,
abiding violence in their heart that I did. I was a wolf
in Starfleet clothing.
 I also missed Elizabeth.
    There was something in her that had calmed me. I
was able to bury myself in her, leave behind that part
of me that in some ways I would almost have pre-
ferred to forget. Ultimately that may be what caused
the relationship to be doomed. I wasn't ready for it,
wasn't grown-up enough. I used her to satisfy my own
needs and never really knew or understood what her
own needs were. Not that I would have admitted to it,
of course. Xenexian pride and all that.
    At the time, though, sitting there in the starbase, I
didn't have the emotional distance or maturity to
understand that. All I knew was that I was angry, and
lonely, and sullen, and resenting the hell out of
Elizabeth. I also resented myself and my limitations,
but I wasn't entirely able to admit that to myself. I
wanted company, female company, but by the same
token I didn't want to let anyone else near me. I had
left myself vulnerable with Elizabeth Shelby, and
when it hadn't worked out I was determined to be
nothing but alone. Not the most reasonable of goals,
but--as always--the instinctive one.
    So when the Grissom arrived, I was not in the
greatest of moods. Just where one wants to be when
facing an interview that could make or break one's
career.
    I beamed aboard the Grissom, and I have no doubt
that there were more than a few sighs of relief on the
starbase once I was gone. She was a much larger ship
than any I'd served on, with easily twice the number
of crewmen. More than any other vessel I'd been on,
she seemed like a floating city in space. To me, it was
dazzling. But I tried not to let any of that awed
attitude show through, since I felt that it would be
viewed as unprofessional.
    I was extremely surprised by the woman who
greeted me in the transporter room of the Grissom.
    She was a tall woman, with broad shoulders and an
air of infinite superiority about her. Even though she
was fully clothed in uniform, of course, I could tell
that her body was lean and hard. She stood with her
jaw slightly outthrust, her dark blond hair tied in a
severe knot. Her eyes were cobalt blue and instantly
captivating.
    But her most prominent feature was something
totally unexpected. She had a scar. Not exactly like
mine, but not totally dissimilar. It was on the left side
of her face, as opposed to mine on the right. It was
thinner as well. My guess was that it had been made
with some sort of a sword, as mine had been, but a
thinner one: a rapier, perhaps. It had long since
healed over, but it was still quite visible. Like me, she
could of course have had the scar removed or re-
paired. With modern cosmetic repair techniques, it
would have been the work of minutes at most. But she
had chosen to keep hers, just as I had mine. I was
curious about the reasons. Indeed, I was curious
about her altogether.
    The moment she saw me, I could have sworn that a
fleeting look of' amusement played over her features,
but then she immediately covered it rather deftly.
    "Commander," she said crisply. Her voice had the
faint hint of a German accent. "I'm Katerina Mueller,
ship's XO." She stuck out a hand and I took it in a
firm grip as I stepped down from the transporter pad.
She was about an inch taller than I was.
 "I'm surprised to see you awake, XO."
    She tilted her head slightly like a curious dog.
"Sir?"
    "The executive officer generally runs the night shift.
Unless I've completely lost track of time, we're solidly
in the middle of the day shift."
    "That's correct. However, with Commander...
I'm sorry, Captain... Simons having already de-
parted for her command, I'm performing double duty
until she's been replaced."
 "Sounds rather grueling."
    "We learn to adapt, sir." She gestured toward the
door, and I preceded her out into the hallway.
    I tried not to look around too much. It would have
made me feel like a tourist. But I couldn't help but
steal glances here and there, and I could only hope
that I wasn't coming across as an idiot to XO Mueller.
"How long have you been serving with the Grissom,
Mueller?" I asked.
    "Two years, one month, twenty-three days," she
replied.
    I smiled slightly. "Sounds to me like you might
have some Vulcan blood in you, Mueller, with an-
swers like that."
  "Merely trying to be accurate, Commander."
    "Not interested in the second-in-command slot
yourself?."
    "I don't feel I'm quite temperamentally suited to it.
I prefer the nightside, and the duties of XO. The
second chair is a stepping-stone to captaincy, and at
this point in my career, I'm not angling for that."
  "You seem to know yourself quite well, XO."
    "If I don't, sir, who will?" She paused a moment
and then said, "I know it's been a rather short period
of acquaintance, Commander, but do you mind if I
ask you a personal question?"  "Let me guess: My scar."
 "Very perceptive, Commander."
    "Got it in a fight. Someone came at me and I was a
hair slow in dodging."
    "I would say you were a hair fast. If you hadn't
been, your opponent would have split your skull, by
the look of it."
 "That's about accurate, yes."
 "You killed him, I take it?"
    I looked at her with what must have been a puzzled
expression. "You sound rather sanguine about it."
    "It's just common sense. If someone endeavors to
bisect your cranium, seeking to open negotiations
doesn't quite seem to be a proportionate response.
Clearly it was kill or be killed."
    I nodded approvingly. "Quite right, XO." Oddly, I
found myself warming to her quickly.
    "May I ask how you attended to the wound at the
time? It looks rather comprehensive. Why are there
no stitches?"
  "I fused it together myself using a laser welder."
    She stopped dead in her tracks and stared at me.
"Pardon?"
  "I said I fused it with a laser welder."
    She nodded, pondering this, and then picked up the
pace once more. "Is that a procedure you would
readily recommend?"
  "Only for an enemy. Hurts like hell."
  "I would imagine."
    We stepped into a turbolift. "Bridge," said Mueller,
and the lift immediately headed us toward the nerve
center of the ship. Why in God's name the bridge,
arguably the most important strategic point of the
vessel, is an easy target at the top of the saucer section
is something I never completely understood. Why not
just paint a big target on your ship and write, "Aim
here for best shot at the captain"? Unfortunately, no
one in Starfleet had ever consulted me on techniques
of vessel design.
    "So how did you get--?" I tapped the side of my
face, clearly referring to her own facial laceration.
    "This?" She traced the length of her wound with
her index finger and seemed to smile at the memory.
"Heidelberg fencing scar."
  "Heidelberg? That's a school, isn't it?"
    She nodded. "University in Germany. Renowned,
among other things, for its fencing. It was discontin-
ued for a time, but a push for returning to traditional
values brought it back about a hundred years ago. I
picked up this memento during a fencing exercise."
    "Shouldn't you have been wearing a protective face
mask?"
  She regarded me with open curiosity. "Why?"
  "So you would have been protected."
    "This is a badge of honor, Commander," she told
me archly. "I wear it proudly... as, I suspect, do
you."
"What about your opponent? How did he, or she,
turn out?"
    Without a word, she drew her finger across her
throat in a swift cutting gesture. I laughed uncer-
tainly. She showed no signs of indicating that she was
kidding, and I decided that it might be best if I didn't
try to press the point.
    The turbolift opened onto the bridge. A man was
seated in the captain's chair with his back to us, but
his hair was blond and even from the back I could see
that he was much too young to be captain. The man
half-turned in the seat and saw XO Mueller. Immedi-
ately he rose to make way for Mueller, and seemed
only mildly curious as to my presence there. Perhaps
he'd had advance notice of my arrival.
    He was the first blond Asian I'd ever seen. It didn't
appear to be any sort of cosmetic change, but rather
his natural hair color. His hair was fairly round. He
had remarkably young features; indeed, if I didn't
know better, I'd have thought he hadn't even started
shaving yet. But with the rank of lieutenant, obviously
he had a few years on him.
    Mueller waved him off. "Take back the conn, Lieu-
tenant, I'll be a few minutes still. Commander Cal-
houn, this is Lieutenant Romeo Takahashi, science
and ops."
    When he spoke, it was with a voice that was at odds
with his face (which was already fighting with his
hair). He spoke slowly and in an intonation that could
best be characterized as a deep Southern drawl. "Call
me Hash," said the lieutenant, shaking my hand
firmly. "Ev'body does."
    "No, we don't," Mueller said with what appeared
as faint disapproval. But it was difficult for me to tell
whether she was really annoyed by him, or whether
she found him amusing.
  "You don't, XO." He looked at me with what
appeared to be a search for sympathy. "You'll find our
XO, she tends to be on the formal side," Hash said.
    Hash reached out and shook my hand, and I was
astounded by the strength in his grip. He wasn't a
particularly tall man, but he shook my hand so firmly
that I thought he was going to break my fingers. "Why
do they... or at least some people... call you
'Hash'?" I asked.
    "Because," he replied, "aside from the obvious
shortening of Takahashi, I also make the best corned-
beef hash that anyone on this li'l starship has ever
tasted. It's become so fundamental to so many peo-
ple's diets around these parts, they're thinking of
adding it to the periodic table as an element." "Is that a fact?"
    "No, it's not, Commander. This way," said Muel-
ler, looking as if she felt enough time had been wasted
on him.
    "XO," Hash remonstrated her gently, "we have
simply got to get you a sense of humor."
    She stared at him as if he were a microbe. "Lieuten-
ant, if it's not issued at the Academy, I live without it.
Besides, the fact is that your own wit is just so
devastating that, had I an actual sense of humor, I'd
be too busy being convulsed with laughter and there-
fore unable to fulfill my duties."
    "Then I suppose it's all worked out for the best," he
said.
    "Yes, I guess so," she agreed, and led me quickly to
the captain's ready room. I caught Hash out of the
comer of my eye grinning in amusement and shaking
his head even as he settled back, however temporarily,
into the command chair.
    "Come," I heard a deep voice issue from behind
the doors of the ready room. Mueller gestured that I
should enter, but stood to one side. It was clear from
her posture that she had no intention of going in
herself.
    My first impression of Kenyon was an air of unfail-
ing pleasantness... but with an undercurrent of firm
command. I sensed immediately that there were
many layers to him, all hidden securely below the
surface. I almost envied him that. Me, I was not
tremendously skilled at keeping my "layers" out of
sight. There was the Calhoun who was struggling to fit
into Starfleet, wearing his faqade of respectability like
a too-tight second skin. And there was the Calhoun
who was barely civilized enough to know how to fold
a napkin... or even use it properly. He bubbled and
percolated just below the surface. That pretty much
summed up the extent of Mackenzie Calhoun.
    "Captain Kenyon," I said, standing several feet
away from him, "Commander Calhoun reporting for
interview as instructed, sir." I wasn't entirely sure
whether I was supposed to shake his hand or simply
stand at attention and await his preference for how to
conduct the interview.
    I didn't have long to wait. As the doors started to hiss
closed, with Mueller on the outside, Kenyon looked me
up and down: my perfect posture, my eyes staring
resolutely straight ahead as if I'd found something in
midair incredibly fascinating. He said, "I'd invite you to
sit down, Commander, presuming that you can bend at
the waist with all that starch in your shorts."
    I noticed that Mueller was smirking slightly, shak-
ing her head, as the doors closed, blocking her from
sight. I was rather glad. No... make that rather
relieved.
    I sat, feeling rather annoyed. "I can't say I particu-
larly appreciate that assessment, Captain."
    "It wasn't for you to appreciate, Commander. Just
react to." He was studying what appeared to be my
service record on the computer screen. "You come
highly recommended by Edward Jellico. That's very
rare. Jellico's a hard nut to crack." "Yes, sir."
    "And what's impressive is that you do not have
exactly sterling recommendations from your com-
manding officers. That's also very rare. Generally
everyone in Starfleet pulls together for mutual gain
when it comes to climbing the ranks, which means
you must have put a few noses out of joint along the
way." He paused. "Not speaking up in your own
defense?"
    "I wasn't aware you were waiting for a reply, sir.
Seemed like a fairly self-contained statement."
    "Mm-hmm. So." He leaned forward, his hands
folded. "You want to tell me why it is that Jellico sang
your praises?"
    "I... did him some small service. Him and his
son."
 "I see. Care to go into detail?"
 "I don't see that it's necessary, sir."
 "Just being modest?"
 I shrugged. "Maybe."
    "You don't seem particularly comfortable here,
Calhoun."
 "I'm not, sir. It's the starch in my shorts."
    He guffawed at that and then quickly reined it in.
"For what it's worth, you don't have to. Jellico told
me all about it. Couldn't stop talking about it, actu-
ally."
    "He probably exaggerated it, sir. You know these
things... they always become bigger in the re-
telling?'
    "Something about how he'd been temporarily as-
signed to your previous ship for the purpose of him
and his son going into a first-contact situation. The
first contact went sour. The natives were not only rest-
less, they tried to capture and/or kill both Jellico and
his son. Mackenzie Calhoun, the ship's third officer
and tactical officer, happened to be there, along with a
security escort. In the melee, the entire security escort
died in defending Jellico. It came down to Mackenzie
Calhoun versus about twenty men who were trying to
get to the admiral. And Calhoun, with a phaser that
was tapped out, took them down barehanded despite
suffering multiple abrasions, contusions, two broken
ribs, and a skull fracture. Now, was any of that
exaggerated?"
 "Yes, sir," I said immediately.
 "Which part?"
    "It wasn't twenty men... it was fifteen. The phas-
er wasn't completely depleted, good for at least two
more shots. And I wasn't barehanded. I managed to
break apart a chair and use the legs for clubs."
    "Oh, well, that's a completely different story." He
rose from behind his desk and circled the room, his
hands draped behind his back. "So anything that
Admiral Jellico says about you should be attri-
buted to the stress of the moment. Words like,
'heroic, bravery above and beyond, determination,
stamina...'"
    "Those could all be used to describe a long-distance
runner, sir, but I don't know that I'd put one in charge
of a ship," I pointed out.
 "Don't you want to get ahead, Calhoun?"
 "I hadn't given it much thought, sir."
    "Oh, nonsense. What sort of career officer doesn't
give much thought as to whether he wants to get
ahead or not?"
    He was behind me, but I didn't turn to face him.
Instead I continued to look straight ahead. "The kind
who doesn't want to worry about second-guessing
himself. The kind who wants and needs to trust his
instincts, without being concerned as to how it's going
to look on his record or who it's going to upset so that
he can't get good recommendations in the future.
That kind."
    I thought he nodded, although since he was behind
me, I couldn't say for sure. "Previous commanders or
superior officers describe you as headstrong. As insub-
ordinate. As a maverick. As someone who thinks that
the rules do not apply to him. Do you feel that the
rules apply to you, Calhoun?"
  "All but the stupid ones, sir."
  "Indeed. And to whom do those apply?"
    "Those who are too stupid to realize the stupidity
of them."
    "And who makes those judgments? You? Don't you
have any respect for authority?"
    Now I turned to face him. "I acknowledge authori-
ty. I acknowledge that those in authority have power
over me. But that is not a condition that I take either
lightly or for granted, no matter how much they
endeavor to drill the chain of command into me.
When those in authority are acting stupidly, I do not
feel constrained to join them. That doesn't make for
good officers. Just more stupidity. Rules and regula-
tions are not handed down on high from the gods.
They're made by people, mortal people, no more, no
less. People who can't be expected to anticipate every
eventuality. What some individuals perceive as im-
mutable laws that restrict our actions, I see as guide-
lines that indicate what a particular body of
opinion-makers believes to be the best way of com-
pleting a mission and coming home safely. But just
because they believe it to be the best doesn't automat-
ically make it so, and under no circumstance is it the
only one. And if there are consequences for deviating
from the limits that others have made, then I will
accept those consequences. But no one, sir, with all
due respect, is going to tell me how to live my life or
force me to do that which I know, in my heart, to be
wrong. I will be free, in thought and action."
     "Have you considered the possibility, Calhoun,
that you might be in the wrong field of endeavor."
  "Every day since I entered the Academy, sir."
  "And yet you stayed. Why?"
    I laughed. It wasn't a particularly pleasant sound.
More rueful than anything else. "Because, sir... I
had nothing better to do."
    "Well well," Kenyon said after a time. "I can see
how you've managed to endear yourself to your
superiors. You don't just take on responsibility for
yourself. You don't just take the word of others. You
feel it necessary to take on the entirety of The Way
Things Are every time out, and let the consequences
fall on you. You remake the galaxy in your image."
  "I think that's overstating it, sir."
  "Really? I don't."
I shrugged, seeing no reason to press the point.
"And what would you do if you were my first officer
and I stepped out of line, eh? If I did something that
you felt to be stupid. Or do you feel it wouldn't be
your place to make that kind of judgment?"
    "It would not only be my place, Captain, but my
responsibility. If a j.g. down in the sickbay does
something stupid, that doesn't necessarily have
broad-ranging impact. If you do it, it could have dire
consequences for everyone on ship."
 "So you'd be second-guessing me."
 "Every time, sir."
 "And you wouldn't be afraid to tell me so."
 "No, sir."
 "In front of the entire bridge crew, if necessary?"
    I didn't reply right away. The silence seemed to
surprise him. "You hesitate," he said.
 "Not in front of the bridge crew, no, sir."
    "Really. You would curtail your right to voice
objections?"
    "There are limits, sir," and I smiled thinly, "even to
me. It is possible to exercise one's right to judge
others, and act on that judgment, without curtailing
another's right to command. If I had a dispute with
the way that a captain was handling matters, I would
make certain that that dispute was handled in private.
To openly argue with the CO could have a negative
impact on the CO's ability to lead, and that would
be... it would be inappropriate. Besides, think of
the unnecessary damage to morale if I challenged the
captain in front of the crew and it turned out that my
concerns were groundless."
    "Are you saying, Commander," and he reigned
shock, "that you allow for the possibility that you
might be... wrong?"
    "It has been known to happen, sir," I allowed. "On
one or two occasions."
    "And if I were risking myself, and my personal
safety, in a circumstance where the crew was not
directly involved? Where it was just me and my
conscience? If you thought I was misguided in my
endeavors, would you allow me to risk myself?."
  "Of course," I said promptly.
  "You would?"
    "You're a grown man, Captain. You have free will,
you're a free man. If you felt strongly that you must
risk youmelf, it would be insulting of me to try and
curtail that instinct. Insulting and condescending."
  "So you would allow me to risk death."
  "Yes, without hesitation."
    He seemed most puzzled, as if he couldn't believe I
was saying it. As if I'd admitted some horrible secret.
"You would stand by and let me..."
    "Stand by?" I made no effort to hide the surprise I
felt. "Of course I wouldn't stand by. If you felt that
facing danger was unavoidable, I would do nothing to
stop you. But I would naturally feel constrained to
share that danger. I could do no less."  "Why?"
    "Because in making the decision to not oppose
your intentions, I am taking on the responsibility to
make certain that you get back to the ship in one
piece. So I would have to be at your side to make sure
that happened."
     "Aren't you concerned that you might fail in that
endeavor?" "No."
 "Some small measure of dou--"
 "No," I repeated.
    He shook his head in disbelief. "How can you be so
positive?"
 "Ask Admiral Jellico," I replied.
    He laughed curtly at that. "Good point. Tell me,
Calhoun: What do you feel is the single greatest
responsibility that you, as a Starfleet officer, have?"
 "To do the right thing," I said without hesitation.
    "What about exploration? What about adherence
to the Prime Directive? What about--"
    "Captain," I cut him off, "I suspect you have a great
many things to do. If you're going to ask me a
question, get a straight answer, and then doubt and
challenge my answers repeatedly, this is going to take
a much longer time than I truly think you need to
spend."
    He sat on the edge of his desk, a foot away from me,
and leaned forward. "Who decides," he said, "what is
right?"
 "The gods. I just do my best to interpret."
    "And do you truly believe in gods, Mackenzie
Calhoun? Do you?"
    I smiled. "I believe in myself. That's generally been
good enough."
    To my surprise, he slapped his knee as if I'd just
told him a fabulous joke. "You are an original,
Calhoun, I'll give you that." Then, surprisingly fast, a
change came over him. Very soberly, he said, "Do you
know what my biggest problem is, Calhoun?"
  "No, sir."
    "I," he said with what seemed like great sadness,
"am beloved."
    "Most men would not consider that a problem,
sir."
    "My crew," he said, "has my best interests at heart.
They are concerned about me. They watch out for me.
No one ever disagrees with me, or challenges me,
because I'm just so damned beloved, it could make
you sick."
  "I have a strong constitution, sir."
    "I don't doubt it. I have to tell you, Calhoun, I
never met someone who freed their entire world from
planetary conquerors before they were twenty years
old. Must have been somewhat difficult to find any-
thing that challenging. You think being my first officer
would begin to approach that?"
    "Probably not, sir. But it'll do until something
better comes along."
    He stared at me... and then he laughed. This time
it was a large, open, boisterous laugh that, to my
surprise, I actually found was infectious. I started to
laugh, too, which I hadn't been expecting at all ....
    "The job's yours if you want it, son," he said. I
would later find out that he tended to call people
"son" a lot. Oddly, he never addressed any of the
women by a similar endearment. Perhaps it was
because he had a daughter, and didn't want to im-
ply-even to himself--that anyone could possibly be
a replacement for her.
  "Yes, sir. Yes, I think I do."
  "Good." He extended a hand and I shook it firmly.
"Welcome aboard the Grissom. By the way... how'd
you get the scar?"
    "This? Bar fight. Three big guys, with knives. There
was an argument over a woman, things got out of
hand..." I shrugged. "It happens."
    "Seems to me you got off lucky. Why didn't you
have the scar removed?"
    "Well," and I touched it gingerly, "I keep it around
to remind me that no woman is really worth the
aggravation."
    "Oh, I would disagree with that, Commander.
There are some women who are worth all that and
more. Didn't you ever have a woman who stole your
heart?"
    I thought about Shelby, about her smiling at me.
About the very first time that I'd seen her even before
I knew her name... as an image of my future,
smiling at me, naked and alluring, across the years.
    "No, sir. Never. I keep my heart carefully hidden
just to avoid any such situations."

THE BATTLE

As IT TURNED OUT, I was right. XO Katerina Mueller
had a remarkable body.
    There are some who will tell you that shipboard
romances are a remarkably bad idea. This is nonsen-
sical, of course. After all, it's not as if we can all work
our shifts, then leave the ship at the end of the day and
go home to someone else. The people we work with
are the same people that we see in our off hours, and
at any other given time of the day. So it's fairly
inevitable that something will develop.
    I wasn't expecting it with Mueller, though. Indeed,
she would have been the last person I would have
expected. Then again, calling it romance probably
would have been an exaggeration. It was... recrea-
tional, I suppose. Letting off steam. Having a good
time with each other, secure in the knowledge that
neither of us needed or wanted more.

  It came about in a rather unexpected fashion.
    I had been serving aboard the Grissom for several
months. Up to that point, everything had been
surprisingly routine. I suspect that, to some degree,
the crew didn't quite know what to make of me. My
manner could be brusque, and I was not terribly
skilled at suffering fools gladly. I suppose it could be
rather daunting trying to deal with me, particularly
at that point in my life. Certain of everything,
confident in my opinions, not hesitating to tell other
people that they didn't know what they were talking
about...  Hmm.
    Come to think of it, I guess I'm not all that different
now. It's just that now I do it with a good deal more
charm, I suppose. At least, I like to think so.
    In any event, the crew seemed to be treating me
with respect, and that was ultimately all that I needed
or requiredú I was seen as something of a loner, and
that was fine with me. I wasn't looking for attach-
ments or to strike up friendships. If I sat in Ten-
Forward, I did so alone. No one approached meú
Really, I don't suppose I would have been upset if
they had. It might have been... ú.. it might have been nice.
No matterú They didn't, and that was fine, too.
One day I had just gotten off shift, and I was passing
by the holodeck on my way to my quarters. Normally
you can't really detect any noise from within the
holodeck, but my ears are fairly sharp and, besides,
there was a noise coming from within that I couldn't
possibly miss. It was the sound of steel on steel in
quick succession. Swordsú Someone was having a
duel, with more than one opponentú
    It was considered something of a breach of protocol
to interrupt someone during a holodeck run, but as
anyone who knows me can attest, I'm perfectly capa-
ble of tossing aside the rules when and where it suits
my purposes. And the sound of swordplay was an
irresistible lure to a barely contained savage such as
myself. The door was sealed, but I tapped in the
override code and it slid open obediently. I stepped
in...
    ... and found myself on a battlefield red with
blood. It was a wide field, the grass tinted with frost
and crunching under my feet as I walked. I stepped
over bodies and moved to the side of the dried blood
that was everywhere. Ahead of me was a small,
rather confined area where battle still seemed to be
raging.
    These were not small blades being bandied about.
There were warriors with large, double-handed
swords, the kind that were capable of gutting a victim
from crotch to sternum with just one blow. They were
dressed in furs, their faces painted blue, and they were
emitting loud war cries as they battled others dressed
in similar garb.
  And in the midst of it all was Mueller.
    She was attired similarly to the others, and she was
whipping her own sword through the air with such
speed that it seemed to buzz. She was quick and
adept. I saw someone coming in behind her, but
somehow she managed to catch the movement out of
the corner of her eye and intercepted it. She had a
look of burning fury in her eyes, and her clothes and
face were splattered with blood... in all likelihood,
the blood of her opponents.
    Two men were coming at her from either side. She
spun in place, her blade like a scythe, and her attack-
ers went down. Her head snapped around and she saw
me. She froze in place, clearly surprised to see me
there. Her breath floated from her mouth in a lazy
mist.
  Then, from over a rise, there was another war cry. It
drew both our attention and we saw a squad of
attackers heading toward her. She had several allies
still alive and remaining with her, and they lined up
beside her, ready to battle. But her gaze had not left
me.
    "Well," she said finally. "Are you just going to
stand there, or are you going to grab a sword and
make yourself useful?"
    The enemies were charging forward, their howling
filling the air. Unhurried, I picked up swords off of
fallen soldiers, hefting one in either hand. I tested the
weight, chose the one that was in my left hand and
dropped the other to the ground. Gripping it firmly, I
whipped it through the air a few times.
    You have to understand, my relationship with
Mueller up until that time had been perfectly formal.
She had struck me as coolly efficient, slightly disdain-
ful, and not particularly interested in doing anything
except her job. Hash had been correct in that humor
did not seem to be her forte. We didn't have all that
much interaction, what with being on different shifts.
But what we had didn't begin to hint that she was
capable of such brutal, bloody means of entertaining
herself.
To be honest, I found it somewhat stimulating.
The first of the attackers were getting closer, closer.
Something within me couldn't wait. I shouted
"Rakaaaash/" and, my legs pumping, charged for-
ward and met them while they were still about twenty
feet from Mueller. I only had a second to wonder
whether or not Mueller had overridden the holodeck
safeties and whether I was in real danger. Then I
promptly stopped caring as I gutted the first of my
attackers. Without slowing in my turn, I cleaved open
the second one and eviscerated the third, all in a
matter of seconds.
 A fourth man was coming at me, and I was pre-
pared to block him when suddenly Mueller was there,
stopping the downward thrust with her own weapon.
She muscled him back and thrust forward with her
own blade. The opponent's blood spurted onto my
boots.
  "Sorry," she said, noticing the stain.
    "It'll come out," I replied. And that was all the
exchange we had time for as the battle was truly
joined. It was a symphony of clanging blades, of
grunts and cuts and a cold fury that burned in the pit
of your stomach and drove you onward, ever onward.
In cases like that you tend to lose track of everything
except survival. You draw a mental circle around
yourself, and you concentrate on only those individu-
als who are attempting to enter that circle. Outside it
you ignore them, inside it and your blade takes their
life. It's as simple as that. You lose track of time, you
lose track of yourself, and you only stop when they
stop coming.
  And eventually... they stopped.
    As is always the case in such instances, I didn't
realize it at first. My breath was slamming hard in my
chest. I had not stinted in either my defense or offense
simply because my opponents were holographic. A
battle was a battle, a challenge still a challenge. My
uniform shirt was torn in several places from slices by
opponents that had gotten a little too close. Blood
streaked my face, my hair was disheveled. My heart
was pounding, and I realized I wanted more. More to
conquer, more physical exertion. I felt more alive
than I had in ages. I had never used the holodeck for
much of anything, really. I had found the entire
concept to be somewhat ridiculous and pointless:
shadow dances that had no meaning. I certainly
wasn't feeling that way anymore. To me, it seemed
like I could actually feel my blood flowing through my
veins.
    I looked to see if there were any more opponents,
any more challenges. There was only one other indi-
vidual standing nearby, and that was Mueller. The
rest of her allies had been struck down, but she had
survived. Standing there clutching her sword, fire in
her eyes, a wolflike grin on her face, she looked like a
Valkyrie, like a warrior from a bygone age. Just us
two, there on the blood-soaked plain.
    I could tell from the look of her that she was
undergoing the same roiling of feelings that I was. It
might have been that mine was more intense; after all,
I was the one who had been raised in a relatively
barbaric society, had engaged in battles not too dis-
similar from this one where my life was genuinely at
stake, had known what it was like to fight for my life,
for honor. The first man that I had killed, I had cried
for... cried as much for myself as for him. I was long
past those days. Now I felt nothing but triumph, and a
euphoric exaltation.
    She saw it in my eyes, and it attracted her, inflamed
her, I was sure of it. She took a step toward me,
another. And then she swung her sword around, the
blade whistling straight at me. I intercepted the swing
and the swords crashed together. Her blade slid down
the length of mine, bringing us hilt to hilt, body to
body, my chest pressed against her. Our breath was
racing, our hearts beating together.
 I said the only thing that seemed appropriate:
 "My quarters, your quarters, or right here?"
    "Right here," she said without a second's worth of
thought.
     The swords dropped down onto the ice-layered
ground, and a moment later, so did we. We never said a word.
    And thus began one of the somewhat odder rela-
tionships I ever had, because we never did say a word.
Whenever we encountered each other after that in
uniform, we were all business. No one could have told
that we were anything other than coworkers.
    But every so often, as if we had a bond on some
level, we would just... know. I would show up at her
quarters, unsummoned and unbidden, or she would
turn up at my door. And we would... well... we
wouldú
     Without a word. Never was a word exchanged. As if
to say anything would serve to break the spell.
  Absolutely no one knew. Well...

 ú . . one.
    There was one evening where we lay in my bed,
basking in the afterglow. The perspiration on both
our bodies was slowly drying. We'd had a particularly
successful outing, and we were enjoying the time
after... although, once more, in silence.
    I felt as if I should say something, but I had no idea
what. I couldn't say whether she felt the same way,
but the moment simply seemed to require some sort
of intercourse of the social kind. Just as I started to
open my mouth, though, a chime came from the
door.
 "Yes?" I called.
    "Commander?" came a familiar drawl. "Got some-
thing for you."
    "Not now, Hash," I replied. "Could you come back
later?"
    "Got to strike on these things while the iron's hot,
y'know, sir. It's just a li'l o1' thing. But I'd surely like
to give it to you in person."
    Kat Mueller looked at me with a certain degree of
controlled frantichess. The last thing we needed was
Takahashi waltzing in with the two of us curled in bed
together. "Really, Hash, later would be a better time.
That's something of an order."
 "There's no time like the present, sir."
 "Is there any clich6 he doesn't know?" Kat hissed
in my ear. It was the first time that any words had
been exchanged between us while we were unclothed.
It certainly wouldn't have been the first words I would
have wanted to hear.
  "Hash, I'm going to be a while .... "
    "S'okay, sir. I'll just wait out here. Got nothin'
better to do, really."
    I could have argued it, could have gotten forceful.
He was a subordinate, after all. But the bottom line
was, he was basically a nice guy, I liked him, and
obviously he was trying to do something thoughtful,
although heaven only knew what. I could continue
to debate it, or I could endeavor to resolve it. "All
right, hold on a moment," I said. Kat's eyes opened
wider, and I whispered to her, "Do you think it's
preferable that he stand outside for who knows how
long and keeps calling through the door? Very subtle,
that."
  "Then what--?"
    I pointed to the bathroom. "Wait in the head until
he's gone."
    She stared at me with unconcealed annoyance and
then rolled off the bed. She gathered up her clothing
as quickly as she could and made for the bathroom.
As the door slid shut I thought she might have tossed
me an obscene gesture, but I couldn't be sure. In
retrospect, it was probably better that way.
    I had gotten out of bed and pulled on a robe. I
belted it tightly around my waist, went to the door,
and said, "Okay, come."
    Hash was standing there in the doorway. He was
holding a large bowl with the aid of a couple of thick
mitts. "Hot off the stove," he said proudly. 
"Let me guess: hash," I said.
    He nodded eagerly. "I keep promising to make you
some of my specialty, but you never seem to have
yourself around when it's being made. Thought you
might wanna help your taste buds sing." He paused.
"Y'all have taste buds on Xenex, right?"
    "Last I checked. So... why don't you come back
later and I can--"
    "Eat it while it's hot. Got a fork right there in
the top. Dig in." He walked in and placed it on a
table, then stepped back and stood there with folded
arms.
 "You mean... right now?"
    "It's your first time, Commander. Got to see how
you react to your first time."
     I was trying to be polite, to hold my temper, but it
wasn't easy. "If I do, will you go away?" 
He laughed as if I'd been joking.
    Realizing that there was only one way to end it--
well, two ways, but only one of them wouldn't get me
court-martialed--I took a forkful of the proffered
hash and ate it. Then I blinked in surprise. "This is
good."
 He grinned.
    "I mean it... this is really good. No, this is great."
I wasn't exaggerating. It was corned-beef hash and it
was absolutely delicious.
     Romeo backed away, bobbing his bizarrely blond
head, and he said, "Enjoy it, sir." "Do you want to stay to--?"
    The moment the words were out of my mouth, I
couldn't believe I'd said them. I'd completely forgot-
ten that Kat was stranded in the bathroom. A pro-
longed stay wasn't going to endear me to her.
    Fortunately enough, Romeo said suavely, "Oh
nooo... no, I don't think that'd be wise. You enjoy
the rest all by your lonesome... you and your lady
friend."
    Suddenly it seemed as if the temperature in the
room had dropped twenty degrees. "Lady...
friend?" I managed to get out.
    "Well, yeah. The one you got hiding in the bath-
room."
    "How do... I mean, what makes you think
that... ?" I asked in what had to be one of the
clumsiest attempts at a save ever made.
    He inclined his chin in the direction of the bed.
"That yours?"
    I glanced in the direction he was indicating. Abra
was entangled in the sheets.
  "Yes," I said tonelessly. "Yes. It is."
    "Mm-hmm. Commander... I want to assure you
that I am, despite all appearances to the contrary, a
genuine Southern gentleman. Discretion is my middle
name."
    I thought, And here I thought your middle name was
"Lousy Timing," but I didn't say it.
    He grinned once more and headed toward the door.
He paused in the doorway and called over his shoul-
der, "Sayonara, y'all," and then exited whistling.
    The door to the bathroom opened and a rather
steamed Kat Mueller stood there. She was wearing
her uniform. Her breasts did not appear to be sagging.
"You know... I was never wild about Takahashi
before. He's entirely too cheerful for my taste. But I
never actively disliked him before."
     I held up the bra. "Here," I said, not having
anything else particularly clever to say.
  "Thanks. I hear it's yours."
  I tossed it to her.
    "Mac... this is absurd." It was the first time she
had ever addressed me as "Mac." When we were on
duty she used my rank, and when we were intimate no
words were exchanged. She turned her back to me,
removed her uniform top and finished getting
dressed. "We can't continue this way." "We can't?"
 "No. We can't. I'm afraid it's over."
    I stared at her levelly as she turned around. "All
right."
 "We'll just be coworkers."
 "That would probably be best."
 "Probably, yes."
 And that was that. She left.
    She was back three days later, you understand...
but it seemed like a very long three days.

THE ASSIGNMENT

CAPTAIN KENYON STRODE onto the bridge and looked
in a particularly good mood. "Mr. Gold," he called to
the man at conn. "Set course for Starbase Nine, warp
factor four."
    "Aye, sir. On our way." Mick Gold, Lieutenant j.g.,
was a conn officer with what could delicately be called
a sense of self-aggrandizement. Since he piloted the
ship, he had a rather impressive ego, and oftentimes
wasn't afraid to display it. The thing was, he was
extremely skilled at what he did, and also had an
amazing instinct--possibly better than any targeting
computers--when it came to a firefight. So to a
certain extent, Gold's self-importance was merited.
Still, Gold never waited for the captain to actually
order the ship to embark on her new heading. He
would simply announce, "On our way."
 When this was pointed out to him by a somewhat
irked Commander Paullina Simons, Gold calmly
pointed out that standing on ceremony was silly. If
the captain didn't want them to go to a particular
place at a particular speed, then why in the world
would he issue the order in the first place? Simons
reported the exchange to Kenyon, who shrugged it off
and said, "Well, when you get right down to it, he's
right. If I know where we want to go, what's wrong
with just going there?" Which left Gold to continue as
he had been with the captain's tacit endorsement.
    "Mr. Calhoun," said Kenyon, "conference lounge
in ten minutes. You, Mr. Takahashi, Dr. Villers, and
Mr. Cray." He turned and headed back out, still
carrying himself in a very cheerful manner.
    Dr. Villers was a Starfleet veteran. She was heavyset
with gray hair, and had the bedside manner of a
Romulan interrogator. She was also the most physi-
cally imposing woman I'd ever met. She wasn't tall,
but she was wide: "Built like a Tenarian vass." She
worked out in the gymnasium every day, lifting
weights and wiping the floor with karate partners.
Part of me was almost perverse enough to mentally
match her against Kat and wonder who would come
out on top. I had the feeling it might be Doc Villers.
Cray was something else again.
    Cray was an Andorian, the head of security. When
he spoke, which was not often, it was just above a
whisper so that you had to strain to hear him. I had
witnessed him in combat situations--we had stum-
bled upon some Orion raiders while on a mineral
survey--and he was easily one of the most vicious
fighters I'd ever seen in action. He carried a phaser,
but I'd never actually seen him use it. He seemed to
prefer hand-to-hand, and he was frighteningly good at
it. And he did not like me, not one bit. I make no
bones about it, I may not have been the most popular
first officer who ever sat in the second chair. There
were those who simply didn't like my style. Who felt
that I walked with too much swagger, or felt that I
didn't act with sufficient deference to the captain (an
opinion, I cannot emphasize enough, that the captain
did not share). And there were crewmen who, as I told
you earlier, felt disconcerted by what they saw in my
eyes and felt constrained to look away. As always,
Starfleet and I did not remain the smoothest of fits,
and that caused occasional bumping of heads.
    With Cray, though, it was different. Cray had no
desire to remain in the security track. To be specific,
he'd had his eye on the second chair. He was techni-
cally next in line after the first officer; the day I'd
arrived, Hash had been at the conn because Cray was
temporarily off the bridge attending to other duties.
Cray had felt that the promotion was virtually guar-
anteed once Commander Simons had gotten her
captaincy and Mueller had made no effort to step in
for consideration. He had not expected Kenyon to
seek a new first officer from outside of the personnel
on the Grissom, and was convinced that the only
reason I was there was because I'd had Jellico pushing
for me. He might well have been right.
    Much of Cray's state of mind I was able to gamer
from a few conversations with various crewmen.
Cray, you see, hadn't been particularly reticent when
it came to his feelings about me, especially once he'd
gotten a few slugs of synthehol into him. Once I
became aware of his feelings of annoyance, I tried to
sit down with him in Ten-Forward to work things out.
    I've told you how others didn't like what they saw
in my eyes. I can assure you that, when I looked into
Cray's eyes, I wasn't ecstatic with what I saw there,
either. Our talk did not go particularly well, nor did I
endeavor to pursue it in the future.
    Not that he presented a danger to me, you under-
stand. There was no reason to think that he would
perform his duty in any way other than to the best of
his abilities as a Starfleet officer. Nor did I think that
he would expose me to danger, or that he wouldn't
watch my back if we found ourselves in a sticky
situation. On the other hand, I was reasonably certain
that he would be among the first to laugh loudly if I
made a muddle of things. It can be very disconcerting
if you're aware that someone is waiting for you to
screw things up. It can make you tense, make you
second-guess yourself.
    Not me, of course. Cray's attitude was his and he
was welcome to it. I shut out my concerns with
relative facility.
    As per the captain's orders, we had assembled in
the conference lounge at the appointed time. The
captain's exceptionally good mood persisted, and
within minutes he explained to us why.
    We had been assigned to escort a diplomatic team
to oversee peace talks between two races on two
worlds in the Anzibar system. The world of Anzibar
II, populated by a race called the Carvargna, was a
temperate, even tropical world. The Carvargna
were--perhaps not coincidentally--a relatively be-
nign people who far preferred peace to bloodshed.
    For millennia, the Carvargna was the only sentient
race in the Anzibar system. Then an ark ship arrived
in their system, carrying an entire race of people
known as the Dufaux, themselves refugees from a
system whose sun had aged out and rendered their
world uninhabitable. The Carvargna extended their
hospitality to the Dufaux, their reasoning being that
on their world there was room for all. The Dufaux
settled there, and turned out to be an extremely
prolific race. They didn't breed quite as quickly as
tribbles, but they were certainly not lacking in their
birthing capabilities. Over the decades, not only did
their populace increase exponentially, but so did their
desire for land. They were also far more warlike and
savage than the Carvargna, and when the Carvargna
resources began to reach the stress point, the Dufaux
simply resolved to obliterate the Carvargna. Obvi-
ously, the Carvargna--peace-loving as they were--
nonetheless did not go quietly into that good night.
The warfare became intense and bloody, and the
Dufaux wound up being driven off the world of
Anzibar II. Anzibar III was uninhabitable, so they
wound up on Anzibar IV. It was not, however, re-
motely as hospitable a world as the one they'd left.
Years had passed, but resentments had not cooled.
The two worlds continued to snipe at each other,
every so often launching missile attacks or sending in
raiding parties. It was not a good situation.
    The Carvargna had tired of the assaults and battles
over the years. They had approached the Federation
and asked that it take a hand in the matter. The
Federation had long desired to bring in Anzibar II
and the Carvargna, and this seemed like the ideal
opportunity. Consequently, it had assigned a diplo-
matic team to go to the Anzibar system and endeavor
to heal the wounds between the neighboring worlds.
    It was the identity of the diplomatic team that
apparently had Kenyon in such a good mood: Byron
Kenyon, the captain's brother... and his attach6,
Stephanie... Captain Kenyon's daughter.
    "Wait until you have the pleasure of meeting her,"
Kenyon said to us. "Some of you who might remem-
ber her beloved mother, or might have met Stephie
when she was a little... I guarantee you, you're in
for a treat." He beamed at the memory. "She is the
image of her mother, let me tell you. She has her
mother's spunk, her vivaciousness. She's quite a
young woman, my Stephie."
    "I remember her very well, Norm," said Villers. Of
everyone on board, Doc Villers was the only one who
addressed the captain by his first name, no matter
what the situation. "Although she couldn't have been
more than ten last time I saw her. It was great seeing
her with you. She seemed to idolize you. I always
thought that she'd follow you into the Fleet."
    "Yes. Yes, that's what I thought, too." For just a
moment, there seemed to be extreme sadness in his
face, and then with effort he forced it off. "So." He
rose and clapped his hands briskly, which was his
general signal for the end of the meeting. "Once we
pick them up from the starbase, we bring them to the
Anzibar system and stay on station for as long as they
need us. Any questions?"
    "Security," Cray said in that whispery tone of his.
It was a word, a statement, and a question all rolled
into one.
    "Of course we'll want them to have a full security
escort," Kenyon replied. "I'll want you to head up the
squad, Cray."
 "Honored."
    "Permission to go planetside with them, sir, partic-
ularly if it's Anzibar Four which is potentially the
more hostile," I said.
    "Actually, I was planning to go down myself, Cal-
houn," said the captain.
    "That, sir, is not an appropriate course of action," I
replied.
 "Oh? And why would that be?"
    "Because," I told him evenly, "you would be going
into a situation where you could not be counted upon
to act in a dispassionate or reasonable manner. The
fact that both your brother and daughter are involved
may cloud or dull your judgment. It would be inap-
propriate of you to accompany them. You need some-
one with emotional distance."
  "Are you saying," Kenyon asked, "that I am inca-
pable of acting in a professional manner where my
daughter or brother are concerned?"
    "I have nothing upon which to make that judg-
ment," I said. "However, sir, if it's all the same to
you, I'd prefer not to find out. I think none of us
would."
    There were nods of agreement from all around the
table, which I found surprisingly heartening. At first
Kenyon seemed inclined to protest, but then he saw
the prevailing sentiment and simply shrugged. "If
that's how you all feel... then I must certainly
acknowledge your concerns and act accordingly. Very
well, Calhoun. You will accompany my daughter and
brother planetside. And bring them back to me in one
piece."
    "We will," Cray said before I could get a word out.
And he looked at me out the side of his eyes in a
manner that indicated I would be wise to leave the
particulars of this mission to him. It was rapidly
beginning to develop into a situation that was making
me exceedingly uncomfortable.

THE DAUGHTER

SHE WAS A STUNNER.
    I had to admit that the captain had not exaggerated
his daughter's attributes in any way. The moment she
materialized on the transporter pad, where Captain
Kenyon and I awaited the arrival of her and her uncle,
I was captivated by her. If she indeed resembled her
mother, then Kenyon had been one of the luckiest
bastards in the galaxy.
    She was slim and small-waisted, but she had an
open face that seemed to appreciate the world it was
looking at. Her hair was brown and straight and
amazingly long, hanging to just below her hips, and
braided down either side. When she smiled, which
seemed her natural state of expression, she had dim-
ples in either slightly chubby cheek. Her eyes were
green, like a cat's, and she had a long slender neck
around which she wore a simple choker. She was
dressed in a pale blue dress that clung in the right
places but opened out into a large, flowing skirt.
When she moved, it almost seemed as if she were
floating along the floor rather than treading upon it.
    With her was Kenyon's brother, Byron, and if I had
not known that they were brothers, I still would have
figured it out immediately. Byron, even though he was
the younger of the two, was nevertheless the larger of
them. He had to be at least fifty pounds heavier, his
hair was thinning at the top, and he had a thick
mustache. Nonetheless, his general look and deport-
ment made the familial link exceptionally clear. He
and the captain embraced as Byron stepped down
from the pad.
  Stephanie was staring at me.
    She seemed immediately captivated by me, and to
be honest, she herself wasn't exactly difficult on these
old purple eyes of mine. "Stephie," her father said,
several times, before he managed to pull her attention
away from me. It seemed to me that he was definitely
aware of the interest she had displayed in me, but he
chose not to comment on it. Instead he hugged her so
tightly I thought he would break her in half, and then
he gestured toward me and said, "May I present my
first officer, Mackenzie Calhoun."
 "You're Xenexian, aren't you," she asked.
    I made no attempt to hide my surprise. "Why...
yes .... "
    She nodded as if she had needed to confirm this for
herself. "Yes, the general coloring of the skin and
cranial shape implied that. The purple eyes, of
course, were a strong indicator. They're of a shade
that one virtually never sees on Earth, but they are
not uncommon in Xenex--relatively speaking--oc-
curring in about thirty-eight percent of the populace."
 "That much?" I let out a low whistle.
    "Which would mean your name isn't really 'Mac-
kenzie Calhoun.'"
    Rather than shake her hand, I bowed slightly in a
manner that encompassed both her and her uncle. "I
am M'k'n'zy, of the city of Calhoun. I changed it, or at
least unofficially modified it, once I got to the Acade-
my. I got a little tired of hearing the properly accented
way of pronouncing it mangled all the time."
  "You mean they had trouble saying 'M'k'n'zy'?"
    I made no effort to hide my surprise. Her accent
had been damned near perfect, her pronunciation of
the guttural and hesitant syllables unassailable. I'd
never heard any lips other than Xenexian capable of
saying it so accurately. If everyone on Earth had said
it that perfectly, I'd never have changed it. Hell, she
said it better than Elizabeth, and we were almost
married, for pity's sake.
    "It's hard to believe, I know," I allowed. "But call
me 'Mac,' please."
    "All right, Mac." If it was possible, her dimples
seemed to sink in even more deeply.
    Kenyon tapped his combadge. "Kenyon to conn.
Gold... they're aboard. Set course for the Anzibar
system."
    "On our way," came back Gold's voice, not waiting
as usual for the captain's go-ahead. Sometimes I
wondered if Kenyon had an official rule book some-
where of just how far, and no farther, he could be
pushed.
    "It's good to see you, Byron," the captain said, an
arm draped around his sibling. He slapped his broth-
er's stomach. "You've put on weight."
    "Not at all," replied Byron. "It's just that some-
where, someone else has lost it, and it came through
space and leaped onto me. Fat, like matter, cannot be
destroyed, but merely transferred to another host
body. I'm doing you a favor, Norm. If I lose it," and
he slapped his belly, "it'll probably all wind up
leaping onto you."
"The sacrifices you make for me," said the captain.
I felt almost envious, seeing the two of them
together that way. My own brother and I had never
had that sort of easy, give-and-take relationship.
There had always been an undercurrent of tension
between us, even when we were allies against the
Danteri. And in later years, my brother had made
himself over into little more than a Danteri stooge,
accommodating them wherever he could and selling
out the greater concerns of our people in return for
personal profit. Seeing Norman and Byron Kenyon
interacting in that way--the teasing, the joy at seeing
each other, the obvious affection they held for one
another--it got to me a bit.
    Naturally, though, I kept my true feelings buried. It
was no problem, really; I'd had a lot of practice on
that score.
    We showed them to their respective quarters. I was
certain that it was my imagination, but Stephanie
appeared unable to take her eyes off me. I bowed
slightly, formally, when the captain and I brought her
to her quarters, and then as I turned to leave, she said,
"Dad? Do you think I might get a tour of the ship?"
    "Of course, honey." He gestured that she should
precede him, thereby indicating that he himself would
conduct the tour.
    "Oh, Daddy, I wouldn't think of taking up your
time," she told him. "If you'd want to assign...
someone else?" She looked straight at me.
    Credit the captain: Nothing slips past him. Of
course, it's not as if Stephanie was being exactly
subtle. "Commander." Kenyon turned to me, looking
very formal. "Would you be so kind as to escort my
daughter around the ship? Show her the points of
interest?"
 "I would be honored, sir."
     "And, of course, I can trust you to be a perfect
gentleman?" he added gravely. "Of course, sir."
    And that was when I heard Stephanie mutter,
"Damn," under her breath.
    Well, Stephanie turned out to be quite a woman, let
me tell you. And no, before you start getting ahead of
me and conjuring up scenarios in your own mind, I
will tell you in advance: No. Nothing happened.
  Not that it was for lack of trying.
    Stephanie was easily one of the most charming,
intelligent, sophisticated, and downright fun women
that I have ever encountered. From the first tour that I
gave her of the Grissom, to the time we spent dining
together, to the late hours we spent debating every-
thing from Federation politics to obscure strategies of
ancient generals, Stephanie Kenyon proved to be
nothing short of amazing.
    "I feel guilty," I said to her at one point. "I think
I'm monopolizing your time. You should be spending
it with your father."
    It was the first time that I actually saw her hesitate
to say what was on her mind. "That... might not be
wise," she said finally.
    "Why not?" We were alone in one of the forward
observation lounges. "Don't tell me you two don't get
along with each other. I can't believe that."
"I just..." She paused. "I'd rather not discuss it."
"All right," I said readily. I was perfectly comfort-
able not discussing it. I genuinely liked Captain
Kenyon, and felt a bit voyeuristic. I realized that I
didn't want some sort of inside glimpse into his
personal life. I was perfectly happy to keep that aspect
of his life at a distance.
  Naturally Stephanie took my being perfectly corn-
fortable with not hearing her discuss it as an invita-
tion to discuss it.
    Women. Xenexian, Terran... they're all the same.
Well... maybe not Vulcans, but otherwise, all the
same.
    "I just think that... well... my father is disap-
pointed in me."
    "Disappointed? How can you think that?" I was
genuinely astounded. "He thinks the world of you. He
talks about how proud he is of you .... "
    "He also talks about how he wishes I'd gone into
Starfleet, doesn't he. He's disappointed that I didn't."
    I thought of the obvious sadness in his eyes when
his daughter's career path had been casually brought
up in the conference lounge. He had obviously en-
deavored to push it away, but it was there just the
same. "No," I said quickly. "I didn't get that impres-
sion at all."
 She smiled sadly. "Mac, you're a terrible liar."
    "Actually," I protested, "I'm generally pretty good
at it. I'm just not especially good at it with you."
    She stared out at the stars that hurtled past us, and
she seemed very sad. "My dad's had so much hurt in
his life... I hate the thought of adding to it. I hate
not being what he wanted me to be. But I couldn't...
it was ego, that's all." "Ego?"
    "I didn't want to spend my life being Norman
Kenyon's daughter. If I'd gone into Starfleet, that's
exactly what I would have been. I would have had my
life, my career, defined by my relationship to him. It's
not that I don't love him; I do. It's not that I'm not
proud of him; I am. But I wanted to do, and be,
something that was separate from him." 
"So you chose the diplomatic corps."
    "It seemed a worthwhile direction in which to go.
Besides," and she laughed, "I couldn't help but have
the burned-in desire to meet and experience other
races. That much, my father managed to make such a
part of me that to deprive myself of those opportuni-
ties would have been like cutting off an arm. Living
your own life is one thing, but one shouldn't have to
be mutilated... oh. Oh God. I'm sorry."
    "What?" I didn't try to cover the fact that I was
puzzled. "Sorry about what?"
    "Oh God, now I'm making an even bigger idiot of
myself. I'm sorry, it's just... well, I was talking
about mutilation, and you with that..." She touched
the side of her face.
    "Oh! The scar." I waved off her concern. "Don't
worry about it."
"May I ask, uhm... how did you... ?"
"Jealous husband," I told her. "My fault. I didn't
know she was married. Shouldn't have taken her word
for it. One moment we're rolling around in the sheets,
the next thing I know, I'm hearing bellowing from this
man the size of a small asteroid heading toward me,
waving an axe with a blade twice the size of my head.
All things considered, I was damned lucky. Grozit, he
could have taken my head off."  "Good lord."
    Inwardly, I smiled. At least I wasn't a hopeless liar
when it came to the daughter of Captain Norman
Kenyon.
  That was when she kissed me~
    It was long and sensuous, and she gave freely of
herself. And when our lips parted, she looked up at
me with... I don't know what. Longing. Interest.
Perhaps just a touch of boredom that she was trying
to kill.
    "I'U... walk you back to your quarters," I told
her.
  "Would you stay awhile?"
  "I have duties to perform."
  "Can they wait?"
  "Probably. But they won't."
    There was surprise on her face. I turned her to face
me, taking her shoulders in my hands. "Stephanie...
I think you're terrific. But... your father is my
captain. I wouldn't feel comfortable."
    "I'm a grown woman," she said. "Dad knows that.
Do you think he doesn't know I find you very
attractive? He respects my freedom."
    "Good. But, you see... I respect him. I would not
feel... right. Even if any involvement would be with
his approval, even if he sent flowers and a balloon
assortment. I would feel... not... right. And to be
honest... I think you should be spending more time
with him than with me. All right?"
    She laughed softly, low in her throat. "I won't say
I'm not disappointed."
    "I won't say it either. But it's how I feel. And I
know I can count on you to respect that."
    "True enough. But I'm telling you, Calhoun," and
she smiled in a very saucy manner, "sooner or later,
you're going to regret it. Regrets are terrible things to
have, because you know what? Life's just too damned
short."
    That was the last I saw of her that day, except for
the very end of my shift. As I was about to go off duty,
Stephanie showed up on the bridge, kissed her father
on the top of the head, and together the two of them
left the bridge to go to dinner. She cast a very quick
glance in my direction, winking just before the turbo-
lift doors closed.
    When I returned to my quarters, Kat was there. She
was fully dressed, sitting on the edge of my bed. "I
hear you're quite the couple," she said without pre-
amble.
    "Oh, we're going to talk," I said with reigned
surprise.
 "Well? Are you?"
    "If you're referring to Stephanie Kenyon and my-
self... I think she's terrific. A wonderful woman.
Then again, considering her pedigree, it's not sur-
prising."
 "We're not discussing a dog, Calhoun."
    "What happened to 'Mac'? I thought you were
calling me 'Mac.'"
    She stood. Although she was only an inch taller, at
that point she seemed about two heads higher than
me. "Are you involved with her?"  "What does it matter to you?"
    Her expression hardened. I had the oddest feeling
that there was about to be a lightning storm in my
quarters. "It matters."
    "Why?" I started to raise my voice, feeling a bit
exasperated. "Why does it matter? Do we have a
relationship, you and I? What the hell do we have? We
have a... a mutual outlet for pent-up emotion, that's
what we have. Are we supposed to build on that?"
      "I'm not concerned about building. I'm concerned
about the kind of man you are."  "I'm not following you."
    "I'm curious to know," and she took a step closer,
seeming to loom over me, "whether you're the type of
man who would endeavor to solidify his position
using whatever means necessary. Because that would
drastically reshape my opinion of you."
    It took a moment for it to sink in... and then I
started to laugh. "Are you..." I was laughing so hard
that I had to clutch my stomach because it hurt. "Are
you... are you implying that I'm trying to... to
sleep my way to the top?"  "Stop laughing."
    I leaned against the bulkhead and waited until I was
able to compose myself. "If you must know... if you
really must... if Stephanie Kenyon were anyone
else, ! would most definitely be involved with her. But
because she is who she is, I have made clear to her that
friends are what we are, and friends are what we will
remain. So it's the opposite of what you're suggesting.
All right?"
    Mueller seemed mollified at that. "You're being
honest with me?"
    "If you have to ask me that, then we really have
nothing else to talk about."
 "All right. Well... good. All right."
    "So this was all because you were concerned with
my integrity. Not because of any personal involve-
ment that you and I might have, or feelings you might
have for me."
    "I don't have feelings for you, Mac," said Mueller.
"We have what we have, and that's all. I don't want or
need anything beyond that. I thought you didn't
either."
    I eyed her curiously. "Then why do you care about
what sort of man I am? If it's purely about physical
needs, then why should any aspect of my personality
factor into it? Endurance, breath control... that
should be all you're concerned about."
    "I will be concerned about what I choose to be
concerned about."
    "Really. And what about me?" We circled each
other in my quarters. "Should I be concerned about
the fact that I'm involved with a woman who wants
nothing beyond physical gratification? Why is that?
Why is that all you care about?"
 "It's not all I care about. But it's all I want."
 "Why? Why are you this way?"
    For a moment, there was a flicker of sadness in her
eyes. "We are what we are, Mac. We are what circum-
stances make us."
    There was a long silence between us... and, I had a
feeling, something else between us as well. "Kat..."
 "I have to go," she said.
    She walked toward the door, and stopped short of
it. She stood ramrod straight, her back to me. She
didn't move from the spot. "Kat... ?"
    Her straight, squared-off shoulders were shaking
ever so slightly. "I have to go ... and I don't want
to."
    I took her by the arm, turned her around to face me.
Her face was absolutely dry. All of her crying was on
the inside.
    I held her close to me, and one thing led to
another...
    ú.. and once again, we didn't speak. But this time,
it wasn't because we had nothing to say. It was
because we didn't need to.

THE DUFAUX

ANOTHER MEETING had been called in the conference
lounge, with the Anzibar system only hours away. The
mood on the part of Stephanie Kenyon seemed fairly
grim, as it did for the captain as well. It was immedi-
ately made clear to Doc Villers, Cray, Hash, and me
just what the problem was. Byron wasn't there, which
had me somewhat apprehensive. But Stephanie didn't
seem inclined to wait.
    "There's been a development," said Stephanie. She
glanced at her father, but the captain simply nodded
as if to indicate that she should continue. "We've
been in touch with the Dufaux. Understand that it
was the Carvargna who requested, and pushed for, the
intervention of the Federation. The Dufaux were
resistant to it... very much so. However, they finally
agreed to it... albeit somewhat reluctantly. A recent
missile barrage by the Carvargna helped to change
their minds, I think."
 "So what's the problem?" asked Hash.
    "The problem is," the captain now stepped in,
"that there's been an overthrow in the leadership of
the Dufaux. Apparently, to some extremists, the fact
that they were willing to talk at all was seen as a sign
of weakness. There are new leaders in place, and they
seem disinclined to meet with any UFP representa-
tives."
 "So we meet with the Carvargna only," said Hash.
 "Pointless," whispered Cray.
    Stephanie nodded. "I must agree with Mr. Cray.
We're trying to put together a negotiation here. There
has to be a meeting of minds, and that can't be one-
sided."
 "Where's Byron?" I asked.
    "He's engaged in private communication with the
Dufaux," the captain said. He didn't seem especially
enthused about it. "I was there for the first few
minutes of it. I can tell you, people, that I am not
speaking with simple fraternal pride when I say that
my brother is one of the best negotiators in the
business. He's pulled off some miracles in his career.
I'd say he's saved more lives through words and
dogged pursuit of the peace process than everyone in
this room combined, with all our starships, our weap-
ons, and our strength. But these Dufaux... they
sounded completely resistant. He said he'd be coming
in here to give us an update, but I think you're going
to see a very frustrated diplomat coming through that
door."
    "The captain's right," said Stephanie, being politic
and avoiding a possibly cloying sentence such as,
"Dad's right." "I've watched Byron in action. I know
what he's capable of achieving, and this one seems to
be a roadblock..."

    The doors hissed open and Byron Kenyon practi-
cally marched into the room. His arms were swinging
in leisurely fashion, and he was beaming. "So! What
did I miss!" he said cheerfully.
    "You missed the vote on your attitude for when you
come in here," Villers told him. "I'm afraid you'll
have to go out and come back in in a much worse
mood."
    "Byron, what happened?" asked a clearly surprised
Kenyon.
    Byron draped himself over one of the chairs. "I
managed to make them see the light."
    "You mean," said Stephanie, leaning forward, her
elbows on the table, "that you got them to agree to
meet with the Carvargna?"
    "We must walk before we can run and, in this case,
crawl before we can walk, Stephanie," Byron coun-
seled her, sounding at his most sage. "I managed to
convince the Dufaux leadership--headed up by an
individual named Kradius--that they are presenting
no risk to their current status by agreeing to meet with
us. That no one ever died simply from talking about
something."
    "I can think of any number of martyrs who would
disagree with you," I said. Now... I've always had a
knack for sensing danger. Call it battle experience,
call it reading signs, call it a psionic ability if you
must, but I've had it before and I was having it at that
moment. "This doesn't smell right."
    "It'll be fine, Commander," Byron said calmly.
"Oh, I know, they were resistant at first. But I've
managed to work them past that. I have done this
before, you know."
    "Yes, and I've seen people die before who thought
they were dealing with those who could be trusted," I
said.
 "Commander," and Byron was starting to sound
just a bit angry, "I know that you are merely trying to
express your concern, but to be blunt, you are coming
across as rather condescending."
    "That was not my intention, sir. But I would be
doing you a disservice if I didn't speak up. If the
Dufaux are genuinely interested in the peace process,
let's hold the discussion up here on the Grissom. We
bring up some of their people... this 'Kradius' you
spoke of..."
    "I suggested that," Byron said. "Unfortunately,
Kradius wouldn't go for that. Remember, these are a
suspicious and warlike people. They are convinced
that whoever they send up might be used for hos-
tages."
    "Oh, that's absurd," Captain Kenyon spoke up.
"The Federation doesn't operate that way."
    "Captain," Byron told him, "we are outsiders to
them, and they couldn't give a damn how we do and
do not operate. They are judging us by their stan-
dards, not ours. Now I have... we," and he glanced
at Stephanie, "have a job to do, and I regret that it will
not be able to be done here. The Dufaux have
requested a private audience, with Stephanie and me,
on Anzibar Four. It took me hours to bring them to
that point. I'm not about to turn around and risk
tossing all that aside due to paranoia."
    "Very well," Kenyon said with a sigh. Clearly he
wasn't happy about it, but he had his orders as well
and he knew it. He turned to Cray and said, "Pre-
pare a security team, standard armament, to accom-
pany-"
"Just us," said Byron. "Just Stephanie and myself."
There was dead silence for a long moment.
For Cray, one-word sentences were his more com-
mon oral stylings. When he got up above two, you
knew that something serious was in the offing. "you're
joking, of course," said Cray, this time speaking just
above a whisper.
  "No~ I'm not joking."
    "I won't permit it," Captain Kenyon immediately
said.
    "I beg your pardon?" Byron was staring at his
brother. "Captain ... this is not within your prov-
ince."
    "You're on my ship," Kenyon shot back. "My
concern is for your safety and welfare."
    "We are not part of your crew, Captain," replied
Byron. "You are not responsible for baby-sitting us,
holding our hands, or changing our diapers. I am
perfectly capable of assessing a situation and dealing
with it accordingly. And if you think that you are in a
position to do so, then I strongly advise you to think
again."
"This is madness," said Kenyon. "I won't allow--"
"Captain," Byron said with what appeared to be
infinite patience. "Your powers aboard this ship are
vast; I understand that. But they are not infinite, and I
think that if you review regulations, you'll find that
when it comes to a diplomatic mission, I have the
right to refuse any action on the part of the captain
which I think could be injurious to the successful
completion of the mission."
    The captain started to reply, but I immediately
jumped in. "To hell with regulations," I said. "I've
done some reading on the Dufaux. My people would
be classified by some experts as savages, and I'm
telling you right now, even we would be appalled
by some of their activities. Brutalities, capricious
cruelties..."
 "Commander," began Byron.
    But I wasn't letting him get a word in. "My people
kill to defend themselves and to achieve freedom.
These people kill to display their strength... or for
fun."
    'Tin familiar with the reports and surveys you've
read, Commander, and I'm telling you they are out-
dated. The Dufaux, as they stand now, are not eager
to continue the conflict."
    "So say the people who killed their predecessors
because they sought to achieve peace."
    "Once someone is in power, Commander," Byron
replied, "they tend to view things a bit differently. I
believe that to be the case here."
    "And you're willing to stake your life on that?" the
captain asked. "Yours... and hers?"
    And Stephanie suddenly spoke up, and she sounded
far angrier than I would have imagined. "Don't you
do it, Captain. Don't you dare. Don't you dare act in
any way other than with the concept that I am a
professional diplomatic aide, out to do my job. Our
relationship doesn't enter into it, and if you act like it
does, I will never forgive you for that."
    It was as if a thunderclap had erupted in the room.
No one quite knew what to say; the outburst had
seemed to come from nowhere. Except I knew exactly
where it came from: from deep in the heart of a young
woman who was determined to make her own way in
the galaxy, and would not do anything that required
her, in any way, to live in her father's shadow.
    It was Byron who broke the silence. "I have a job
to do, Captain," he said. "I must be allowed to do it to
the best of my ability, as must my aide. Not only do
the regs back me on this, but you yourself know it
to be true. You cannot allow your personal feelings
to--"
    For the first time, I actually heard the unfiappable,
the always patient, the perpetually cheerful Captain
Norman Kenyon sound genuinely angry. "Do not,"
he said with a voice that could cut castrodinium,
"presume to tell me my mind, sir. You overstep
yourself. Is that clear?"
 "Captain--" began Byron.
  "Is that clear/"
    Byron opened his mouth, clearly intending to say
something else, but then closed it again and simply
nodded.
    Kenyon weighed the situation for a time, and then
he turned to Doc Villers. "I want you to implant
subcutaneous transponders on them, on the back of
their forearms."
"Oh, for God's sake," said an annoyed Byron.
"What?" Stephanie looked momentarily puzzled. I
was surprised; I had started to think that there wasn't
anything she didn't know. "What are--"
    "They're wafer-thin tracking devices," Villers ex-
plained. "They're inserted just under the surface of
the skin. Not as sophisticated as a comm badge or
communicator because you can't talk on them."
    "However," Hash said, "not only can we lock on to
them, but you can send a simple pulse as a way of
letting us know you're all right. Since the captain
wants them implanted here," and he indicated the
back of his arm, just under his uniform shirt sleeve,
"all you have to do is press on them. It'll feel like
you're pressing on bone. It'll send a brief signal burst
to the ship on our tracking frequency."
    "You'll do it every hour, on the hour," Kenyon told
them. "That way, we know everything is all right. If
you signal at any other time, or don't signal at all, we
beam you up immediately on the assumption that
there's trouble."
    "You're already operating on an assumption, Cap-
tain," said Byron. "You're assuming that we'll be
unable to fend for ourselves."
    "Absolutely," Kenyon said readily. "If I go down to
a planet on an away-team expedition, I bring security
people, weapons, and comm badges. I don't go down
m my underwear and socks and figure that I'll be able
to fend for myself. I don't see why I should treat you
any differently."
    "Captain, I can handle the situation, and your
condescension is--"
    "Entirely my prerogative," said Kenyon. "Perhaps I
can't stop you from going down. But there's nothing
in the regs that says I can't unobtrusively keep track of
you, and so help me, Byron, if you give me grief on
this, then you are acting in blatant disregard to my
authority. That is a violation of regs, and you can
spend the next two weeks cooling your heels in lockup
for it. Are we clear on this?"
    Byron growled something unintelligible, and then
he just shrugged. "Yes... sir," he added, almost as
an afterthought.
    "Good. You will accompany Dr. Villers to sickbay.
Hash, coordinate with the doc to make sure of the
transponder frequency and run a couple of tests on
them. Cray... assemble a security squad and keep
them on alert, just in case."
    The captain hadn't given me any specific orders,
and then I saw by the look in his eyes that he wanted
me to stay put. I did so as the others left, and
moments later it was just the two of us in the room.
"You think I'm making a mistake, don't you," he said.
  "I don't know, sir."
"You said it yourself. To hell with regulations."
"I have that luxury," I said. "I'm only the second-
in-command. I only have to answer to you if I go
outside the regs, and I'm reasonably sure that I'd get a
fair hearing andwar worstwa slap on the wrist from
you, as long as the outcome of my actions was one you
approved of. You have other considerations."
    "Yes. I do. Do you know what the hell of it is,
Calhoun?"

    "I can think of several, but I'd be interested in
yours."
    "That to a degree, Stephanie was right. If it weren't
my daughter and brother involved, I wouldn't have
hesitated to let them deal with the situation as they
saw fit. As it was, I second-guessed them."
    "You say that now, sir. You don't know that for
sure. If you're asking my opinion, my guess is that
you'd have reacted in the exact same manner no
matter who was involved. You care too much about
people to just let them recklessly risk their lives."
    "And if you were in charge, Calhoun? What would
you have done?"
 "Probably the same thing you're doing."
    In years to come, I would think about that meeting
between Kenyon and me, the conversation we had as
to what I would do and not do. Years down the line, I
would face a similar situation shortly after I became a
captain. A group of refugees whom the Excalibur had
saved would accept the offer of asylum from a world
about which I had suspicions. My instinct would be to
keep them aboard the ship. Shelby, my first officer,
would stridently inform me that I could not act
against the wishes of the refugees. And I would end up
yielding to her insistence. Against my better judg-
ment, I would allow the people to go planetside.
Almost immediately upon doing so, they would be-
come pawns in a game with the planetary government
as the government would endeavor to blackmail me
into providing it with Starfleet weaponry and technol-
ogy. A few people would die in that encounter, and I
would end up counting myself lucky since it could
have been a lot more people than just a few.
    If I were writing the Starfleet regulations, they
would boil down to exactly two: Rule 1 --The captain
is always right. Rule 2--When in doubt, see Rule 1.
 Kenyon leaned back in his chair and stared up at
the ceiling. "I hope I'm doing the right thing, Cal-
houn. I hope I am."
    "You're doing the only thing you can do, sir," I said
in what was meant to be a consoling tone.
    He smiled at me. "Thank you, Calhoun. I needed to
hear that."
    And with those words... with what I had said to
him, and his reply, which I had allowed to pass... I
damned myself.
    Because that wasn't what I wanted to say at all. But,
damn me, for a moment I allowed weakness within
myself. He had already made his decision, and I
didn't want to make him feel worse. So I kept my
silence.
 They say that silence is golden.
    They don't know what the hell they're talking
about.

THE MESSAGE

PLANETS ALWAYS LOOK SO peaceful.
    We sat in orbit around Anzibar IV, having beamed
down Byron and Stephanie Kenyon. It continues to
be amazing to me: I've been to planets where the
various populations are waging wars with the inten-
tion being complete genocide. Where border skir-
mishes reign, where hatred and terror hold sway...
and the planets continue in their path, unknowing,
unheeding, and uncaring. Sometimes I wish I could
take every warring race and haul them high above
their world. I would make them look down at the
sphere beneath us and say, "See? See what you have
beneath your feet? What are you fighting over? Why
are you bothering?"
    On the other hand, if someone had endeavored to
yank young M'k'n'zy off his homeworld of Xenex and
given him a stern talking to about the joys of peace,
M'k'n'zy would very likely have handed his head to
him.
    From the moment that the Kenyons had been
beamed to the planet's surface, the bridge had settled
into an extraordinarily quiet routine. Usually there
was some chatter, some spirited back-and-forth, even
casual conversation. Not this time. Captain Kenyon
remained in his command chair as if bolted into it.
His posture didn't change for ages. Crewmen ap-
proached him from time to time for exceedingly
routine matters, such as fuel-consumption reports.
He dealt with each and every call for his attention
with brisk efficiency, but nothing more than that. His
attention never wavered from the planet that turned
on the screen.
    At one point, though, in a very low voice, he said,
"Commander..."
  I turned to face him.
  "They're going to be all right, aren't they."
    I wasn't sure if it was a question or not. Trying to
sound reasonable, I said, "I think so, sir. It's not as if
your brother is a novice at this sort of thing. If his
judgment was that he could handle the situation, I
would be inclined--much as you were--to permit
him to do so."
  He nodded, but said nothing.
    The first transmission from the planet's surface had
gone without incident. Precisely on the hour, both
Stephanie and Byron had quietly been able to push in
on the top of their respective forearms. Takahashi got
a beep on his ops board and, moments later, a second
one. "Both accounted for, sir," he said and smiled in
that broad, odd way he had. "Don't you worry about
a thing."
  Again Kenyon nodded but said nothing.
    In one way, this drove home for me just how lonely
a captain's life could be. It was the captain's job to
make assignments, to treat everyone equally, to deal
with crewpeople as crewpeople first and individuals
second. If a captain formed truly strong attachments
to anyone--and heaven forbid any of them should be
romantic attachments--it made it exceedingly diffi-
cult for him to do his job. What if a particular
member of the crew was the best suited to deal with
some hazardous situation, but the captain was reluc-
tant to send him or her because of personal feelings?
Sending a less-qualified individual could endanger an
entire mission. The captain owed it both to himself
and to his crew to remain as neutral and uninvolved
as possible.
    And yes, yes, I know, before you say anything...
when I became captain of the Excalibur, I ap-
pointed my former fianc6e as my first officer. People
search for purity of character, for perfection of
consistency. Life doesn't happen that way. We set
an ideal and just because we don't always manage to
stick to it doesn't mean that the ideal is any less
devoutly to be sought. I had a teacher back at the
Academy, specializing in strategies, who would put
forward one theory of warfare and then mention
another that would seem to fly in the face of what he
had taught earlier. What he was trying to put across
to us was that rules of war are not immutable, and
one has to be able to adapt quickly or one will run
into trouble. On those occasions when he would
give us conflicting information, he would always
quote an Earthman called Walt Whitman, who
apparently said: "Do I contradict myself?. Very well
then I contradict myself, (I am large, I contain
multitudes.)" To be honest, I was never entirely sure
what that meant.
    The second hour went by, and the third and fourth,
and each time there was a comforting signal that let us
know the two of them were safe. I found myself falling
into a rather exhausting rhythm: As we would come
up on the appointed time, I would feel my pulse
racing, my body getting tense. We would come upon
the hour, and occasionally a minute or two or three
after the appointed time, at which point I would feel a
cold sweat beginning to bead on my forehead. ! would
see Stephanie's laughing face in my mind's eye, the
dimples, the long hair. I would hear the coy teasing of
her voice, and the tempting way in which she had
spoken.
    I was regretting it already. I knew that I had done
the right thing by not getting involved with her. But,
damn, it would have been fun. Not wise, but fun. Still,
even though I wasn't sure exactly where we stood with
each other or what we meant to each other, there was
still Katerina Mueller to consider .... "Am I early?"
    I looked up in surprise and realized that--for I
don't know how Iongini had completely lost track of
the time. As if she had sensed my thoughts and
materialized in response, Mueller was standing at the
turbolift door. She was looking around in surprise to
see that the day shift was still in place, with nobody
apparently making any preparations to leave.
    Slowly Captain Kenyon became aware that no one
was moving. As if trying to reorient himself to the
moment, he looked around and saw that Mueller was
standing there with a mildly puzzled expression on
her face. "Nightside already, XO?" he asked.
    "This is generally when it's done, sir." She cocked
her head in concern. "Anything I should know
about?"
    "If it's all the same to you, XO... I think I'll stay
here a bit longer."
    "She's your boat, sir. Stay as long as you like." She
glanced around at the rest of the crew. No one said
anything, but it became clear that no one else was
budging. She looked to me and said, "One big happy
family, is that it?"
 "Seems that way."
    She tapped her comm badge. "XO Mueller to night-
shift bridge crew: All bridge crew hands, at ease until
further notice. It would appear that the sun isn't
setting quite yet. XO out." She turned to Takahashi.
"Ops..."
    "Yes, sir." For once, even Romeo's somewhat loose
attitude was firmed up, as if he considered anything
other than full attention at that point to be in some-
what bad taste.
    "I've got the nightside squared away. Would you be
so kind as to adjust the auto wake-up calls for
everyone on the graveyard shift as well. Let them
sleep in until we know what time we'll need them."
    "Aye, sir." Hash set about doing as he was in-
structed... but then he stopped. He turned in his
chair to face the captain. "Sir."
    "It's running late, isn't it," Kenyon said. He spoke
with absolutely amazing control. If I were in that
situation, I doubt I could have maintained such
equanimity. "The signal."
  "Yes, sir, it is."
  "How late?"
 "Four minutes, sir. Going on five."
    "Could be in the middle of a fairly heated debate,
sir," I pointed out. But I was already starting to get an
extraordinary sinking feeling.
    Kenyon was up out of his chair. "Mr. Cray, would
you be so kind as to raise--what was their leader's
name? Kradius. Get me Kradius immediately."
    The moments that passed as Cray endeavored to do
so seemed endless.
 "Five minutes," Hash said.
  "Nothing," Cray said.
      "Nothing?" His voice sounded hard although his
face remained impassive. "They're ignoring us?"
  ,LYes.,,
  "Five minutes, twenty seconds overdue."
    "Bridge to transporter room," Kenyon said without
another moment's hesitation. "Lock on to transpon-
der signal and beam them the hell out of there, now!
Now! Bridge to sickbay. Villers, get down to the
transporter room. Bring two emergency setups, just in
case. Bridge out. Mr. Calhoun, you have the conn."
    "Captain, with all due respect, I suggest you stay
here. I'll oO.
    He spun and looked at me with astonishment.
"Why?"
    He didn't have to ask, and I didn't really have to
reply. We both knew why. We both knew that, just in
case something really, truly horrific had happened,
the captain would not be in a position of coming
unraveled in front of any of his crew.
    The unspoken exchange hung there, and then he
turned to Mueller and said, "XO, the conn is yours.
Calhoun, with me." He headed into the turbolift and I
quickly followed.
    The moment the door shut behind us, he rounded
on me with as much anger as I'd ever heard. "Don't
you ever do that again." "Sir?"
    "Condescend to me. Imply that there's something I
can't handle."
    "I never said there was something you couldn't
handle, sir," I told him. "But there are some things
you shouldn't have to handle."
    Before he could respond, his comm badge beeped.
"Transporter room to captain."
    He tapped it in acknowledgment. "Kenyon here.
Go ahead."
    "Sir, we've locked on to the transponders. Beaming
them up now."
    "Is Villers there?" asked Kenyon. Now that he was
speaking to someone other than me, his voice was its
calm, unflappable, normal tone. "She's right here. She's..."
    The transporter chief stopped talking... but the
comm line remained open.
    "Transporter room, go ahead. What's happening?"
said Kenyon with growing urgency.
    "Oh my God," came the startled gasp from the
other end.
"Transporter room, report! Have you got them?"
But the transporter room made no reply. Instead
there were shouts, alarmed voices, and above them all
the sound of Doc Villers shouting orders. The words
"Get them to sickbay!" came loud and clear over the
comm channel.
    Kenyon took no time to demand further updates.
Instead he cut the link and snapped at the turbolift
controls, "Destination override. Sickbay." The lift
immediately reversed course and sent us to the sick-
bay. During the trip, no words were exchanged. We
both stood there in apprehensive silence. Both of us
alone with our concerns and prayers, and both of us
having the sinking feeling that we knew what we were
going to find when we got there.
    The turbolift doors opened and we charged down
the corridor. I was in the lead, practically shoving
crewmen out of the way if they didn't scatter fast
enough. Kenyon was right behind me, and actually
doing a fair job of keeping up. We darted into sickbay,
and Villers was waiting for us... waiting for us just
inside the door, and blocking the way.
 "Captain..." she started to say.
    "Where is she? And he. Where are they? Are they
all right?" There was no panic in his voice, no sound
of desperation. His tone of voice was that of a
superior officer demanding information of a subordi-
nate. How he managed to keep himself together
considering what was going through his head, I
haven't the faintest idea.
    And then, Doc Villers--her face a dispassionate
mask--said the two words one never wants to hear in
that kind of situation.  "I'm sorry."
    Kenyon froze where he was. I put a hand on his
shoulder, but it was numb. I doubt he felt it at all.
Instead he said quietly, "I want to see them."
  "No. You don't," said Villers.
  "Show me."
  "Captain, nothing will be served by--"
    Kenyon didn't hesitate. "Doctor, you're relieved of
duty. Dr. Ross, show me my daughter and brother, if
you please."
    Doc Villers looked as if she'd been slapped across
the face. But then the chunky woman simply stepped
aside and turned to Dr. Ross, a tall, narrow-faced,
and somewhat stunned-looking assistant. She nodded
to him and Ross said, "Uhm... this way, Captain."
    Kenyon seemed to have forgotten that I was there
altogether. Consequently, I followed him without a
word as Ross led him to the back section of sickbay.
There, on two med tables, were the bodies of Stepha-
nie Kenyon and Byron Kenyon.
 At least, what was left of them was there.
    In my time on Xenex I had seen brutality in all its
forms. This was not the worst I had ever seen, but it
definitely ranked high up there. I didn't have any
medical training, but there were electronic represen-
tations of their bodies up on the monitors, giving a
fuller picture of their internal structure, and even I
could see what had been done to them.
 Quite simply, they had been beaten to death. They
had died brutally and horribly, their skulls crushed
in, their bones shattered. There were rope burns on
their wrists. They'd probably been stunned by blows
to the head, and when they came to, their wrists being
bound made it impossible to activate their transpon-
ders. There was blood everywhere, my God, it was
everywhere. Their faces didn't look like faces, but
rather like crimson masks. Stephanie's long hair was
thick and matted with blood. Her mouth was hanging
open and most of her teeth had been knocked out, as
had Byron's. Their clothes were shredded, huge
gashes laid open their thighs, the...

... I'm sorry. I need a drink. Excuse me.

    You know... you'd think with everything I've
seen, everything I've done... describing that
wouldn't get to me. You'd think that, wouldn't you.
You'd think enough time would have passed, that I
could be more dispassionate. That I...
    I think, for everyone, there comes a moment where
they come face-to-face with their belief system. Some-
thing happens that is so ghastly, so calamitous, that
you look not only deep into your soul, but to the being
or beings who put that soul there in the first place.
And you wonder if they're there, or if they're listen-
ing, or if they care about anyone and anything at all.
    I think... I think that's when I lost my faith. Right
then, right there. Oh, I have moments, I admit...
moments now when I still pray out of habit. When I
toss out a random request for help in a pinch. But in
my day-to-day existence, in my endeavors to cope
with each passing day, I have lost the conviction that
there is some greater being watching over us. People
don't usually have instant epiphanies, not really.
What you usually have is a very small revelation, a
tiny peek behind the fabric of our reality to see the
gnawing, monstrous evil that hides behind it all. The
darkness from which forlorn voices cry out in hope-
lessness and misery. It leers at you and knows with
grim satisfaction that it can bide its time because,
sooner or later, it gets you in the end. So it can afford
not to worry.
    Kenyon stood there, looking at the remains of his
daughter and brother for a time. I kept waiting for
him to scream, to rant, to moan, to cry... anything.
To display some sort of reaction. But there was
nothing, nothing at all. Instead he simply walked over
to his daughter, took the blanket that was at the far
end of the med table, and pulled it up and over her
head to cover her. Then he went to his brother and
did the same for him. As he did that, everyone in
sickbay had lined up behind him, just watching. No
one knew what to say. What could anyone say? "I'm
sorry, Captain"? Something like that? How could any
expression of sympathy even begin to approach the
depth of agony that he had to be feeling at that
moment?
    His comm badge beeped and he tapped it. "Bridge
to captain." It was Mueller's voice.
    "This is the captain." I couldn't believe it. His
voice sounded almost chatty.
    "Sir... we received a reply, finally, to our hail to
the Dufaux. It's from Kradius."
    "Really. And what does he have to say?" He might
have been discussing the technical aspects of tracing a
warp signature for all the emotion that he was dis-
playing.
 "All it says is: Let that be a lesson to you."
 "I see. Mr. Takahashi..."
 Hash's voice cut in. "Aye, sir?"
    "Hash... kindly arrange for the storage of two
corpses. We'll need to make a convenient rendezvous
for a cargo ship heading back toward earth. XO, if
you wouldn't mind contacting the Kenyon family
burial site. Inform them that we'll be having two new
clients for them. Thank you." "What? Capt--"
 "That will be all. Kenyon out."
    It was obvious to all of us that he was in shock. In
comparison to what he was giving off, Vulcans were
screaming mental cases. He rested one hand on the
sheets which now covered his daughter and brother.
"Go in peace" was all he said.
    Then he turned and walked away from them with
that same, confident gait he always employed. "Cap-
tain..." I said.
    He blinked in apparent surprise. He had forgotten.
He'd forgotten I was there. "Yes, Calhoun?"
    "You..." Everyone was waiting for me to say
something, and I didn't have a clue where to start.
Then I noticed something as I looked down. "Sir...
you have blood on your hand."
    I indicated his right hand with a small nod. He held
up the hand and looked at the crimson-tinged fingers
in surprise. "I'll be. Must've happened when I pulled
the blankets up over them."
    "And on your comm badge too, sir," I said. "Must
have happened when you replied to the hail, sir."
    "Really." He looked down at the comm badge with
only the vaguest interest. Then he removed it from his
uniform jacket and flipped it to me. I caught it
reflexively. "You can have it." "Sir, it's yours..."
 He wasn't listening. Instead he walked out of the
sickbay without another word, walking at a slow
saunter and appearing for all the world like a man
who was simply ambling down a peaceful street of a
small town, perhaps heading down to the local eatery
to chat it up with the other townsfolk. He gave no
indication at all of a man who had completely
cracked.
 That, of course, is what made him so dangerous.

THE BLAME

I WALKED STRAIGHT INTO Kenyon's quarters and told
him that he should relieve me of my position.
    He was sitting in a chair in the middle of his
quarters, just sitting there as if it were a command
chair. He didn't move from his spot, but instead
simply fixed a gaze on me like an owl in a Star-
fleet uniform. "Why would I want to do that?" he
asked. Again, he didn't sound surprised or stunned
or anything. He sounded crushingly, frighteningly
normal.
    "Because I fell into the trap that I should not have
fallen into, sir," I told him flatly. "You needed me to
be honest with you. You needed me to tell you
everything that was going through my mind. The fact
of the matter is that I wanted to tell you not to allow
them to go down. I wanted to fight you on it every step
of the way. You needed to hear me say that, and I...
I let you down. I was reluctant to contradict you
because of..." I hesitated.
    "Because of her," he finished. "You didn't want to
risk embarrassing me in front of my daughter."
    "More or less, sir. You... you gave me the oppor-
tunity to tell you what I really thought. You did so
repeatedly. I should have ignored the dynamics of the
interpersonal relations I was witnessing and gone with
my instincts..."
    "And your instincts said that the regs should have
been ignored."
  "Yes, sir. That's right sir."
    "Don't worry about it, Calhoun." His voice
sounded faint and distant.
    "Don't worry about it?" I was pacing the room.
"Captain... I was supposed to watch out for your
best interests. And I fell into the same trap that
everyone else here does. I went too easy on you. I
didn't present enough of a challenge. I let you down,
and her and him down, and now they're dead because
of it."
    "What are you looking for, Calhoun? Absolution?"
He gestured in the air several times as if he were
tossing holy water on me. "I give you absolution, my
son. Go. Go and sin no more."  "Captain, I..."
    "Calhoun, it's not your fault." His tone had
changed, become more confident, even conversation-
al. "The captain is the final decision maker on the
ship. If I'd been of a mind to violate regs, or second-
guess my brother and daughter, I would have done so
without your endorsement. By the same token, if--
and this happened to be the case--I hadn't been
convinced that ignoring both the regs and their wishes
was the proper way to proceed, not a hundred Mac-
kenzie Calhouns could have convinced me otherwise.
Calhoun, it's... Calhoun, look at me."
    I was mortified. I felt an actual stinging in my eyes.
I hadn't cried in years, not since the death of my first
victim, and I was not about to start bawling at that
point. I managed to pull myself together and turned to
face my captain.
    "Calhoun... what these people did, these Du-
faux... they did this. Their leader, Kradius, did this.
We, you and I, did not do these... these terrible
things. We can chastise ourselves all we want for not
foreseeing it, or not managing to get Byron and
Stephanie to foresee it. But the bottom line is that, as
much as we care to blame ourselves for not preventing
it... that doesn't automatically mean that we caused
it. Let us keep the blame placed where it properly
should be: with Kradius and his people. And if the
blame is to be placed anywhere besides there, then it
should be upon me. Mine was the decision, mine was
the responsibility, and yours was simply one voice in
the crowd. Whether you feel you should have been
tougher with me or not is truly beside the point. The
same thing would likely have happened."
    I stared at him for a long time. His face remained
impassive, except for the hints of a small smile at the
edges of his mouth. "How can you be so calm?" I
asked. "With all respect, sir, how can you seem so...
so unaffected."
    "My reactions aren't really for public consumption,
Calhoun," he said easily. "Whatever's going through
my head, I prefer to keep it in there. Do I feel grief?. Of
course. But beating my breast in the presence of my
officers is hardly going to be of any use to anyone, is it.
We still have a job to do. We still have a peace to
negotiate."
    "A peace?" I couldn't quite believe it. "A peace?
Between the Carvargna and the Dufaux?"
 "That was our assignment, I do believe."
    "Captain... you can't be serious. The Dufaux
are--"
    "Oh, I have no intention of meeting with the
Dufaux," he said. "I'll be meeting directly with the
Carvargna myself."
    I began to get that same feeling of danger that I had
earlier. "Yourself, sir?"
    "I am the ranking officer, last I checked," he said in
that same eerily calm tone. "Why? Don't you trust
me, Calhoun?"
    I had the sense that I was treading in an extremely
dangerous area. Choosing my words as delicately as I
could, I said, "It's... not a matter of trust, sir.
You've had a terrible shock, a traumatic loss. Per-
haps ... this isn't the time to pursue a matter that
could just as easily wait."
  "Wait?" He raised a curious eyebrow.
    "They were at war before we got here, and they'll be
at war after we leave."
    "You were talking to me about responsibility, Cal-
houn. Taking responsibility for lost lives. If people die
because we delayed trying to rectify the situation,
then aren't those lives on our heads? At least to some
degree?"
  "Captain..."
    "Mac," he said gently, "I'm fine. Truly. I'm fine.
Perhaps... well, perhaps I'm still in shock in many
respects."
  "That thought had occurred to me, sir."
    "Well, you may be right. And that's fine. The
human psyche lets us deal with things in our own way
and in its own time. I'm willing to let that develop
naturally. In the meantime, I have a job to do, and I'll
be damned if I let this setback stop me from doing it."
    The word rocked me. Setback? Saying that he was
simply in shock was turning into something of an
understatement. I didn't think he was dealing with
any aspect of it.
    "The best thing that I can do," he continued,
unaware of what was going through my mind, "is
complete Byron and Stephanie's work. They always--
both of them--they always were concerned first and
foremost with the grand scheme of things. I can..."
He smiled. "You'll say I'm foolish... but I can hear
their voices in my head."
    "Haunting you, sir?" It was not a concept that I
lightly dismissed. On Xenex not only did we believe
in visions, but connections with those who were lost
to us were not uncommon.
    "Nothing quite that exotic," he said. "I hear them
as one would hear the advice of someone who is dear
to you. And they are telling me that the last thing
they'd want me to do is allow this, their last mission,
to go unfulfilled. Now, I know what you're thinking,
Calhoun, and you needn't worry. I will be consulting
directly with Starfleet on this matter. This is a situa-
tion of some delicacy, and I wouldn't want to do
anything that could make matters worse. Any actions
I take, no matter what, will be done with the full
approval and backing of Starfleet command."
 "Any 'actions,' sir? Actions... such as what?"
 He smiled once more. "Trust me," he said.
    That should have been the moment. Right there.
Even as I tell it to you now, I see it with such blinding
clarity that I cannot believe, in retrospect, that I
didn't do something right then and there. But what
could I have done? Tried to relieve him of command?
Simply because he was saying he was going to get the
job done? How insane would that have been?
    Besides, my overall imperative at that point was to
protect him, to be the best first officer possible and
support him in whatever decisions he was to make.
    Within me, though, my blood was boiling, and it
wasn't simply out of concern for completing a peace
initiative. I was appalled to the core over what had
been done to them. And more... even during our
brief time together, I had felt a connection with
Stephanie that perhaps even went beyond what Eliza-
beth and I had had. I fully admit, I may be adding to it
at this point with the intervention of years. I may be
looking back at what was the most brief of encoun-
ters, which might have led to absolutely nothing, and
imbuing it with a richness and texture that wasn't
really there. But, as are all mortals, I am limited to
telling stories by how I remember them. It's difficult,
impossible even, to separate hindsight and wishful
thinking from whatever the reality of the situation
was. To the best of my recollection... the loss of
Stephanie, in particular, and the brutal way in which
she died, inflamed a desire for revenge in me such as I
had not felt in years. But I could not let that flame
touch the captain. He had greater duties to which he
had to attend. He had to stand for something more.
He had to be shielded from the hurt and pain and
anger. I had to help him... but had no idea how to
go about it.
 And he seemed
 So
 Calm.
    It was frightening in a way. Even before anything
happened, before any of the subsequent events oc-
curred, I felt cold, burning fear in the pit of my
stomach. Not for myself, but on the captain's behalf.
It was a fear that I spoke of to Mueller. It was one of
those rare instances where we were together, relatively
alone, and fully dressed. We were in Ten-Forward,
huddled close in at a table. The Grissorn was on its
way to Anzibar II--not a terribly long voyage at that
point, mere hours at most--with the captain busily
arranging for a meeting with that world's leaders.
Indeed, the only thing that was delaying us was the
captain, who was, good as his word, taking the time to
consult with Starfleet before taking any actions. He
was also handling all contact with the Carvargna
himself. Said it was his preference.
    No one was paying any particular attention to Kat
and me. Everyone on the ship was shaken up by the
turn of events, and the captain's welfare was on
everyone's mind. I spoke in a low tone, saying to Kat,
"Something's going to go wrong. I can feel it."
    "You're not implying that the captain can't handle
the situation, are you?"
    "I'm not implying anything. I'm just stating con-
cerns, that's all. You've served with him far longer
than I have..."
    "Yes. I have. And let me tell you this, Command-
er," and she leaned forward so that our faces were
only inches away from each other, "I trust the man
implicitly. He is the most thorough professional I
have ever known. If he says he can handle the situa-
tion... if he says he's on top of things... then I say
he can handle it. I say you shouldn't worry."
    Kat Mueller's words were exactly what I wanted to
hear.
 Unfortunately, that worried me even more.
    As it turned out, later on we would both be chang-
ing our tunes.

THE MEETING

CAPTAIN KENYON had his first meeting with the Car-
vargna leadership... and I did not attend. No one
did, except the captain himself, and Lieutenant Cray,
who went along as security backup. And even Cray
told me that, at the actual meeting, he wasn't present.
Kenyon had kept the meeting behind closed doors
with the Carvargna. I felt all of the worry, all of the
concern, flaring once more. Unfortunately, there was
little I could do about it.
 Actually, there was one thing.
    I sought out Dr. Villers while the captain was on the
planet's surface. I found her sitting quietly in her
office, off duty, but with half a bottle of synthehol
situated on her desk. One did not have to be a master
detective to figure out where the rest of the bottle's
contents had gone.
  "Doctor? Doc?"
    She looked up at me, bleary-eyed. "Yeah?" Her
voice was slurred.
    "I need to talk to you about something kind of
important."
    Immediately she sat up, the intoxicating effects of
synthehol falling away from her. That was, of course,
one of the joys of synthehol. It was also, to my mind,
one of the drawbacks.
  "What can I do for you, Commander?"
    Taking a seat, I said, "I need your input about...
competency."
    "Don't be concerned, Commander," she said
calmly. "I admit, your socialization skills are some-
what lacking, but I hardly think you'd qualify as
incompetent."
    "I wasn't referring to me. I was referring to... to
the captain."
    She stared at me for a moment and then growled,
"That isn't funny, Commander."
    "I wasn't joking, Doctor. I am becoming... con-
cerned about the captain."
    "And I am becoming concerned about you, Com-
mander, as of this moment. Captain Kenyon is a great
man...
    "And he's had a great loss," I pointed out. "I just
wanted your medical opinion--"
    "Medical opinion." She picked up the bottle and
tossed back another deep swallow. I was reluctantly
impressed by her imbibing skills. "In order to form a
medical opinion, I would have to give him a medical
examination. On what grounds do you suggest I do
SO?"
    "You don't need grounds. You're the CMO, and all
crewmen must submit to exams upon your request.
That includes the captain."
 "That is a very broad-ranging power I have, Com-
mander. Since power tends to corrupt, it is not one I
exercise lightly. And when the captain is involved, I
do not exercise at all unless I feel it's unavoidable.
Just because the captain isn't mourning on a fast
enough schedule for you doesn't mean that it's going
to make me the least bit concerned."
    "It doesn't have anything to do with me, Doc-
tor .... "
 "Are you sure about that?"
    I eyed her suspiciously. "May I ask what that is
supposed to mean?"
    "It means no more and no less than what you take it
to mean."
    I felt myself starting to get angry, and I pushed it as
far down as I could. "That's a bit too vague an answer
to satisfy me, I'm afraid. You're implying something,
and I'd like to know what that is."
    "All right," said Villers. She pushed the bottle aside
and sized me up. "I've worked with Captain Kenyon
for a damned long time. He's the best officer, and the
best man I've ever known with the possible exception
of my third husband, and even that's iffy. The fact is, I
already had a long talk with him earlier today. He
feels the loss, he mourns it in his own way. But he is
preparing to carry on in the professional manner to
which I have become accustomed. You, on the other
hand..."
  "Yes? Don't hesitate, pray continue."
    "You, Commander, are what I would term a 'loose
cannon.' Your service record is impressive in its
accomplishments, and you have your curious sup-
porters. There are some who even compare you to
James Kirk in terms of your command style. But
these days are not those, Commander. I dislike cow-
boys. Cowboys get people injured or killed. That
means more work for me. Not that I'm lazy, you
understand, but a day where no one comes through
my door is a day that I consider a good one. Your
record is shot through with foolish chances that need
not have been taken, and wouldn't have been if you'd
attended to the regs. The fact that things 'turned out'
for you is irrelevant to me. They might not have. I
don't like your command technique, and to be
blunt--"
  "Oh, you've been tactful until now?"
    "--to be blunt, I don't like you. And I don't like
what you're doing now: trying to take advantage of
the captain's loss to clear the way for yourself."
    I felt my throat constricting in fury. The scar on my
face burned, which indicated to me that it was turning
darker red. That's what usually happened when I got
angry. "Is that your interpretation?"
     "It's an interpretation. It's certainly the one I'm
drawing. If that is not the case..." "It is not."
    "Then you may want to reconsider your actions so
that you don't suggest to others that you're simply an
opportunist who will do anything to get ahead."
    "If that were the case, Doctor, then hasn't it oc-
curred to you that--rather than being a 'cowboy' and
a 'loose cannon'--I'd be doing everything I could to
toe the line of regulations so that I could get ahead? I
wouldn't act upon my conscience, or depend upon
'curious supporters.' I'd be trying to build as wide a
base of support as possible instead of taking the
actions that I felt necessary."
    "Well," and she smiled in a very unpleasant way,
"perhaps you're simply an inept opportunist."
    "And perhaps you," I replied, "are so blinded by
loyalty that you're refusing to see a bad situation
developing right in front of your eyes."
 "At least," she said, "some of us have loyalty."
    There are certain comments that could best be
referred to as "conversation enders." That was defi-
nitely one of them.
     I'm sorry. That went a bit further afield than I was
expecting it to. What was I talking about? Ah yes. The meeting.
    The captain, immediately upon his return, called
for a meeting to be held in the conference lounge. I
was, as it turned out, the last one to arrive. Already
present were the captain himself, of course, Romeo
Takahashi, Cray, Doc Villers, Katerina Mueller, and
Rachel McLauren. McLauren was the chief engineer.
She was easily the most diminutive engineer I'd ever
seen. Word around the engine room was that that
was one of her special skills. She was so narrow that
she could worm her way into virtually anywhere with
no problem at all. Some folks kiddingly referred to
her as the "pocket-sized engineer." I couldn't say
whether they ever mentioned that nickname around
her, and I can only guess as to what her reaction
would have been if she'd heard it. She had a shaved
head and thick red eyebrows. When she was studying
a situation, her deep blue eyes seemed capable of
plunging to the depths of any problem and discern-
ing not only the difficulty, but the solution, in a
matter ~of seconds.
    "Thank you all for coming," Kenyon said briskly,
and he nodded toward Kat. "Particularly you, XO."
    "Not a problem, sir," said Mueller. With no hint of
irony, she endeavored to cover a yawn with the back
of her hand. "No problem at all."
    "I know this is off-duty hours for you, Mueller.
Ordinarily I would just have the computer deliver a
pr6cis~when you come on duty, but the extraordinary
nature of the situation requires, I think, extraordinary
measures."

    No one really salutes in Starfleet. This didn't stop
Katerina from tossing off a tongue-in-cheek semi-
salute. It came across more like a waggling of fingers
in greeting than a stiff salute. Kenyon didn't seem to
notice, or if he did notice, he didn't mind
    "However," Kenyon continued, "I wanted all key
officers on this at the same time."
    "On what, sir?" asked Hash. "Did the meeting with
the Carvargna go well?"
    "Better than well. Better than great." He folded his
hands neatly and said, "The leaders of the Carvargna
want to cooperate with us in whatever way possible.
I've spent a good deal of time with them. They're
considerate, they're thoughtful. Their emphasis is on
love and poetry. How can anyone find fault with
that?"
    "I don't think anyone is out to find fault, sir," said
Mueller. "I think, though, we'd all like to see what the
point of this is."
    "The point is, they fight only because they have to,"
said Kenyon. "They are worthy individuals and de-
serve to have their population safe from the ravages of
the Dufaux. We are, after all, familiar with the sorts of
atrocities that they're capable of perpetrating."
    "The plan?" Cray asked softly, cutting as always to
the heart of the situation.
    "Ah yes, the plan. After lengthy discussions with all
concerned... it has been decided that we are going
to assist the Carvargna with improving and updating
the weaponry of their vessels."
    Rachel McLauren blinked as if in surprise. "I'm
sorry. What?" There was a brief exchange of glances
around the table as if everyone wanted to make sure
that everyone else was understanding the matter in
the same way.
    "The Dufaux have more advanced weaponry than
do the Carvargna." The captain seemed happy to
elaborate. "The supposition is that they stole it from
other races. Ultimately, the hows and whys aren't all
that important. We are going to help the Carvargna
win this war and stabilize the entire area of space."
    Now understandmthen as nowmStarfleet regula-
tions have no greater challenger than me. I'll com-
plain about them when I feel like it, ignore them when
I have to. But even I was caught flat-footed by the
bald-faced assertion of the comment.
    "Sir, with all respect..." I looked around the table
and saw mostly puzzled expressions. "Sir, can we do
that?"
    "We most certainly can... and with the UFP's
blessing, I might add. Look, people, considering the
circumstances, I know it's going to sound odd when I
say: It's nothing personal here."
    "Odd" was something of an understatement. I was
spiraling way beyond baffled at that point.
    "What I'm saying," continued Kenyon, "is that
whether the victims had been... who they were...
or total strangers, that wouldn't change the outcome
of the response to the Dufaux's actions." His voice
became hard, an undercurrent of anger audible.
"They took two legitimate, authorized representatives
of the Federation and they slaughtered them. Animals
butchered for food die in more humane fashion than
those two people did. They went down at the invita-
tion of the Dufaux, and their lifeless bodies were sent
back as a clear warning. A clear warning necessitates a
clear response. The Dufaux have spit in the face of the
Federation, and they will be brought to task for it.
Now... do any of you have a problem with that?"
    "No, sir," said Cray. Naturally he was the first to
respond, but Villers promptly voiced her support as
well.
  McLauren was already working up the logistics.
"I'11 just have to be careful not to give them too much
too fast," she mused. "Last thing we need to do is jack
up their weaponry to the point where they blow
themselves up."
  Kenyon turned to Hash expectantly. "Takahashi?"
      "I'll prepare ship's services to provide any help it
can," he said evenly.  "XO?"
    "I'll coordinate with night and graveyard, Cap-
tain," she told him. "If you feel that round-the-clock
is mandated, we'll be able to provide it."
    "Good." There was a silence then. For me it
seemed that it was a fairly long one.
    Kenyon was waiting for my response. Waiting for
me to chime in, either with a protest or a show of
support.
    I thought of how I had said to him that I would
never contradict him in front of others. That support
for the position of captain, and his long-term authori-
ty, was mandatory. I also thought of how my silence,
my tacit agreement in his allowing Stephanie and
Byron to go to the planet's surface, had set all of this
into motion and cost two people their lives. If I spoke
up now, lodged a protest, tried to block him...
either way, in some aspect or another, I was risking
doing the wrong thing. My choices were between one
bad decision and another.
    But I didn't know for sure that silence, that sup-
port, was automatically bad. After all, he had Starfleet
backing on this.
 I thought about Kirk.
    Having been compared to him, I had felt it wise to
study up on him, even beyond the required reading.
There had been a time when Kirk faced a situation
that was not dissimilar from what I was encountering
now. A planet where two factions were at war with
one another... and Kirk had discovered that the
Klingons--our enemies at the time--were supplying
one side with advanced weaponry. Well... relatively
advanced. Flintlocks and such. So Kirk supplied the
other side for the purpose of evening the score.
Matters escalated and eventually Kirk, soured by the
experience and feeling like a warmonger, pulled out.
After he left, the tribe that he'd been backing was
wiped out by the Klingon-supplied side. Ironically,
with no one to fight... but with the advanced weap-
onry in their hands... the "victors" wound up turn-
ing upon each other, embarking in a power struggle
that wound up wiping out every last one of them.
Every so often, I still think about the Klingons
walking among the corpses that resulted from their
handiwork. Were they pleased? I wonder. Were they
saddened? Did they care one way or the other? I
would have liked to ask them.
    But this situation... this one was entirely differ-
ent. Kirk at least rationalized that he was simply
giving a proportionate response to outsiders who had
already interfered with the planet's development and
business. Thus he was able to justify his actions. Here,
in Anzibar space... we were the outsiders. We were
the ones who were interfering. We were the Kling-
ons... the enemy.
  If we mixed in...
    Then I saw Stephanie's bloodied corpse in my
mind's eye. I saw Captain Kenyon, looking at me
expectantly. I saw Byron that last time I'd seen him
alive, insisting that a peace initiative was worth the
risk. People always speak boldly of risks when, in their
hearts, they believe that they're going to come out of a
situation hale and hardy. I've faced death far too
many times to have a limited sense of my own
mortality, but there are many others who do have
such a lack of perspective. Byron was one of them.
And the Dufaux made sure that it cost him and
Stephanie the ultimate price.
    Even before my mind had fully wrapped itself
around the problem and come to a reasonable conclu-
sion, I heard my mouth say, "Whatever help I can
provide, Captain... it's yours."
    From the corner of my eye, I saw Doc Villers
nodding with a small snfile on her face. Perhaps she
thought that I was just a cowardly little weasel who
didn't mind going around behind the captain's back,
but when put to the test face-to-face, I promptly sided
with my commander. Perhaps she thought I had
simply come around and she had "talked sense" into
me. To be honest, I didn't care overmuch what she
thought.
    Instead my instincts led me to glance at Cray. I
wasn't sure why yet... but I had the feeling that he
might present the biggest problem.
    Cray wasn't looking at me at all. That, in and of
itself, was strange. After all, the captain had just
addressed me directly, and I had spoken in reply. The
instinct for anyone at the table would have been to be
looking my way. But Cray was staring straight ahead,
almost as if he were making a point of ignoring me.
That, to my mind, did not bode well at all.
    "What you can provide, Mr. Calhoun," said the
captain, leaning forward eagerly, "is your expertise.
I've been treading the spaceways a good few decades
now. Lord knows I've been involved in my share of
skirmishes. But I've never coordinated a war before.
You have. For those of you who might be unaware,"
he said (and I might have been crazy, but it sounded
to me as if he were speaking with a modicum of
personal pride, as if he were a proud father), "the
commander here, while still in his tender teen years,
led an entire world to freedom as warlord of the
Xenexians."
    That was when Cray spoke. Always in that quiet,
almost sibilant voice, he asked with what sounded
like gentle mocking, "Should we bow?"
    Kenyon didn't respond directly. Instead he contin-
ued speaking to me. "The Carvargna, as I've noted,
tend to be a more peaceful race. They could use work
on strategy, on coordinating attacks with limited
resources. It's not as if we're going to be heading in
there, leading an attack with the Grissom's phasers
blasting .... "
  "We're not?" I tried not to sound surprised.
    "No, Mr. Calhoun, we're not," he assured me.
"We're simply here to help, not storm. Teach them.
Guide them. Fill them in about basic strategy, about
coordinated attacks, about air versus ground assault.
You're certainly suited for it."
    "As am I," said Cray. At that point, Cray was
indeed looking at me. Somehow the unblinking stare I
was getting from him was hardly mollifying.
    "No slight intended, Mr. Cray," said the captain.
"But I feel it would be best if Mr. Calhoun handled
this. If he's up for it, that is. Are you... Calhoun?"
    The challenge was unmistakable. This wasn't sim-
ply an assignment. He wanted to make damned sure
that I was on his side. That I wasn't going to counter-
mand him, or doubt him. He needed to know that he
had my support going in. I'm not entirely sure why it
was so important to him. Perhaps it was a normal,
human instinct for him to have. All of us want
approval in some form or another, even if it's from
those we would consider to be our subordinates.
     "Absolutely, sir," I said firmly. "Just tell me where
 and when, and I'll be there."
     "Good!" He slapped the table and it shuddered
 slightly. "I knew I could count on you. On all of you.
And together," and he spoke more loudly, more
boldly than I'd ever heard him, "we're going to show
the Dufaux that there are some fundamentals of
decency that are not tampered with, some lines that
are not crossed. We're going to show them what the
Federation stands for... and that to spit in the face
of that is to pay a terrible price."
    As for me, I couldn't help but wonder what sort of
price we were all going to pay.
 It's just that...

 There's something you have to understand.
    There are aspects of myself that I don't like. Aspects
that I've tried to grow beyond.
    As much as I draw upon the strength of my "barbar-
ic" upbringing, part of me is almost... almost
ashamed of it. That's always been a conflict that I've
carried around within me. Wanting to move beyond
what I've been... but finding it impossible to leave
behind because I need it, depend on it.
    I've seen the face of anger, the face of hatred, the
face of revenge. I've seen it reflected in the eyes of
men I was about to kill as they looked in fear upon
me. I saw it reflected in the water of a stream, when I
went to dry my face after sobbing over my father's
execution. I've seen it mirrored in the faces of men
who fought by my side, seeking to avenge themselves
against their oppressors.
    I didn't want to see it in Norman Kenyon. I liked
and respected him too much for that. He deserved
better than to be...
 ú.. to be me.

    Then again, I've noticed that life tends not to
cooperate with those things that are the most impor-
tant to us. And ultimately... we cannot save those
who do not want to be saved.
    But if we are to go down, the least we can do is go
down in flames. We all owe ourselves that, at least.
    I'm sorry. I'm getting off topic and I was... dis-
tracted... a bit...

THE QUESTIONS

MICK GOLD, the officer at conn, was the first one to
come to me.
    Gold fancied himself a bit more of a maverick than
he actually was. He tended to walk with such a
pronounced swagger that Villers had taken one look
at him and prescribed an ointment for his upper
thighs on the assumption that he was having a serious
chafing problem.
    It had been several days since the captain had
instituted what he had come to refer to as "the
Initiative." We'd been working with the Carvargna to
the best of both our and their ability. I had been
somewhat underwhelmed by their military "leaders."
They had been given the rank and the responsibility,
but there was very little that they actually understood
about the strategies and techniques of warfare. I
walked them through some of the basics, gave them
what I considered some required reading--every-
thing ranging from the annals of Garth of Izar to
Julius Caesar's De Bello Gallico. I will credit them
that what they lacked in firsthand knowledge they
more than made up for in pure enthusiasm. They
wanted to learn. And it wasn't simply for the sake of
trying to save their own skins (skins which were, I
should add, a rather startling shade of green) but also,
it seemed to me, out of interest in knowledge for its
own sake.
    Other than me, McLauren had the heaviest burden.
The ship's weaponry that the Carvargna possessed
was on par with simple disruptors. It was not even in
the same league as the phase-generated pulsers the
Dufaux possessed. The pulsers, in turn, were no
match for our phasers, but the captain's instruction
was not to arm the Carvargna with firepower beyond
that which the Dufaux had at their disposal. "We
want to insure that the Carvargna will be safe and
capable," Kenyon had told us. "We don't need to arm
them so heavily that they're tempted to abuse the
armament and go elsewhere to display their new
strength." In short, we didn't want to risk turning
them into that which we were trying to combat.
    I was stepping into a turbolift, on the way to my
quarters, when Lieutenant Gold ran up calling, "Hold
the lift!" I did so and he stepped in beside me. As the
lift started to move, he turned to me and said, "Have
you seen them?"
    "Them?" I wasn't quite sure what he was talking
about, and it was evident from the confusion on my
face. "Them... who?"
  "'Them' the orders from Starfleet."
    For a moment I was still clueless, and then I
understood. "You mean the orders that instruct us to
aid the Carvargna."
  He nodded. "Yup. Them."
     "No, I haven't. Nor do I need to. The captain has
 said they exist and it's my duty to carry them out."
     "It's your duty not to let something be pulled on
 you, sir." I have to admit, that's one of the things I
 liked about Gold. He never mucked around with such
 disclaimer phrases as "with all due respect."
    "Do you have reason to believe that the captain is
falsifying orders? Because, Mr. Gold, that is a very
serious charge."
    He looked at me for a long moment, and then said
quietly--uncharacteristically quietly, in factm"No.
No, I have no reason."  "I see."
  "I'm just the suspicious type."
    "I see," I said again. "That being the case, you
might want to consider rethinking your current career
path and seek instead a career in security. That is
certainly the environment for someone who is of a
suspicious nature."
      "Security is the environment for someone who
obeys blindly and follows the captain right or wrong."
  "'Right or wrong'?"
    "Look..." Gold shifted uncomfortably from one
foot to the other. "I love a fight as much as the next
guy. But I generally like to know what I'm fighting for.
I feel badly about what happened to the captain's kid
and his brother. Everybody does. And I don't even
object to the idea of kicking in the teeth of the
bastards what did it. But I just want to make sure that
everything's on the up and up, that a proper course is
being steered. It's just my nature, y'know?"
    I couldn't blame him for being concerned. After all,
I'd had a not dissimilar discussion with Doc Vil-
lers... and had been roundly shot down for my
troubles. Now I found myself in the odd position of
defending the captain from the very sentiments that I
had been voicing not all that long ago. But there was
no way that I was going to convey any doubts that I
hadmparticulady when, as of this point, they were
still unfounded--to a subordinate. It just wasn't
right.
 "I will take your concern under advisement."
 "So you're not going to check."
    "For the first officer to contact Starfleet directly," I
said, "would be a circumvention of procedure."
Something within me recoiled, horrified, at the rote
sound to my words. I was actually falling back on regs
to excuse behavior. What the hell was I coming to?
Nonetheless, I continued, "Verifying orders, as if the
captain's word were being doubted, would set off bells
all through Starfleet. They'd want to know why any-
one was questioning the captain's orders, what there
was about the captain's conduct that warranted that
type of concern. And if I don't have any easy answers
for those questions, then I would not only be wasting
the time of all concerned, but I would be unfairly
undermining the captain with Starfleet."
    "So you're not going to check," said Gold as ifI had
not spoken at all.
  "Under. Advisement," I said.
    The lift doors opened not a moment too soon. Gold
stepped through them, turned, and tossed off a mock
salute. The doors hissed shut, closing me back in and
leaving me to wonder just who and what it was that I
had become. Was I being concerned over how Kenyon
would be seen? Or, as the prospect of my own
command began to loom before me, was I suddenly
turning into a conservative, line-toe drone who valued
the Proper Order of Things above all else?
It was not a situation that I wanted to dwell upon.
Nor was there anyone with whom I could discuss
the matter. After all, the core of the problem involved
support for the actions of the captain. If I chose to try
and converse with someone about the situation, I was
 then, by definition, undermining Kenyon... which
 is what I was trying to avoid doing.
    Mueller also floated a question to me in a much
more cautious fashion. I had just returned from one
of my sessions with the Carvargna. Kat and I had just
had some... recreation... and she turned over, her
head lying on my shoulder, and she fingered my chest
hair. "Are you sure about this?" she asked. Her voice
was a low whisper, as if she was concerned that
someone might overhear us.
    "This? Yes... I'm, uh... I'm sure this is chest
hair, if that's what you mean."
    "I mean are you sure about the captain. About what
we're doing."
    I wanted to lie to her, tell her that the captain had
my full confidence. That not for a moment did I
doubt the rightness of our actions. Instead I replied
honestly: "No."
    She made a thoughtful noise in the bottom of her
throat and then, without moving away from me, she
said, "I'm not sure, either."
    Considering the unswerving support she'd voiced
earlier, perhaps that's why she would not go into
detail, even though I gently coaxed her.
 I should have coaxed her less gently.

THE TIME BETWEEN

Now, FOR STORYTELLING PURPOSES, it would probably
be ideal if nothing else happened at this point in my
narrative. However, life has an odd habit of not
working out in ways that best suit the needs of
storytellers.
    "Communiqu6 from Starfleet, sir," Lieutenant
Cray reported after we had spent nearly two weeks
instructing and teaching the Carvargna the fine art of
war, and working to equip them in such a way that
they would be more easily able to deal with their
opponents.
    I watched the captain's expression carefully to see
how he would react to this news. He didn't bat an eye,
but instead said simply, 'TI1 take it in my ready room,
Lieutenant." He disappeared into there for some
minutes.
  I was waiting for him to come out and announce
that our instructions were to blow up the Dufaux.
Had that happened, well... it would have been easy,
then. It would have been so easy. But you know, the
funny thing about the road to ruin is that you rarely
stride down it. It's taken in small, delicate steps, and
you don't realize how completely doomed you are
until you're much too far along.
    Kenyon emerged from the ready room. I tensed, as
if I were preparing to take a shot to the head. Without
saying a word, he settled into his command chair.
"Cray," he said. He spoke more loudly than usual, as
if he were calling across a large room rather than
addressing someone who was positioned directly be-
hind him.
  "Yes, sir."
  "Please get Barhba on screen for me."
    Barhba was the Carvargna head counsel who had
been mainly responsible for coordinating the Gris-
som's efforts. In less than a minute after Kenyon had
made the request, Barhba appeared on the screen. In
some ways, he reminded me of Kenyon himself.
Green skin, a head of hair that was similarly green,
but lighter in color. Hash had said at one point that
the Carvargna had reminded him of a broccoli stalk,
only a bit more personable. Fortunately he had not
said it within the earshot of Barhba, although for all I
know, the Carvargna might have agreed.
"Honored Kenyon," Barhba said. "News?"
"Unfortunate, I'm afraid, my friend," Kenyon re-
plied. "We have other assignments to which we must
attend."
    "Not unexpected." Barhba smiled with his green
teeth, which was, quite frankly, a bit unsightly. Nat-
ural, but unsightly. "There are others who would
benefit from your help. It is a large galaxy, after all.
We appreciate the aid that you have given us thus
far."
    "I only regret," Kenyon said, "that our efforts were
not able to lead to the peace that you so richly
deserve."
    "Perhaps not. But you have prepared us for the
alternative, as undesirable as that may be. At the very
least, the Dufaux would be wise if they did not attack
us anytime soon. They know of the help you have
given us, and would be most foolish to challenge us
again."
    "If they do... don't let them get away with any-
thing."
    "We will not. And my warmest regards to you,
Honored Calhoun, as well."
    I rose and bowed slightly, as was the custom of
theirs that I had observed. "You have learned well the
ways of war," I said. "Let us hope that you do not
have to use any of them."
    "That is always to be desired," said Barhba diplo-
matically.
 And that, as far as I knew, was that.
    The Grissom promptly set course for the Neutral
Zone. According to Star fleet, there had been talk of a
Romulan buildup at one of the outlying borders, and
we had been asked to investigate it.
    And we did. It turned out to be not the Romulans,
but instead an Orion pirate fortification that was the
beginnings of a possible alliance with the Romulans.
The Orion pirate ring was smashed by our efforts, and
of course the Romulans denied any knowledge of the
Orions' becoming their allies.
    We then headed for rendezvous with the transport
that would be picking up the bodies of Stephanie and
Byron. At the point where the transfer was made, a
memorial service was to be held. Most of the crew
attended. Only a handful of them had actually met
either of the decea--
  Had met Stephanie or Byron. Most of them at-
tended out of respect for the captain and his grief. For
a brief time, the captain contemplated taking a leave
of absence to return to Earth and see their bodies
back there, but decided against it.
    I know I should say "home" instead of "Earth,"
since most people refer to it that way. Then again, I'm
not from Earth. Oddly... I've discovered that I've
stopped referring to Xenex as home. In many ways
I... don't feel as if I have one.
  I should feel sad about that, I suppose.
  Hmm.
  Ah well.
    At the memorial service, Kenyon was the picture of
calm. That alone was enough to ring a few warning
bells in my head, but I said nothing. He was unfail-
ingly polite and supportive, accepted all condolences
with unfailing equanimity. Once during all of that, he
glanced my way andrefor some odd reason--winked
at me. It was as if he was saying, Don't worry about
me, I'm going to be fine. There's no problems on this
end.
      Understand, I wanted nothing more than for that to
be the case. You see, well... Hell, how do I put this.
    In many ways... Kenyon reminded me of my
father.
I know, I didn't say this earlier. I was afraid...
... well, I was afraid it would sound trite to you.
Or you might feel sorry for me. "Poor Calhoun,
spending his entire life looking for a father substi-
tute." That's not it at all. It's just there was some
physical resemblance, although not tremendous, but
some. And in the way he carried himself, in his
infinite patience, in... well, in any number of ways.
 You'll think it's foolish.
    Well... the hell with you. It's my story. And I'm
telling you, that's how I felt. If that's not profound
enough or deep enough for you, then that's your
problem, not mine.
    What I'm simply trying to convey to you is that...
I've seen people change.
    I saw my father as the oppression of the Danteri
wore down on him. I saw him become angry, more
bitter, more defiant. I saw those attitudes drive him,
consume him, until the final confrontation that saw
him beaten to death in the public square.
    So I was alert to it, looking for signs of it in the
captain as well.
    The thing is, when you look for something, more
often than not you find it.
    After the memorial service, we embarked on assign-
ment after assignment. Much of it was routine, a
couple of them had an element of danger. As for the
captain... he was...  ú.. he was different.
    It was in small ways, at first, subtle ways. Nothing
that anyone would really notice or pay attention to if
they weren't looking for it. I was. He seemed shorter-
tempered to me than before. Angrier. He stopped
greeting people by name as he made his way down
corridors. Previously one of the more sociable of
men, he tended to keep more to himselfi  I sensed problems.
    I'm not a telepath, or a Betazoid. I spoke to the
ship's counselor at one point, a decent enough fellow
named Nugent who had several degrees in counseling
and was, by all reports, a very good listener. Like Dr.
Villers, Nugent had also taken time to speak with the
captain, and he likewise came away from the meetings
positive that--although Kenyon was understandably
grieving over the loss of his daughter and brother--he
was coping with it.
    I wanted to believe it. I wanted to believe it more
than I can possibly express. I wanted it so much that
in large measure I forced myself to believe it. Cer-
tainly the captain seemed testier, more easily angered,
but so what? The professionals believed that every-
thing was going to be okay.
    And who was I to judge? I am the first to admit that
I don't always have the healthiest outlook upon the
world. There is a layer of anger that boils within me
just below the surface that is always there. It colors
everything that I do, everything that I perceive. We all
come into any given situation carrying our own
experiences, which help to shape our viewpoints, and
my experiences were certainly more traumatic than
most.
    The savage M'k'n'zy of Calhoun, the one who never
doubted himself, the one who was confident in his
convictions, was coming squarely up against Macken-
zie Calhoun, trained by Starfleet to accept the rules,
obey his superior officers, shut up and do the job. It
was easily one of the most uncertain times of my life.
I was completely torn inside... and the problem is
that it's only now, with the distance and cool assess-
ment that only the passage of time can provide, that I
fully understand what my problem was. At the time,
all I knew was that my instincts, upon which I had
always depended, were in turmoil. I let things progress.
    My curious nonrelationship with Kat Mueller con~
tinued, neither advancing nor regressing. It just...
was. In some ways, there was as much passion in our
time together as there would have been in running a
few brisk miles. In sex between two genuine lovers,
the lovers complete a need within each other. We were
fulfilling a need within ourselves. Not the same thing
at all... but it was satisfactory, it was good exercise,
no one was being hurt by it, and neither of us wanted
or needed more. At least, that's what we told our-
selves, although every so often the image of Stephanie
Kenyon would float to me unbidden. Once I even
accidentally cried out her name, but Kat didn't hear
me. At least, I like to think she didn't.
    I tried to approach the captain on a social basis.
Not that I suggested we date or something like that.
But I spoke of going for drinks in Ten-Forward, or
engaging in some sort of absurd holoadventure in the
holodeck. Each time, though, I was politely but firmly
rebuffed. "I have work," he would say, or "I have
other things on my mind right now, Calhoun," or
even more simply, "Another time, perhaps."
  And so time passed.
  Then it all fell apart.

THE RETURN TO ANZIBAR

"INCOMING MESSAGE from Starfleet, sir."
  "In the ready room, Mr. Cray," said Kenyon.
    It was no different than any other time... and yet,
for some reason, it felt different to me. I found myself
looking around at the others on the bridge to see
whether, for whatever reason, they were reacting to it
in the same manner. It was as ifI had seen a ghost and
was trying to determine, without making too big a
fuss over the matter, whether others had seen it as
well. But there was no reaction. No one seemed to
think anything of it, and I began to wonder why I was
reacting to it the way that I had~ It was as if I was
looking for trouble.
    This time, when Kenyon emerged from the ready
room, he seemed different, more energized than I had
seen him in ages. He cast a quick glance at Cray, and
then said, "Calhoun, conference lounge, five minutes.
Mr. Cray, Mr. Takahashi, Mr. Gold, you too." He
walked out without another word.
    That Cray and Hash were being summoned to a
meeting was more or less standard operating proce-
dure. But Gold did nothing to hide the momentary
surprise. What, he clearly wondered, could require
the presence of the conn operator?
    I looked to Cray. "Any idea what that was about,
Lieutenant?" I asked.
    He simply shook his head. No reason he should
know. Most communiqu6s from Starfleet were strictly
between the captain and headquarters.
    Five minutes later, we had assembled in the confer-
ence lounge. Also present were Kat and Villers, Kat--
as usually was the case in these circumstances--rub-
bing the sleep out of her eyes. Fortunately enough,
Mueller had become accustomed to being roused
from sleep at odd hours. She had developed the
ability not only to come to full wakefulness at a
moment's notice, but also to nod off just as quickly.
I'd seen her do it. She'd tilt her head back, close her
eyes, and be asleep just like that. Most impressive,
really.
     "Mr. Gold," said the captain, "you are to set us a
 course for the Anzibar system."
     Gold looked as if he thought he hadn't quite heard
 the captain properly. "Anzibar, sir? Weren't we...
 weren't we just there?"
  "Yes. And Starfleet has ordered that we return."
  "Why, sir?" asked Mueller. She looked puzzled.
     Kenyon, in a surprisingly sharp tone, said, "Are
 you questioning orders, XO?"
     It took a bit more than a jarring attitude from the
 captain to throw Katerina Mueller off stride. "No,
 sir," she replied, utterly composed. "Merely curious
 as to the circumstances that engendered them."
    "Yes. Of course. We... have been asked to check
back with the Carvargna. The Dufaux have appar-
ently been making serious noises about a new, even
more concentrated strike against the Carvargna. Star-
fleet simply wants us to make our presence known. To
let the Dufaux know that we're..."
    "That we're what, sir?" I asked when no immediate
completion to the sentence seemed forthcoming.
    He looked at me as if his mind had been light-years
away, and he forcibly pulled himself back to the
conversation at hand. "That we're there. That we're
watching. That we're aware of the types of people that
they are, and that we're not prepared simply to
abandon more innocent lives to them."
    "Captain... what are you saying?" Mueller asked
slowly. "Are you saying that we're going to...
attack... ?"
    "Attack? No! No, of course not!" Kenyon laughed.
It was a jarring laugh in that it was eerily evocative
of the genuine, full-bodied laugh he'd once pos-
sessed... except there was something missing from
it. Mirth, perhaps, or a genuine sense of joy. "We do
what we're ordered to, XO, and nothing beyond that.
Come now... I'd think you'd know better than
that."
    "Yes, sir. I do," said Kat. The message was
clear... at least to me. She knew better. She was
wondering whether he did.
    "Mr. Gold," Kenyon said as if the matter were
settled, "I'11 want you to stay on full alert once we're
in Anzibar space. You too, Mr. Cray." "Yellow alert, sir?"
    "I don't think it's necessary to put the entire ship
on yellow alert, Lieutenant. I just want you and Mr.
Gold to keep a particularly close eye on sensors, and
on lookout for anything that is the least bit unusual.
The Dufaux are a crafty and deceitful race, and we
should not take anything for granted. I don't think
they'd hesitate to attack us in any way they could, if
we give them half a chance to do so. Half a chance is
twice as much as I want to provide them. Under-
stood?"
    Cray and Gold both nodded, although Gold looked
more than a little puzzled. I wasn't entirely surprised.
It wasn't as if Gold wasn't always keeping a weather
eye out for any possible threat. Same with Cray,
although he was far too stoic to allow any of his
thought process to make itself evident. Cray main-
tained his usual careful deadpan.
    We returned to our respective stations and Kenyon
said, "Mr. Gold, set course for the Anzibar system.
Warp factor five.
      "Aye, sir." After a moment's work, he said, "Course
laid in, sir. Warp on line."  And then... silence.
    Kenyon sat there for a time, and then he realized
that we weren't on our way toward Anzibar. It took
him a moment to grasp why that would be. "Why, Mr.
Gold," he said in exaggerated surprise. "Why don't
you have us under way already?"
     "I... thought you would want to order it yourself,
 sir."
     Gold's voice was carefully neutral. It was impos-
 sible to read what was going through his mind.
 Kenyon's eyebrows knit for a moment as he tried to
 see if Gold was somehow being difficult or insubor-
 dinate, or for that matter simply a smartass. But
 Gold's face was impassive, and besides, what could
 Kenyon possibly accuse him of?. Daring to follow
 protocol?

 "Very well. Punch it, Mr. Gold."
 "On our way, sir."
    The Grissom, in response, leaped into warp space
and headed out for her last mission under the com-
mand of Captain Norman Kenyon.

THE ATTACK FLEET

"OH . . . MY GOD..."
    It was Hash who whispered it in amazement, and
since the reserved Southerner was usually somewhat
unflappable (the most drastic a response he ever made
was usually a prolonged "Wellllll"), it had to be a
fairly impressive sight to get that kind of reaction out
of him.
 It was indeed.
    All around the world of Anzibar II, there were
ships. This was not simply a scattered assortment.
This was a fleet. For a moment I was pleased to see
that, as I had taught them, they were flying in protec-
tive formations. But that pride was short-lived as the
enormity of what I was seeing hit me. They were
clearly prepared to go to war. And something about
the timing of the whole thing was hitting me very
badly.
    I looked to Kenyon to see his reaction. He seemed
as startled as any of us. "Mr. Cray," he said,
"raisere"
"Head counsel Barhba calling," Cray interrupted.
"Great minds," murmured Kenyon. "On screen."
Barhba appeared moments later on the screen. He
looked slightly different than he had last time I'd seen
him. Before, he'd been dressing in muted colors. Now
he was wearing something bolder, brighter. He
seemed--although I might have been imagining itm
more challenging.
    "Honored Kenyon," he said. "It is good to see you
once more."
"We need to talk, Barhba. We need to do so now."
"For you, Honored Kenyon? Anything. I would be
happy to bring you and any associates over to my
flagship."
    Flagship. Yes, yes I could see from his surround-
ings: He wasn't on the planet's surface anymore. He
was in one of the ships. I had the oddest feeling it was
the biggest one.
    "Captain," I said quickly, "perhaps it would be
best if I--"
    "We will be right over there to talk, Honored
Barhba," Kenyon said. He was already on his feet.
"Takahashi, get the coordinates for beaming over.
Cray, with me. Calhoun, you have the conn."
    I spoke with more urgency than before. "Captain, if
I could have a moment before you--"
    He faced me and anger practically radiated off
him. "Calhoun, we may not have a moment. I'm
going to go over there and find out what's going on. I
need a battle-experienced veteran at the conn, be-
cause for all we know, the Dufaux are going to attack
at any moment. Now do you have any problems with
that?"
 "No, sir," I said tightly.
    Without another word, Kenyon and Cray walked
off the bridge.
    There was a long silence then, and I realized that
every eye on the bridge was upon me.
    I had said I would support the captain. I had
promised him.
    To hell with the Dufaux. They'd killed Stephanie.
There was no reason, I figured, that I should give them
a moment's more thought.
    "Attend to your stations, people," I said. I moved
over and stood next to the command chair, but didn't
sit. "Stay frosty. We have no clear idea what's happen-
ing yet... which means anything can happen." After
a moment's more thought, I added, "Hash... take us
to yellow alert."
 "Yellow alert, aye."
    Ensign Barbosa had stepped in at tactical. "Go to
weapons hot, sir?"
    I considered it. "No. I want people on station, but
let's not run the full gamut yet. Not until the captain
returns... and hopefully tells us what's hap-
pening."
    We stayed that way for half an hour. The time
seemed to crawl past. The yellow-alert klaxon had
been sounding, but after about five minutes of that
unbelievably irritating noise, I ordered status main-
tained but the alarm shut down. I'm not entirely
certain what sort of signal I would install on a ship to
indicate a yellow alert, but it would definitely be
something other than the headache-inducing wailing
we presently have.
    After what seemed an interminable wait, Captain
Kenyon and Lieutenant Cray returned. Once again we
all met in the conference lounge... and this time, I
was stunned by what Kenyon told us.

    "lney're launching an attack on Anzibar Four,"
Kenyon informed us.
    "They are? And Starfleet picks now to send us
here?" noted Mueller. "How's that for a stroke of
luck."
    "Yes, I know," agreed Kenyon. He was speaking in
such a carefully neutral tone that it was impossible to
get any sort of impression as to how he felt about the
development. Before any of us could react to that
tidbit of information, though, he then added the
bombshell follow-up: "And we are going to be part of
the attack fleet."
 Mueller was first on her feet. "What?/"
 "Sit down, XO."
 "Captain, you can't be serious!"
    "Mueller," I spoke up. She looked to me and with a
flicker of my eyes I indicated that she should take her
seat.
    "We're not actually going to participate in the
attack..." continued Kenyon.
    "Captain, come on!" It was now Gold who was
speaking. "If we're converging on the Dufaux and the
shooting starts, are we supposed to just let stray shots
ricochet off our shields? It's ridicu--"
    Kenyon slammed a fist down on the table with such
explosive force that we all jumped. None of us had
ever seen him display that level of anger. "I am not
accustomed to being interrupted repeatedly during a
briefing, is that clear/"
    No one said anything. There were nods of several
heads, and I feltwrightly or wrongly--that everyone
was looking to me. "Clear, sir," I said, speaking on
behalf of all of us.
    "Good." Kenyon didn't seem especially mollified.
"The Dufaux have made repeated attempts at warfare
during the time that we've been gone. The Carvargna
have resisted their repeated incursions, mostly thanks
to the aid that we gave them. But the leadership has
come to the realization, as difficult a conclusion as it
may be to reach, that the Dufaux are never going to
stop coming. That they will continue to attack and
attack, to wear down the armaments and energy of the
Carvargna.
    "And so the Carvargna have assembled a fighting
force. A force composed not only of their own
vessels, but other ships from nearby systems.
They've formed alliances as a means of mutual
protection, for they are certain that--should the
Dufaux eventually triumph and obliterate the
Carvargna--nothing will stop them from spreading
their campaign of war to other worlds. They have
chosen to end it here and now. It is, frankly, a
decision that I can respect and support." He paused
and surveyed us around the table. It was almost as if
he was daring us to say something, to try and find
some flaw in what he was saying. We were all mute. It
seemed the wisest course.
    "I have emphasized to High Counsel Barhba that
we cannot actually join in the battle. We will not
violate the Prime Directive. But I'll..." He hesi-
tated. There seemed to be just the slightest crack in
the veneer of toughness that he had created for
himself. "I'11 tell you something, people, and this is
the brutally honest truth: I want to be there. I want
the Dufaux to see this vessel, a symbol of everything
that they turned away from, coming right down their
throat surrounded by an army of vessels arrayed
against them. An army composed of people who have
said, 'No more. Enough. Enough mindless warfare.
Enough callous disregard for life. We have decided to
put an end to you and your kind.' This..." He
waved a hand in the general direction of the fleet
outside. "This is one of the most glorious days in the
history of the Carvargna. Until now they have been
largely victims. But they have refused to allow that to
continue. Instead they have risen up with the confi-
dence, weaponry, and guidance that we gave them
and they are going to rid themselves of a pernicious
threat once and for all. And people, I intend to be
there for every minute of it. Every glorious minute.
Is it petty of me? Perhaps. Vindictive? If you say so.
But these people, these Dufaux... they are evil.
Evil in its purest form, violence at its essence. I
want..." His voice choked slightly. It was the first
time he'd shown any vulnerability since the death of
those whom he had loved so dearly. "I want to see
them brought down. We're being offered a front-row
seat for it, and I, for one, intend to occupy it.
Now... do any of you have any problems with
that?"
 There was a long moment of silence.
 "Permission to speak freely, sir?" said Mueller.
 "Absolutely."
 "I think it's sick."
    Kenyon blanched. Villers's mouth thinned to the
point of invisibility. Gold and Hash looked as if
they'd been gut-punched, although it was difficult for
me to tell whose side they were on. Cray was his usual
deadpan.
    Mueller was up and moving. "We're supposed to
stand for something, Captain. This crew, this
ship... we're supposed to stand for something big-
ger than death and carnage. War is, at best, a neces-
sary evil, but evil nevertheless. If we are to be any
different than the Dufaux, then we should not be
rejoicing in their downfall. We should be mourning
for lives and wasted opportunities. Not in a 'front-
row seat,' rejoicing over the fall of a foe like star-
going ghouls. We should not--must not--do this
thing. Faced with possible annihilation, the Dufaux
might be willing to talk..."
"No more talk." It was Cray who had spoken.
"The time for talk is long past," agreed Villers. "If
it could have been settled by now, it would have been.
I'm with the captain on this. You, XO, weren't the one
who had to pick up the pieces of Stephanie and Byron
Kenyonmsorry, Captain."
 "It's all right," said Kenyon.
    "I, uhm..." Hash said slowly, his drawl becoming
even more pronounced, "I... well, the XO, what
she's sayin' and all..."
"Spit it out, Romeo," Kenyon said impatiently.
"Look... me and the XO, we never seen eye to eye
all that much, but I gotta say, she's making a piece of
sense here. Captain, if you and the Carvargna, per-
haps y'all could..."
    "Could what? With the Dufaux seeing a sizable
opposition coming their way, they'd have nothing to
gain by fighting. They'll want to negotiate a peace,
which they'll toss aside the moment that the alliance
has been disbanded. In fact, the next time they attack,
they'll come at the Carvargna harder than ever be-
cause they won't want to take a chance that another
attack force might be mounted. Certainly you must
see that."
    "We're going to be pulled into a fight," Gold spoke
up, shaking his head. "We can talk about not violating
the PD all we want, but let's not kid each other. We're
going to be smack in the middle of it."
  "Not up to the challenge?" asked Kenyon.
    "It's not a matter of that, sir," Gold said, bristling.
"It's not a question of whether we can, but whether
we should. t"
  "My God." Kenyon looked around the table, mak-
ing no attempt to hide his disbelief. "An innocent
man and woman died because the Dufaux cannot be
trusted! The peace-loving residents of the Anzibar
system have allied themselves to say, 'Never again.'
We have to bear witness to that achievement! Any-
thing else would be an insult to all they've achieved!
We owe it to them! And to... to them!" None of us
had to ask for clarification as to who the second
"them" was. Suddenly he turned to me. "Cal-
houn... your thoughts on the matter?" All eyes turned to me.
    I never felt more alone in my entire life. It wasn't as
if a vote were being taken: ultimately the captain
would do as he saw fit. But my opinion was going to
carry weight. If there was anyone who might be able
to dissuade the captain from this course of action, it
would be me.
    And, of course, there was the other, more dreaded
aspect. Namely, if there was anyone who was in a
position to challenge the captain's authority in this
matter, it was also me. It was the first officer's
responsibility to take action if the captain was not
making competent decisions. My instinct...
    My instinct was to go with what Mueller and the
others had said. Everything about this smelled
wrong. I had a feeling that we were heading into
nothing but disaster, and it was within my ability to
put a stop to it, quickly and cleanly. At least... I
thought it was.
    But I looked at the captain, and I realized for the
first time that his eyes were very much like Stepha-
nie's. I could almost sense her looking out at me from
within him.
    I've told you that, to Xenexians, ghosts and
shades of the past are very real considerations. That
remained the case with me, particularly at that
moment. I felt as if the ghost of Stephanie had
moved into the room and was just watching me,
judging me.
    They were murderers, the Dufaux were. Murderers
and oppressors. Any number of arguments could be
made for why they weren't worth shedding a tear
over ....
    But should the Grissom be there? Should it be on
the scene? Kenyon had more or less said it himself.
This was no longer about a mission of peace. This was
a mission of war... more, it was a mission of ven-
geance. Blood lust and an urge to see a hated race
suffer close-up were the motivators that were driving
Kenyon now. It wasn't worthy of him, it wasn't
worthy of the Grissom.
    When I led Xenex to victory over the Danteri, I had
always felt... outside of myself to some degree. As if
I were being impelled by the dictates of a history
already written: I was merely a player in the grand
scheme of things, my presence preordained, my vic-
tory assured. I felt as if I were part of something that
was greater than myself, greater than any individual.
One of the main reasons that I had joined Starfleet
was to be in an environment where that state of mind
would be perpetuated. Starfleet, the UFP, these were
bigger than any one person. To pilot the Grissorn into
a war zone purely as a means of witnessing personal
revenge... it was... it was petty. It was the desires
of one person overwhelming what Starfleet was all
about.
    But who was I to make those judgments? I was not
the one who had lost his family... well, not recently
at any rate. It had never been more clear than now
that the loss had been eating away at Kenyon. He
needed this, needed to see it, to be a part of it.
Otherwise he would never have closure. It needed to

be finished for him so that he could move on with his
anger, move on with his life.
    And ultimately... what was the harm? Really,
when it came down to it... what was the harm?
Starfleet had ordered us out here. There was no
intrinsic reason that we shouldn't be witnessing first-
hand the end of the hostilities in the Anzibar system.
Stephanie would see it through the eyes of her father,
I was positive of that. See it and smile in relief that it
was over, and that those who had killed her and her
uncle had paid the price.
    All of this went through my mind within a second
or two. There was a barely perceptible hesitation
before I said, "I'm with you, Captain."
    Kat looked at me as if she'd been slapped. "What?
You can't be serious .... "
    "I just don't see the conflict here," I lied. I saw the
conflict perfectly well, but was choosing to try and
finesse my way around it. "The Prime Directlye is not
at issue. We aren't instigating this battle; the Dufaux
have started it, and the Carvargna have finished it. We
will simply observe. It's no different than if we were
watching a star die,"
    "You're right," Kat Mueller said. Her chin was
raised high and she seemed very cold, very distant. I
had the sneaking suspicion that sex wasn't in our
future anytime soon. "It isn't different. Because a
dying star can become a black hole... and we're
being sucked deep into something dark and unpleas-
ant, and there's not going to be any way out of it. You
mark my words."
    Looking back on it, I still don't know which to be
more impressed by: that Katerina was the first person
I'd ever met who used the phrase "mark my words" in
normal speech ... or that Katerina was absolutely,
one hundred percent right.
 The meeting broke up shortly thereafter, the grow-
ing tide of resentment and protest by the junior
officers having been unexpectedly quelled by me.
"Thank you, Calhoun," the captain said, clearly
grateful. "I thought it was going to start getting ugly in
there."
    "Do me a favor, Captain: Don't let it get ugly out
here."
    He patted me on the shoulder. "Just leave every-
thing to me," he said confidently.
    I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand on end.
My hair was brighter than I was.
    I ran into Mueller on the turbolift. Katerina
wouldn't even look at me. "Kat..." I started to
say.
    "I think," she said thoughtfully and with just an
edge of disgust in her voice, "it would be preferable
for the moment if you simply addressed me as 'Muel-
ler' or 'XO.'"
    "Kat, it's going to be fine. Don't you think that, if I
didn't believe that, I would have stood up to the
captain?"
    She was only supposed to be an inch taller than me,
but it felt as if she was looming over me. Impressive
how she did that. "So you admit you backed down
from him."
    "No... well... I suppose, but... no, I didn't.
You're twisting it, Kat."
    "What's twisted is this situation, Commander, and
I'm frankly shocked and disappointed that you can't
see that."
    "I'm not refusing to see anything. I just don't
happen to agree with your sentiment in this matter.
This is important to the captain. Didn't you ever have
anything important to you?"
    "Yes. I did. And it died several years ago," she said.
"Under rather ugly circumstances, too. But I didn't
risk an entire Starfleet vessel to make up for it."
  "You're exaggerating."
    She looked up and said, "Turbolift, override. Halt."
Immediately the lift car came to a halt.
    "Am I? Where am I exaggerating? He's risking the
saucer section, but not the warp drive? He's risking
the lives of the crewmen, but only the boring ones?
Where and how have I exaggerated?"
    "Don't lecture me, Kat. It wasn't all that long ago
you told me you trusted him completely."
    She sighed. "Don't remind me." She looked me in
the eyes. "Deep down, you know what to do. But
you're being kindhearted. In others, that would be a
laudable ambition. But it doesn't fit you well, Mac.
Do you know why?"
    "Why." I didn't really want to know, but I had a
feeling she wasn't going to let the question go.
    "Because you're not a nice guy, Calhoun. That's
why. You're not a nice guy, and every time you try to
be a nice guy, it gets you into trouble. Well, the captain
doesn't need a nice guy riding herd on him. He needs a
son of a bitch. He needs a bastard to sit him down and
say, This isn't our fight. We're a starship, a Federation
starship, and we do not hover over a field of battle like
filthy vultures, displaying our appreciation for the
rapidly growing stack of bodies. That's what you
should have said, that's what he needed to hear from
you. From his first officer. The warrior that I encoun-
tered in the holodeck wouldn't have been afraid to hurl
himself against his commanding officer for the good of
the ship and the Fleet." She paused and, to my
surprise, regarded me with curiosity. "That reminds
me... I never got around to asking you. In the
holodeck, you shouted something. 'Rakash,' I think it
was. What was that?"
    I was almost relieved that the subject had switched
away, however momentarily, from my shortcomings
as a first officer. "A Xenexian war cry. It means, 'To
the hilt.' When faced with an opponent, the concept is
that you won't back down until your knife blade is
buffed in the body of your enemy up to the hilt."
    "Charming." She nodded a moment, and then we
simply stood there for a time.
    "Are you... planning to send us on our way
anytime soon?" I asked.
    "Oh! Uhm... turbolift. Resume." The lift prompt-
ly started up again.
 "So are... we okay?" I asked. "You and IT'
    "Us. No... no, Mac. I think we're light-years away
from okay. Because the bottom line is that I know you
agree with me. You know that vengeance diminishes
us all .... "
    And for a moment, my temper flared. I stepped in
close to her and suddenly she didn't seem taller
than me anymore. In a low snarl I said, "I never
managed to find the man who beat my father to
death, or the man who ordered it done. If I were
captain of a vessel, and the opportunity presented
itself, I would cross the galaxy from one side to the
other just to have a shot at crushing their windpipes
with my bare hands and feeling the slowing and
stopping of their pulse against my palm. You speak
of necessary evil? One of those necessities is that if
innocents must suffer, the guilty must suffer more.
And the warrior that you so respect can empathize
completely with what the captain is going through."
    The door hissed open behind us. Without taking
her eyes from me, Kat said evenly, "Then I guess the
captain and you are well matched at that. A far better
match than you or I could ever be."
    The door closed and I was so angry that it took me a
few moments to realize I'd gotten off on the wrong
deck. I was on the deck where my quarters were
situated. I'd meant to go up to the bridge.
  I stood there, stewing. And as occasionally happens
at such times, my mind started wandering in different
directions. I thought about what Mueller had said,
even though I didn't want to... and then, more to
the point, I thought of something very specific she had
said. But it wasn't during our turbolift ride. It was
something earlier, almost a passing remark back in
the conference lounge ....

THE LIE

AND STARFLEET PICKS NOW TO send us here? How's that
for a stroke of luck.
    Kat's offhand comment had thrust itself into my
consciousness. It was beginning to bother me greatly
the more I thought about it.
    Here was an entire battle fleet ready to strike at
Anzibar IV, and we showed up just in time to be there
for the kill. It seemed... too coincidental. Too con-
venient. Of course, it was possible that somehow
Starfleet had been aware of the buildup, had known
the timing of it when they sent us in. If that was the
case, then Kenyon simply hadn't been completely
forthcoming, or perhaps he didn't even know. Per-
haps it was just damned good timing, luck of the
draw.
    But perhaps it wasn't. Perhaps it was something
else, something even more sinister.

    I went to my quarters, convinced that I was being
paranoid. As I entered, my combadge beeped at me. It
was the captain, demanding to know where the hell I
was. "A... momentary illness, sir," I told him. "I'm
just taking some quick medication for it. I'll be there
m a few minutes."
    "See that you are, Commander." The captain
sounded slightly mollified, but not overjoyed.
  "Computer," I said as soon as I got to my quarters.
  "Working," came the crisp reply.
    "Access communications log, reference Starfleet
communiqu~s."
    "Starfleet communiqufis communications log is
confidential under security seal," the computer in-
formed me.
    "Security seal override, by authority of Calhoun,
Mackenzie, first officer, security clearance zero-zero-
one-zero-one."
    "Processing." There was a pause of only a second
and then the computer said, "Override accepted."
    I couldn't get into specifics of messages addressed
to the captain. Those were under direct seal of the
captain himself and inaccessible to anyone with the
exception of a board of inquiry composed of the top
three officers below the captain. But I didn't need to
get into what the message said... at least, not yet.
One potential crisis at a time. "Read out of time for
all Starfleet communiquOs received within the last
forty-eight hours."
    "Working." And again, after the briefest of pauses,
the computer informed me, "No Starfleet com-
muniques received within last forty-eight hours."
     The sentences, damning, hung there for a moment.
"None at all?" I said.
  "Affirmative."
  "Check again."
 I have no idea why I said it, but I did. Naturally, it
made no difference to the computer. It simply re-
peated, "No Starfleet communiqu6s received within
last forty-eight hours."
     Cray had been the one who claimed that a commu-
nication had come in. He'd lied.
    There was going to be hell to pay, and I had every
intention of collecting that debt. But first the captain
had to be notified... and then, grozit... this would
be straightened out once and for all.

THE CONFRONTATION

I WALKED ONTO THE BRIDGE and looked straight at Cray.
He didn't even bother to glance at me. I didn't think
he was aware that ! knew what he had done; I was
reasonably sure that his own security board would not
have informed him that I had been researching his
corem log. I glanced at the screen and saw, as I
suspected, that we were already under way. The attack
fleet surrounded us as we made our way toward
Anzibar IV. Obviously it was not going to take us a
long time to get there. That meant I had to speak to
the captain quickly, because if Cray had faked the
message from Starfleet, then who knew what else he
had lied about. Perhaps he was a spy, I thought. At the
very least, he was a traitor. It was a good thing that
Andorians weren't telepathic, or I would certainly
have been giving him a mental earful right about then.
    Kenyon looked at me with clear concern. "Are you
quite all right, Calhoun?"
 "We need to speak privately, sir. Now."
 "Calhoun, it will have to wai--"
 "It can't wait, sir."
 "What the hell is wrong with you?"
 "Sir. Privately. Now."
    There was something in my voice that got through
to him, that let him know that this wasn't simply
some casual conversation we were about to have.
"Mr. Cray, you have the conn," he said. This was
obviously not a choice that thrilled me overmuch, but
I didn't want to say anything just yet. It would be
okay; the situation could stay as it was another few
minutes and it wouldn't be especially problematic. At
least, that's what I was hoping.
    Kenyon didn't look any too pleased as he walked
into his ready room with me trailing directly behind
him. He didn't even bother to go around his desk.
Instead he turned to face me as soon as the doors were
closed. "This had better be good, Calhoun."
    "Good? By no stretch of the imagination, sir." I
took a deep breath and launched into it. "Lieutenant
Cray has been giving you false information."
    He raised an eyebrow. "Really?" His voice didn't
go up at the end of the word. It wasn't a question so
much as an interested statement.
    "We have received no communications from Star-
fleet command within the last forty-eight hours. So
any claims to the contrary--including the orders that
we received to come here--are false. Mr. Cray lied
about any transmissions from HQ."  "And you know this how?"
  "Ran a check from my own computer station, sir."
    "Used the security block override protocol, did
you."
  "Yes, sir." I nodded.
    He didn't seem particularly upset. Indeed, he
seemed almost amused by it. He leaned back and
stroked his chin thoughtfully. "And what do you
recommend we do. About it, I mean. About Mr.
Cray."
    "I'll inform a security squad that they should come
up here and place Mr. Cray under arrest. I also
recommend that we tender our regrets to high counsel
Barhba and depart this system immediately. We don't
know for certain what Cray might have cooked up,
but for all we know this is some sort of ambush. I
simply need your authorization to have him taken
into custody."
 Kenyon pursed his lips and said nothing.
 And something began to dawn on me.
    It came to me very slowly. Indeed, it's rather
embarrassing to admit to it now. To look back on it
after all this time, it seems fairly self-evident. But at
that point I was far more "in the moment," carried
away by the current of events. But in Kenyon's
attitude, in his demeanor, something began to click
for me. I couldn't quite believe it. I certainly didn't
want to. But there were particular conclusions which
were slowly starting to seem inevitable to me, whether
I wanted to arrive at them or not.
    Taking a chance that maybe, just maybe, I was
fortunate enough to be completely off the mark, I
said, "Sir... I see you're preoccupied. That is very
understandable. I'll attend to Mr. Cray's arrest my-
self, then." "I..."
 I waited for the rest of the sentence.
 "I... wouldn't," he finished ruefully.
    I nodded. All was becoming clear to me. "Cray...
didn't fool you about anything, did he."
    He shook his head. Amazingly, he almost looked
proud of me that I had figured it out.
    "He wasn't betraying you," I continued. "He was
providing you with an alibi. You needed witnesses to
see that the message had come in from the Fleet."
  "That's right."
    "Because you wanted to come back here. You knew
this was going to be happening ahead of time."
    He nodded. "Barhba and I worked out a time-
table."
    "Grozit... and the previous message? The one
that said we were supposed to help them?"
    "We received a message from Starfleet, yes." He
shrugged, clearly seeing no reason to hide the truth
anymore. "It indicated that we were to stay on station
here for a short time more, yes. But for the purpose of
trying to reestablish peace talks. Can you imagine?"
He shook his head in clear amazement. "Peace
talks... with those animals..."
    "So you took it upon yourself to arm and educate
their enemies instead."
    "They're animals," he said again. I might as well
not have been in the room.
    "You took it," I said again, underscoring the severi-
ty of the situation, "upon yourself... to arm and
educate--"
  "THEY'RE ANIMALSt"
    It was fortunate that the ready room was sound-
proof so that they couldn't hear that one outside,
because people would have come running in with
phasers drawn in consternation.
    The anger, the misery that previously had only been
hinted at in the earlier meeting was nothing compared
to what I saw in Kenyon's face now. Blind, savage
fury had completely taken hold of him. His body was
quaking, and there were tears pouring down his face,
his mouth contracting in a rictus of a scream that
wouldn't come out.
    "They killed my brother... they killed my
baby... those animals, they'll pay," and he kicked
over a chair, "they'll pay, those bastards, I'm going to
make them pay!"
    It would have been the exact perfect time for me to
keep my cool. The angrier he got, the more reserved I
should have become.
    When you punch someone, it's never a good idea to
make a fist and hit them on the chin. Bone on bone.
Always a bad tactic. Good way to hurt yourself.
    Meeting anger with anger is nearly as bad. Unfortu-
nately, that's exactly what I did.
    "You lied to me/" I shot back. "I supported you, I
trusted you, and you lied to me! You and Cray! You
brought Cray in as an ally to cover for you, and all of
it so that you could pursue your witch-hunt against
the Dufaux! How dare you!"
    "How dare I? This is no witch-hunt, Calhoun! This
isn't a search for evil where none exists, where inno-
cent people are hurt because of superstitious non-
sense! These monstrous animals don't deserve to live!
And I'm going to see them wiped out!"
    "To the last man, woman, and child? Every inno-
cent will die .... "
    "There are no innocents! The men are slaughterers,
the women aid in producing more of the men, and the
children will grow up to be butchers in their turn!"
His voice was rising to a fever pitch and I knew then,
beyond any dispute, that if he wasn't already clini-
cally insane, then he was hurtling there fast with no
brake in sight. "It's a mercy killing, Calhoun! I'm
showing mercy for the entire sector!"
    "You're crazy," I told him. "You've completely
snapped... your loss, everything that's happened
since..."
 His face was purpling with rage, the veins distend-
ing on his forehead, and he was trembling with
uncontained fury. "They killed my little girl. They do
not deserve to live, and I will not suffer them to live,
and even if I have to tear out their living hearts with my
bare hands, I will see to it that they don't!"
    "You lied to me!" I said again. "You used me, you
set me up to support you out of concern and kindness
and wanting to see justice done, and then I find out
that it was all a lie! You scheming son of a bitch!"
"How dare you!" he thundered. "How dare y--"
He hit the desk again, and the entire ship shook.
For one insane moment I actually thought that he
himself had caused it, even as I tumbled to the floor.
Kenyon had been leaning against his desk and stum-
bled against a bulkhead, but as a result he wasn't
thrown to his feet. He lurched out of the ready room,
me following him in a rather undignified fashion,
hauling myself forward on my hands and knees and
staggering upright as I went.
    The red-alert klaxon was screaming as Kenyon
shouted, "Status report!"
"Dufaux battle fleet attacking, sir!" Gold called.
The screen was alive with ships. Whereas the Car-
vargna and their allies were in relatively large, not-
terribly-maneuverable vessels with lots of firepower,
the Dufaux were in smaller, faster-moving vessels.
Like hornets they descended upon the fleet, buzzing
about and firing with their pulsers.
    In previous circumstances, the Carvargna fleet
would have been more hard-pressed to stave them off.
But the shield improvements had made them nearly
invulnerable as far as the Dufaux ships were con-
cerned, and the armament they were carrying was
targeting and picking off the Dufaux ships. However,
many were slipping through and still causing damage.
Credit the Dufaux: They certainly knew how to fly.
 "They're firing on us," Gold called. "Apparently
they're unaware that we're just the cheering section."
If there was one thing that Gold wasn't particularly
skilled at, it was subtlety.
    "Get us out of here!" I called. "Retreat to a safe
distance .... "
    "Belay that!" Kenyon shouted over me as two more
Dufaux vessels took potshots at us. Our shields were
rattled but they held.
    "Incoming message from the flagship, sir," Lieuten-
ant Cray called. He was addressing Kenyon, but he
was looking straight at me. He had to know. He had
to. "They've taken several heavy hits. Hit to the
engine room. Pulsers off line. Barhba is asking for our
assistance."
    Kenyon didn't even hesitate. "We're not about to
stand by and watch good people die at the hands of
barbarians. Target the Dufaux vessels near the flag-
ship, Mr. Cray. Fire on my order." "Belay that."
    It was I who had spoken, and what was impressive
was just how quiet a bridge can become even when
there's a red-alert klaxon blaring.
    Kenyon stared at me as if from another universe.
There were no hints of the tears that had been
streaming down his face. Amazingly, he looked more
composed than I'd ever seen him.
    "Mr. Gold, plot us a course to a safe distance," I
continued. "Captain Kenyon, I regret that I must
relieve you of command. If you stand down now..."
    "If I stand down now... you'll what?" he asked
quietly. "Not have me arrested? You seem to forget,
Commander, who's in charge here. Mr. Cray..."
 "No ..." I said.
 "Fire at will."
 "No/"
    The Grissom's phasers lashed out in the direction of
the flagship. Our weaponry, more powerful than the
Dufaux's, more powerful even than what we had given
to the Carvargna, made short work of the Dufaux
vessels that they struck. Two were sliced completely in
half, another was blasted into space dust.
  "Again," Kenyon said.
    "No/" I lunged toward Cray, in order to shove him
back and away from the tactical station.
    It was exactly what the Andorian was waiting for. I
never even saw his hands move, he was that fast. All I
knew was that suddenly what felt like a ten-pound
weight slammed against the side of my head. It was
his fist. It whipped my head around and I felt a muscle
pull in my neck even as light exploded behind my
eyes. Then his other hand smashed my upper lip, and
I tasted my own blood between my teeth. I stumbled
back, hit the floor and lay there for a moment, the
world spinning around me even as I heard the ship's
phasers blast out again. More Dufaux died at our
hands.
    The rest of the bridge crew was stunned, unable to
believe what they were seeing. At the time part of me
was angry that they weren't springing to my defense.
In retrospect, I can see the problem. They didn't
know what I knew. They didn't know that Kenyon
had lost it. They didn't know that he was pursuing a
vendetta, as justified as that need for revenge might
seem. They didn't realize that, after decades of serv-
ice, he was throwing it all away because the voices in
his head had cried for vengeance so loudly that they
had drowned out everything else, including reason
and sanity.
    Gold was trying to watch the front screen, his
instruments and me. Hash's mouth was moving but I
couldn't hear his voice, which meant either I'd gone
deaf or he was whispering. Considering the ringing in
my head, which was aggravated by the red-alert
klaxon, it might have been a little bit of both.
"Security team to the bridge," Cray was saying.
I'm not entirely sure where I drew the strength from
at that moment. But suddenly I was on my feet, and I
gripped the railing, swung my legs up, and vaulted
over the railing with the intention of slamming my
feet into Cray's face. Cray was too quick. He ducked
under the sweep of my legs, came up before I'd
completely cleared him, and threw me into the wall
behind him with such force that I was positive that
he'd just broken my face. Certainly it was numb down
the entire left side.
    From below, Kenyon called, "I regret you've forced
me to take these actions, Mr. Calhoun. You were a
good officer. I'm sorry it's come to this."
    I propped myself up on one elbow and looked at
him through an eye that was already swelling shut.
And the weird thing was... I could see it in his face.
He was genuinely sorry that it had come to this.
Although his face was set and determined, in his eyes
was more misery than I had ever seen in any sentient
being in my life. It was as if a decent and moral man
was trapped inside of the individual who inhabited
the name and body of Norman Kenyon. Trapped and
unable to find a means of communicating Help
me... I'm still here... I still exist... I'm still
alive... help me, please...
    Had I not been spitting up my own blood at that
point, I might actually have felt really sorry for him.
    No one ever accused me of knowing when to quit. I
started to pull myself to standing once more. This
time Cray didn't even have to exert himself (although
truthfully, I don't know if he'd been working up much
of a sweat up to that point). The Andorian reached
out with one foot and brought it down on the back of
my head.
    Fight him! It was the savage within me, shouting in
my mind. Fight him.t Get him/Kill him/Rip him to
shreds, the blue-skinned antennaed bastard! Don't let
him do this to you/
    But I had no room to maneuver, no weapon in my
hand, and he had been far too efficient in his physical
dismantling of me. At that point my entire goal was
simply to try and get away, to regroup.
    I heard the turbolift hiss open. Several security men
entered.
    "Commander Calhoun has attempted mutiny,"
Kenyon said. "Take him and toss him in the brig."
    I tried to say something--anything--but I couldn't
even stand up. Hands were beginning to reach toward
meú..

 ú .. and then I disappeared.

THE REPRIEVE

THERE MAY HAVE BEEN times in my life where I was
more confused than I was at that moment, but none
leap readily to mind.
    One moment I was on the carpeted floor of the
bridge... and the next thing I knew, I was on the
platform of the transporter room. My senses were so
confused that the floor itself wasn't my first tip-off of
my location. Rather, it was the fading hum of the
transporter beams.
    I raised my head slowly in confusion and looked up.
My head was throbbing and I couldn't see beyond my
immediate field of vision..ú that is, I could see
straight ahead, but everything to the side was just a
fuzzy gray areaú "What's... ?"
    The face of Katerina Mueller filled my entire vi-
sionú "Mac..." she called to me. Her normally stern
face was filled with such worry that for a moment I
was concerned that I was dying. I didn't think any-
thing else could get that sort of reaction from her.
"Mac... can you hear me? Say something .... "
    "You look... really lovely from this angle..." I
told her. "Did they build a tunnel in here?"
    "Don't stand up until you feel you're ready to."
Then, to my surprise, she pulled off my combadge,
tossed it on the floor, and slammed her heel down
on it. I heard the badge shatter under her foot.
She turned back to me and saw the obvious sur-
prise on my face. "You know why I did that, of
course."
      "Well... if I'm remembering the custom correct-
ly... according to Jewish law, we're now married."
  "Very funny."
  "I wasn't trying to be funny," I said.
    "You succeeded beyond your wildest hopes." As I
lay there tending to the wound left by the thrust of her
rapier wit, she turned to the woman, Lieutenant
Melissa Shemin, at the transporter. "Now... you
didn't see this, Melly," she said flatly. "We weren't
here. In fact... now would be a good time for you to
go on your break."
    Lieutenant Shemin shook her head and smiled in
an amused way. When she spoke, it was with a faint
British accent. "You realize, Katerina, if this were
anyone but you..." "I know, I know."
    Shemin looked at me and then winked, much to my
surprise, before heading out the door. By that point
the world was beginning to lose some of the haze that
had pervaded it. "What was that all about?"
    "She would have flunked out of the Academy if I
hadn't helped her out."
    "All right," I said once the ship had stopped
spinning. "Tell me what happened."

    I was seated on the floor, rubbing the throbbing that
remained in my temples. Katerina slid down the wall
until she was seated next to me. "You can thank
Hash," she told me.
 "I thought you never called him that."
    "I do from now on. Through the ops board, he told
me what was happening. I got to the transporter room
while you were having the crap kicked out of you and
beamed you here."
    "Maybe they'll think I was beamed out of the ship
completely."
    She gave me a pitying look. "Perhaps you were hit
in the head harder than I thought. We're on red alert,
remember? Battle situation? Combat? People shoot-
ing at us?"
    I thudded the back of my head lightly against the
wall. "Of course. Our shields are up. No one could
possibly beam me out. Which means that they'll know
I'm somewhere in the ship and..."
    We stared at each other. Her unflappable demea-
nor, her somewhat superior attitude, slipped for a
moment as she realized the immediate problem.
  "Shit.t" we said at the same time.
    We were on our feet in an instant. She pointed at
the wall. "That grating... pull it out. Fast."
"That's just a storage bin! It doesn't go anywhere!"
"I know that." Her hands were flying over the
controls. The transporter beams were humming into
existence. I didn't understand what she was doing,
but I obediently yanked open the storage bin. There
would be enough room for the two of us if we
squeezed in tightly enough. The transporter beams
faded out. Mueller barely waited for them to disap-
pear and then she crammed her way into the storage
bin. She clambered over an array of boots and other
equipment. "Hurry!" she said. "I hear them coming!"
    I heard them as well: We had perhaps a few seconds
at best. I pulled the bin covering closed and prayed
that it was tight enough.
    We could hear, but not see, the noise from within
the transporter room. From my rough guess, there
were at least four security men storeping around in
there. "Check activity," came a voice that I recog-
nized immediately as security man Meyer. "Once we
finish here, we check the other transporter rooms."
    "Should we be searching the rooms themselves,
sir?"
    "As if Calhoun and whoever bailed him out would
be stupid enough to stay around chatting in the
transporter room," Meyer said.
    I had a feeling that Katerina was rather pleased at
that moment that it was dark in the storage bay. That
way she didn't have to look at my pitying expression.
    "What the hell is going on in here?" It was She-
min's voice. She'd come back in.
    "Where were you, Lieutenant?" Meyer did not
sound particularly in a forgiving mood.
    "Checking the section 28-A flow regulators. They
sounded a bit off. It happens even to the best of us."
    "We're on red alert. You abandoned your post
during a red alert."
    "Great idea, Meyer. I should stay at my post and
let the flow regulators break down, on the off chance
that someone shatters the laws of starship physics
and beams something through our shielding. I took
three minutes that may have saved our lives. You
don't like it, go tell Starfleet to build the ship
differently."
    "Transporter activity less than a minute ago, sir,"
one of the security men said.
    "What? That's impossible." Shemin came across as
utterly shocked. She might have missed her calling;
she was a damned fine actress.

    "See what happens during your absences, Lieuten-
ant?" Meyer scolded her. "Destination?"
 "Utility shaft, deck thirteen, section four."
 "Beam them back, Shemin."
 "Beam who back?"
 "Commander Calhoun!"
    I heard her operating the transporter controls for a
moment, and then she said, "I'm trying to get a
transporter fix on his comm link. I'm not getting
anything. Perhaps it... wait! Look there, on the
floor. Someone crushed a cornbadge. Bet it was him.
Without his cornbadge, I'll never be able to sort his
pattern out from everyone around him... particu-
larly if he makes his way down to engineering from
there. With all the neutrino fluctuations from the
engines, I can't possibly get a lock on him. This
equipment wasn't really designed form"
     "Okay, okay! We get the message. Let's go. She-
min... you're on report." "I'm devastated."
    We heard the receding footsteps of the security
team as they ran out the door, with Meyer already
informing Cray, via comm, of our presumed wherea-
bouts. We waited until they were safely gone, and then
kicked open the storage bay. Shemin jumped at the
noise, then she gaped at us. "What are you doing
here?"
    "Don't mind us," I said, "We were stupid enough to
stay around chatting in the transporter room."
    "Give me a break, will you?" demanded Mueller.
"I'm nightside, okay? I just woke up. I haven't had
any coffee yet. You're damned lucky I even remember
your name."
 "Well I just got kicked in the head!"
    "Shhhh!!!" hissed Shemin. "Excuse me! But I don't
need to be found out as an accessory to attempted
mutiny! I don't know about you, but I can think of
better things to do than spend the next ten years in the
Starfleet lockup! So will the two of you please shut up!
Or hasn't it occurred to you they might have left
someone nearby to guard against your return, and if
you raise your voices too loud, he's going to come in
here with phaser blasting?"
  It hadn't occurred to us, actually.
"All right. Tell me what happened," Mueller said.
I told her, in as quick and concise statements as I
could manage. She listened carefully, never interrupt-
ing, and finally shook her head in slow amazement.
"Incredible. We have to get word to Starfleet. This
situation cannot continue."  "The problem is--"
    At that moment, we heard the captain's voice
throughout the ship. "All hands... remain at battle
stations, but you are to keep an eye out for Com-
mander Mackenzie Calhoun. Mr. Calhoun, acting in
defiance of Starfleet orders, has attempted to take
over this vessel by force. His attempt has been beaten
back, but he is at large and apparently has allies in his
cause. It is possible that he is under Dufaux influ-
ence."
    "Oh, terrific," I muttered. "Why not say I'm a
disguised Romulan while I'm at it."
    "All personnel are to maintain sidearms at all
times. If Commander Calhoun is seen, do not hesitate
to fire. Phasers on stun unless deadly force is abso-
lutely mandatory."
    "This is just getting better and better," Mueller
said.
    Shemin was studying her board and frowning.
"What did you beam to the utility shaft? You couldn't
have just activated the beams; it wouldn't have read
into the log as a transmission. You'd never have
fooled them.

    "Air," said Mueller. "Air has mass, weight. I simply
sent a chunk of air to the shaft." She turned to me.
"Thoughts?"
    "All right," I said slowly. "None of the command
staff, with the exception of Hash, knows that you're
involved, and he can't tell anyone without tipping
himself off. So he's in. I think you should proceed as
normal at this point."
    "As normal? There's nothing normal about the
present situation, Mac."
    "I know. I need you to, very quietly, get a feel for
what's going on out there. We can't let the captain
continue in this manner."
    "What 'continue'? From what I hear, we're helping
to destroy the Dufaux. It won't go on for much
longer."
    "Trust me... it will. Once the desire for vengeance
fully gets going, there's no stopping it. Believe me, I
know. Find out who, if anyone, is backing up the
captain... particularly on the command crew. Check
with your people especially. Night shift might not have
the same attachment to the captain as the day shift does;
they work with him so much less. As for graveyard, hell,
they might not even know the captain's name."
    "What about you? They might come back here once
they find you're not where they think you are. They're
going to tear apart every square inch inside this ship."
    I thought about that a moment... and then looked
at the storage bin, looked at the equipment that was in
there.
    "You're probably right," I said. "Which leaves one
logical alternative."
    As it turned out, Mueller was right once again.
Within ten minutes another security team was back at
the transporter room. Shemin, however, was one of
the more ingenious transporter operators we had, and
she'd been able to rig the transporter log so that its
most recent beaming transmission had disappeared
from the records.
    Which left yours truly, Commander Mackenzie
Calhoun, in an EVA suit, clinging to the rear of the
saucer section of the Grissom, watching the demoli-
tion of the Dufaux fleet.

THE SLAUGHTER

IF CAPTAIN KENYON thought he had a good seat for the
dismantling of the Dufaux fleet, he should have seen
mine.
    From my position outside the saucer section, I was
able to see everything.
    What was eerie was the silence of it all. I mean,
explosions naturally don't make any noise in space.
But when you're on a bridge and you're witnessing a
battle, there is at least all the noises one comes to
expect from within the starship itself. The talking, the
sounds of the instrumentation, even that annoying
red-alert alarm. But I was on the ship's exterior, in a
Low Pressure Environment Garment, and the only
noise I heard was the sound of my own breathing.
Oddly, that can be one of the loneliest sounds in the
galaxy.
 I had magnetic boots on the LPEG, of course, to aid
me in adhering to the hull. Moreover, there were
magnetic grasping plates in the palms of the gloves.
Normally one did not want to spend excessive time
outside in the LPEG. The advantage of the suit was
that it was lighter in weight and more easy to maneu-
ver in than the more high-powered Standard Extrave-
hicular Work Garment, or SWEG. The problem with
the LPEG was that it provided far less protection than
the SWEG, since its simple multilayer construction
gave it almost no protection against such hazards of
space as micrometeoroids and radiation. But at least
at the moment, as long as the shielding remained in
place, that would provide me all the protection I
needed. Besides, the LPEG was what had been in the
storage bin of the transporter room. It wasn't as if I'd
had a lot of choice.
    High above me the shielding glowed in place
around the ship. Naturally nothing could beam be-
yond that point... but there was nothing that pre-
vented the transporter being able to move someone
from inside the ship just to the other side of the hull.
All in all, it was actually a fairly devious place to hide.
It wasn't the type of place that anyone would gener-
ally think to look. Moreover, a starship is pretty
damned big. Noticing one person against the ship's
exterior would be quite a challenge, even if you were
looking for them.
    So there I clung to the ship and watched the
slaughter.
    The Grissom was still firing on Dufaux ships. I had
to admit that Kenyon and Cray made a fairly formi-
dable team. With Cray marshaling the security forces,
and Kenyon finding ways to justify his actions, they
were virtually unassailable.
    The Carvargna forces assumed the bulk of the work
and responsibility. They assaulted the Dufaux from
all sides, making certain not to let themselves be
drawn out of formation. They divided the Dufaux
vessels from one another, cutting them off and assail-
ing them individually or as small, easily controllable
units.
    But helping to herd them all together was the
Grissom. Sometimes the starship fired warning shots
that drove them toward the Carvargna squadrons.
Other times they simply opened fire directly on the
ships themselves. Space was alive with bursts, like
fireflies battling one another in coordinated fury.
Every time I saw the Grissom responsible for another
Dufaux vessel erupting in quickly-snuffed-out flames,
my heart would die a bit more.
    There were so many ways I wanted to explain what
had happened to Captain Kenyon. He had been... I
don't know... possessed. Possessed by an evil free-
floating creature. Or perhaps he'd been replaced by an
evil twin. A shapeshifter had come aboard the ship,
that was it. A shapeshifter who was impersonating the
real Kenyon. Even better... not only was this not
really Captain Kenyon, but evil shapeshifters had
impersonated the corpses of Stephanie and Byron as
well in order to make the entire charade seem more
credible. They weren't really dead, but instead being
held captive by the Dufaux, who themselves were part
of an insidious plot...
 And so on, and so on.
    How nice that would have been. How gloriously
involved, and wonderfully dismissive of the realities
of life.
Would that it were that way, or had been that way.
Because that way, you see, I wouldn't have had to
deal with the truth of it. And the truth of it is that
sometimes good people go somewhat crazy.
    We all have the darkness in us. No matter how
good, how decent we are, there is the beast residing
within us, waiting to get out. I know, because he lurks
within me, never far below the surface. The violent,
brutal being I tapped into for the purpose of freeing
my people. I made extensive use of him for a very long
time, and then, when I tried to bottle him away, he
did not go quietly or willingly. To this day he rumbles
around in my head, spoiling for a fight. I try not to
indulge him.
    It's not as if he's my personal demon. He's in you.
He's in all of us.
    James Kirk wrote an autobiography, you know.
Much of it was dismissed by critics as a collection of
tall tales. Some believed that Kirk had a penchant for
exaggerating. Outrageous stories of planets of sorcery,
or confrontations with Greek gods or Abraham Lin-
coln, or the removal of his first officer's brain (which
some more waggish commentators claimed was not so
extraordinary, considering that there were ostensibly
any number of Starfleet officers for whom such a loss
would not make any noticeable difference). Many felt
that the reason Kirk's legend was so phenomenal was
that he himself took great pains to build it. Some
referred to him as the Baron Mfinchausen of space,
and the fact that his friends and officers backed him
up was written off as simple personal loyalty.
    I never believed that. Never believed it for a min-
ute. Because space is vast and unknowable, and it's
the height of presumption to consider any aspect of it
and toss it aside as unbelievable. Once upon a time, to
the people of Earth, the idea of beings from another
planet was preposterous. Yet here I am. To some, the
very notion of this place, the Captain's Table, would
likewise be considered absurd. Yet here we are, telling
stories.
  Stories.
    I'm getting off track. I'm sorry. Why did I start
talking about Kirk... ?
  Oh. Yes.

    There was one particular thing that Kirk wrote that
stuck with me, that truly hit home for me. He was
writing of officers he had met who, as he put it, had
"lost the vision." They had forgotten what they were
supposed to be, what they were intended to represent.
He encountered several of them in his career: Captain
Tracey of the Exeter, who--not unlike Kenyon--
used advanced weaponry to interfere in a planet's
local politics. Or Captain Merrick of the Beagle, who
brought his crew, one by one, down to a planet's
surface to fight in an atmosphere reminiscent of
Roman gladiatorial bouts. Another man, a historian
rather than an officer, named John Gill, who reshaped
an entire world into Nazi Germany. One of his own
men, Lieutenant Kevin Riley, who attempted to kill a
man he suspected to be a war criminal. A commo-
dore-although he didn't name him for some reason,
but just described him in general terms--who com-
pletely lost his reason and started taking reckless
chances when his entire crew was killed in a confron-
tation with an alien artifact. A few others, I think.
    The thing is, Kirk said that whenever he encoun-
tered someone like that, he saw something in their
eyes... that seemed to stare back at him. He would
think of all the vast power that was at his command,
and the number of times he himself played reckless
games with the principle of noninterference in order
to suit his own ends. That things turned out well for
him oftentimes seemed as much a matter of luck as
anything else. I remember exactly what Kirk wrote on
the subject:
    "I'd look into their eyes and see the choices they
made... and not only would I be able to understand
how and why they made them, but I could also--on
some level--see myself doing the same thing. I'd like
to tell myself it could never happen. It might have,
though. We like to think that we would behave in a
consistently moral and worthy manner, and it's only
the others, the failed others, who fall by the wayside. I
think that's too simplistic, though, and too denying of
human nature. Every time I look at one of those fallen
from the vision of Starfleet, I cannot help but say to
myself: There, but for the grace of God, go I."
    I doubt that there is a God, or gods. But if there is,
then He exists as a divine spark in each of us. That
spark had been lost in Captain Kenyon. He had
turned away from it, turned away from himself.
    Like Kirk, I knew the feeling. I knew what was
going through his mind, knew the tragedy that he was
experiencing. There was no alien invasion of his soul,
no fiendish doppelgfinger. He had instead succumbed
to the darkness within us all. His loss... was a
diminishment to all of us. Darkness and loss, grief
pervasive and everlasting. To be so low in one's soul
that the light which guides us is forever extinguished,
or at least so it seems.
There, but for the grace of... whatever... went I.
And I was determined to bring him back from that.
To pull him out of the abyss. Perhaps because, in a
way, to help him would be to help myself.
    Cray, on the other hand, I wanted to beat the crap
out of. Nobility of motive only goes so far, after all.
    I had a lot of time to think on such matters as I
clung to the outside of the ship.
    One by one the Dufaux fell. In my imagination I
could almost hear Captain Kenyon laughing in joy
over the disaster that had befallen the slayers of his
daughter and brother. I could only hope that the
Dufaux leaders--particularly the one called Kradius,
who had sent the defiant message to the Grissomm
had already died in the assault. If they still lived, and
the opportunity for further revenge came into Ken-
yon's possession, it would be a terrible, terrible thing.
The Grissom advanced, meter by meter, along with
the rest of the fleet. In short order, we were within
range of Anzibar IV. That was when the true horror
began.
    The fleet started firing upon the surface of Anzibar
IV. Whereas before I had fancied that I heard Ken-
yon's laughter, now I was hearing the screams of those
countless millions below. The fleet surrounded the
planet, firing from all sides. I lay there helplessly,
watching it all. The Grissom was not one of those
raining destruction down upon the world itself. My
suspicion is that even Kenyon knew he couldn't push
matters that far. The entire bridge crew would likely
rise up in protest if he attempted that. But even
though he wasn't attacking the planet directly, his was
still the responsibility. He had made it all possible,
had galvanized and focused the Carvargna. And so
had I, at his instruction. My hands were as red with
blood as his own. Unfortunately I was the only one
who could see that.
    All over Anzibar IV, there was flare after flare as
more strikes hit. They had some ground defenses that
they were able to launch against the invaders. I can
only be grateful that none of them struck the Grissom,
because that might have given him the excuse he
needed to open fire on Anzibar itself.
    The bombardment continued forever, it seemed. I
lost all track of time, minute stretching into hour, and
into what seemed like days. Miles away on the planet
below, it seemed like some parts of it were... mov-
ing. No, not moving. Burning. Entire continents were
on fire, shimmering as if black snakes were undulating
across them. Madness. Madness.
 Anzibar IV was burning.
    I wondered if the Carvargna were taking any joy in
it. These had ostensibly been a peaceful people. Yet I
knew that, when I had been teaching them about
military tactics, they had taken to it with almost
gleeful abandon. Perhaps they weren't peaceful so
much as they were repressed bullies, cheerfully happy
to annihilate an opponent once they had big enough
weapons and ships backing them up.
    I closed my eyes against the sight, but that didn't
stop me from hearing their voices in my head. I could
hear them calling .... "Mac..."
    The suddenness of the voice startled me and it took
me a moment to realize that it was inside my helmet
rather than in my imagination. It was Mueller's voice.
She was remarkably in control, but I could hear the
edginess in her tone. "Are you seeing it?" "Yes."
 "My God, Mac... what have we done."
    "The question isn't whether you're asking that,
Kat. The question is whether the rest of the crew is.
Where are you? Do they suspect... ?"
    "No. No, not at all. At least, I hope not. There's all
sorts of rumors flying throughout the crew about what
happened. The captain made that announcement
about you--"
 "And people know that it's not true?"
 "Well... no. There's discussion about it."
 "You mean they're not rejecting it out of hand?"
 "Some do. A lot..." Her voice trailed off.
    I shouldn't have been surprised, I suppose. I'd
made no effort to really get close to the crew. I liked
keeping my distance, wanted to maintain my loner
status. Consequently, it had cost me. When it came
down to the word of a beloved captain versus the
actions of a suspicious newcomer and outsider, one
should easily have been able to expect that reaction.
    Nonetheless, it hurt. It hurt far more than I ever
would have expected.
  "Mac... are you still there?"
 "�~s." I shook it off. "Yes... I'm here .... "
 "Your air supply... how's that holding up?"
    I checked my on-line systems and realized that I'd
been paying no attention to it at all. That was proba-
bly not the brightest move on my part. "It's running
low. Eighteen minutes before I'm breathing my own
carbon dioxide in here. Are you planning to beam me
in?"
 "That... could be a problem."
    I suddenly started to feel icy, as if the vacuum of
space was seeping through my suit. "A problem...
how?"
    "Lieutenant Cray doesn't want a repeat of your
vanishing act. So he has security guards at all the
transporter stations until further notice."
     "Oh... perfect. How ant I supposed to get back
in? Crawl up a photon torpedo tube?" There was dead silence.
 And she said, "Well... actually..."

THE TUBE

IT'S AMAZING HOW SLOWLY yOU can move when you
want to go very, very quickly.
    Keeping an eye on the time that it took to maneu-
ver in the weightlessness, even as I was being an-
chored by the magnetized boots, I felt as if it was
taking an achingly long time to get from point A to
point B. With my air supply ticking down as I went, it
wasn't as if I had a good deal of time to waste.
    I was closer to the aft torpedo tube than I was the
forward, so that was obviously where I wanted to be.
The air was already becoming stale in my helmet, my
breathing more and more labored as I exerted myself.
I knew that the torpedo tube would be wide enough
for me to climb through, although it would be a fairly
tight fit, particularly with the LPEG suit. On the other
hand, I could remove the LPEG suit as soon as I was
inside the tube. There was air in the tube, after all...
naturally, because the far end of the tube opened up
directly into the Torpedo Bay Control. It's not as if
everyone at the TBC was in danger of being sucked
out into space or losing all their air every time we
launched one of the damned things.
    The fact that the tube opened into the TBC was one
of my major problems. There were always two people
on station there, particularly during time of red alert.
The tube itself was thirty feet long, with the first
twenty-five or so sufficiently obscured by shadows and
such that they'd never see me coming. But the last five
feet were going to be the trickiest, because they'd see
me emerging from the tube and have enough time to
alert security as to my whereabouts.
    First thing was first, though. Before I could worry
myself about what I would do upon emerging from
the torpedo, I had to get to the tube first.
    Five minutes' worth of fresh air left, and the tubes
still seemed miles away. Four, and I was becoming
more light-headed. It was requiring greater and great-
er effort to maintain my focus. Three minutes, and
my magnetized feet felt as if iron weights had been
attached to them. I heard a buzzing in my helmet, a
distant voice, and it sounded like Kat Mueller, but I
couldn't be sure. I couldn't be sure of anything except
that I felt like lying down and taking a nap. Certainly
the rest of the distance could wait for a few minutes.
Just a few minutes more so that I could shut my eyes
and take it easy...
    "Mac.t" came her urgent voice again, snapping me
momentarily out of my fog. I was tired, my lungs felt
so damned heavy. Kat's words were racing over me in
a torrent, something about a ship, but I wasn't paying
attention. I shut off the communications beacon to
my helmet because her voice had become so irritating
to me. Everything bothered me at that moment. I just
wanted the entire galaxy to go away and let me get
some sleep.
 I could smell the burning.
    It wasn't possible, of course. There was no way that
I could possibly smell the conflagration that had
consumed the world of Anzibar IV. It was my imagi-
nation, my imagination spurring me on. It was
enough to prod me forward, to keep me going and
think about what had been done and what had yet to
be done. And suddenly, just like that, the photon-
torpedo tube was just ahead of me.
    I looked at my instrumentation and saw that ! was
out of clean air. The tube was still ten feet away. It felt
like ten yards. I came to the realization that I'd
stopped moving. I had no idea how long I'd been like
that. I shoved myself forward, going to my hands as
well as my knees, pulling myself forward foot by foot.
The tube drew closer, closer, and then I was right at it.
My head was swimming as I pushed my way through
the annular force field that covered the business end of
the torpedo tube. It was the same type of forcefield
that was employed in the shuttlebay, the kind that
permitted solid objects to pass through it. Objects
such as shuttlecrafts, or photon torpedoes, and even
the occasional renegade officer were able to move
through an annular forcefield with impunity, but air
remained within the confined area.
    I hauled myself completely into the torpedo tube.
The moment I was through, my breathing inside the
helmet sounded completely different to me. I disen-
gaged the clamps of the helmet, twisted it, and
removed it. I sucked air greedily into my lungs and
waited for the light-headedness to disappear. I also
tried to keep it as quiet as possible, concerned that
any loud noises might echo up the tube and alert
crewmen at the other end.
 I sat curled up in the tube for a few moments,
composing myself and letting my thudding heart slow
to a more normal speed. It was tight inside there; I'd
certainly known more comfortable fits in my life. I
also knew that I was going to have to move quickly
once I got out of the tube. The simple fact was that I
was going to have to knock out whatever crewmen
were at the other end before they summoned security.
I wasn't looking forward to it, but it had to be done.
However, if I was clomping around in an LPEG suit
when I was trying to do it, I'd never be able to move
quickly enough. The LPEG was more form fitting than
other, bulkier suits, but it still wasn't going to allow
me the full mobility I was going to need.
    The rest of the LPEG suit was one piece, gloves and
boots all attached. Of course, it was generally de-
signed to be removed in some place that was slightly
more spacious than the inside of a photon-torpedo
tube. But I didn't see that I had much of a choice. I
unlatched the back restraints, slid my torso out, and
then shimmied the rest of my body out of it. I took
one more deep breath and then twisted around to see
the far end of the tube. The way seemed pretty clear.
The trick was going to be making the approach with
sufficient stealth.
    Leaving the suit behind, I hauled myself forward on
my elbows. Slowly I made my way forward, the tube
running at a slight incline just to make my life that
much more exciting. I listened carefully, straining to
hear if there was any discussion going on. I wanted to
know how many people were going to be waiting for
me. I desperately needed more information than I
had. Because the less I knew, the more chance there
was of something going wrong.
    I covered ten feet with no incident. Up the dark-
ened tube ! went, fifteen feet, halfway there. I kept my
elbows tight, moving forward, ever forward, and I
heard the toe of my boot squeak against the interior of
the darkened tube. I froze, hoping that the noise
hadn't tipped anyone off. I thought I heard someone
ahead, at the far end. At least two voices, talking with
one another, and I drew myself closer. I'd covered
twenty feet. Another five or so, and then we were
going to get to the hardest part, because I'd be visible
to anyone at the other end. I called upon all my
strength, all my speed, hoping and praying that I
would be up to the task.
 Suddenly the inside of the tube lit up.
    There are moments in your life where you should
really understand instantly what's happening. But the
situation becomes one that is so horrendous, so
.problematic, that your brain spends a few moments in
ignorance or denial or both. In this case, it was
definitely denial.
    Ten feet ahead of me, a photon torpedo was shoved
into place, blocking my intended exit. "Lock and
load!" I heard.
    "Aw, grozit," I snarled, no longer being quite as
concerned whether I was heard or not.
    I started scrambling frantically backward. There
was no time or space to turn myself around, so I just
kept shoving as fast as I could.
    The photon torpedo started to roll forward, caught
up in the inevitable process that would send it
hurtling into space. It wasn't armed yet. If it was
employing the standard cycle, it wouldn't go active
until just under two seconds after it cleared the ship.
But it would still have more than enough power to
blast me into space. Granted the shields were up
and that would prevent me from spiraling away into
the void, but I'd still be sufficiently far enough away
from the ship--with no means of propulsion--
that I'd never be able to get back before I asphyxi-
ated.
    I pushed myself back, faster and faster. As if it were
caught up in the spirit of a race, the photon torpedo
casing began to build up speed as well. It was gaining
on me. I completely lost track of where I was in the
tube, or how far I had to go before I was clear at the
end. All I knew was that the torpedo was catching up.
I was practically nose to nose with the damned thing.
I shoved back faster, driven by building panic, and
then my feet became entangled in something. It was
my LPEG suit. The photon torpedo was practically
on top of me, and I grabbed my helmet and shoved it
under the torpedo. The obstruction momentarily
jammed it. I heard the buildup of energy as the
torpedo pushed against the helmet that had been
wedged into the clearance area. I grabbed up the rest
of the suit but there was no time as the torpedo,
driven by the explosive forces of the building energy
that was to propel it at near-warp speeds, slammed
forward. It ran over the helmet, crushing it, and then
the torpedo was coming right at me.
    At the last second I suddenly sensed the void
directly behind me. My instinct was to take a deep
breath, but that would have been exactly the wrong
move. The pressure of the vacuum would have tried
to equalize the pressure and I would likely have had
my rib cage crushed in no time. Instead I blew all the
air out of my lungs and hurled myself backward into
space, clutching onto the suit for dear life.
    I'd seen old vids and such from centuries ago,
featuring fanciful depictions of people exploding in a
vacuum, their eyes bulging out of their heads, their
major organs exploding into a rather impressive rain
of red liquid.
    Very decorative. Not correct, but very decorative.
You don't explode. You don't cornbust. You simply
either freeze to death or you suffocate, and it happens
fairly quickly. I'm not entirely certain whether that's
any improvement, but it certainly requires far less
clean-up.
    The cold was beyond anything imaginable. A mil-
lion knives stabbing into all my pores and twisting
couldn't begin to approximate the cold of space. I
tried to twist myself around to get back to the ship,
my body already slowing down as the frigidity of the
vacuum worked its way into my joints, my muscles,
and that was the instant that the torpedo blasted out
of its tube. The light from the release of the energy
was blinding and I closed my eyes against it.
    The torpedo just barely grazed me as it passed, but
even the slightest impact was enough to send me
spiraling. By what easily qualified as the one bit of
luck that I was having at the moment, the angle of the
sideswipe actually sent me tumbling back toward the
Grissom. But I was stunned, freezing to death, no air
in my lungs...
    From the corner of my eye, I saw a ship in the
distance. It was a small one, a Dufaux fighter. It must
have been a straggler, a survivor of the massacre. It
was firing upon the Grissom. Obviously, rather than
be satisfied with simply surviving, the ship's pilot had
chosen to attack, as futile a gesture as that might have
been. The pilot's blasts bounced off the shields harm-
lessly, and then the photon torpedo struck home. The
ship disappeared in a flash of distant light.
    Would that I had been in a position to admire the
marksmanship.
    I hit the hull about two feet away from the torpedo
tube and then bounced off and away. There was
nothing to stop me from tumbling off to my death.
    Nothing except the suit that I was still clutching in
my numb fingers.
    My brain sent commands to my arms, trying to get
them to function. I couldn't feel any part of my body.
I couldn't get anything to move. Not tike this, I
thought furiously, not like this/I will not die like this/
    I think I shocked my arms into movement with the
vehemence of my anger. I was still clutching the sleeve
of the suit. I didn't have a choice; my fingers were
frozen in a paralyzed rictus around it. I swung the suit
around in an arc, like a lifeline, and the magnets of
the boots slammed into the hull... and held.
    I floated in space, clutching the suit, adhering to the
side of the ship through only the slimmest of margins.
The nearness of a possible salvation galvanized me. I
refused to attend to the fact that my body wasn't
responding, and instead forced it to do so through
sheer ire. My lungs were beyond airless, and in the
deathly silence of space, I heard my heart pounding.
It was the single loudest noise I'd ever heard.
    Hand over hand, I pulled myself toward the ship.
The entire time I was terrified that the magnets would
come loose, or that the cloth of the suit would slip
through my numbed fingers. I drew closer, closer, and
just at the very end I was convinced that I wasn't
going to make it. I was positive that I was going to die
right there, right then, inches away from my destina-
tion.
    Then my conscious brain completely shut down.
That's the only explanation I can really provide for it.
I was functioning entirely on autopilot. I must have
been, because I don't even remember hauling myself
back into the photon-torpedo tube. It took a minute
or two for me to realize that I was safe, jolted back to
consciousness by the sting of air in my lungs. My
lower legs were still freezing and I realized I hadn't
completely pulled myself into the tube. With a low
grunt of pain I hauled myself completely in and then
lay there for an eternity, just making sure that I was in
one piece.
    To some extent, all I wanted to do was rest. But I
didn't dare take the chance. For all I knew, another
ship might show up behind us and the captain would
consider it a good idea to blow it to bits with an aft
torpedo as well. I might not have any time at all.
    Working completely on adrenaline, I clambered
back up the torpedo tube as fast as my body would
readily let me. I covered the distance faster than I
would have thought possible. On the way I grabbed up
the scattered pieces of the helmet, since I'd suddenly
come up with a quick use for them. When I reached
the point where I'd found myself staring down the
barrel of a torpedo, I flinched inwardly. But there was
no repeat performance. I drew to within the critical
five feet where I would be visible and paused a
moment.
    There were two crewmen, going about their busi-
ness. They weren't staring straight at me, but from the
angle that I was coming and from where they were
standing, they would unquestionably see me before I
was ready to be seen.
    I gathered the crushed pieces of the helmet tightly
in my right hand. The edges were sharp and a couple
cut my hand. I couldn't even feel it. Lucky me.
    I cocked my arm, took a breath (an action for which
I had never been quite as grateful before), and threw.
The pieces sailed over the heads of the crewmen and
bounced off the far wall. The noise immediately
distracted them as they moved toward the origin of it
to investigate. With only a couple of seconds to act, I
hauled myself up and clear of the tube. I rolled off the
loading section and the instant my feet hit the ground,
they turned with questions on their faces.
    Clear astonishment registered in their expressions.
Actually, for all I knew, they were sympathetic to my
situation. But I couldn't take the chance. Making the
element of surprise work for me for all it was worth, I

charged, grabbed each of their heads in either hand,
and slammed their heads together with all my
strength. They sagged to the floor, unconscious. I
sagged with them.
    To no one in particular, I muttered, "I'm not
getting paid enough for this."

THE DEVELOPMENTS

I TENSED AS THE DOORS to the torpedo station opened. I
suddenly realized that I was too tired to move,
momentarily having given everything that I had to
give. If this was a security team, or even a very irate
tribble, I was not going to be able to do anything to
fight back.
 Katerina Mueller walked into the room.
    When she entered, she did so looking extremely
businesslike... and yet she was also determinedly
casual. I realized immediately that she was attempt-
ing to appear as if she were simply making a routine
check on whatever activity was presently going on in
there. She knew that's where I was going to wind
up... if I was damned lucky. But the instant that she
saw me, as well as the two unconscious crewmen, she
immediately relaxed... only to tense up again as
she got a good look at me. "My God, Mac, what hap-
pened?" she asked. She went to me and touched my
hair. "There's frost on it. It's all stiff. Your lips are
blue... what--?"
    I told her, in as quick and unvarnished a way as I
could. I tried not to make it sound worse than it was.
Unfortunately the facts alone were enough to cause
the once-unflappable German XO to turn several
shades of pale.
    "Are you all right?" she asked when I finished. "I
mean, now."
 "Do I look all right?"
    "Well... your lips are starting to turn a lighter
shade of blue. How are your extremities?"
    I flexed my hand and, inside of my boots, squeezed
my toes. "Still numb... but they're moving, at
least."
 "Hold on. Let's check."
    And she leaned over and kissed me, slowly and
longingly on the lips. It was the single best kiss we'd
ever shared. We separated and she nodded in appro-
val. "Recovering nicely, I think. I think that warmed
it up a bit."
 "My lap feels chilly."
    "Don't push it, Calhoun." She moved over to the
fallen crewmen and checked them. "They're breath-
ing steadily. Strong pulse. They'll be okay, I think."
 "They'll have serious headaches, though."
    "You've got your own headaches. So do I. There's
been some developments."
    Walking out into the corridor would not have been
the best idea in the world. Instead we scrambled up a
service ladder and, moments later, were crawling
through the ship's utility shafts. Once we'd put suffi-
cient distance between ourselves and the torpedo
room, Mueller found a fairly secure area for us to hole
up.
 "Okay... here's the situation," she said, getting
down to business. "The Carvargna battle fleet has
been, to put it mildly, a success."  "That's no surprise."
    "The Dufaux have surrendered unconditionally.
That's also no surprise," she continued before I could
say anything. "They were outnumbered, out-
gunned... there was nothing else they could do. The
Carvargna are hailing Captain Kenyon as a galactic
hero."
    "A hero." I shook my head in disbelief. "He's a
tortured man."
    "Don't tell me you feel sorry for him. After every-
thing he's put you through..."
    "I helped bring it about, Kat. If I'd taken a stronger
hand when I should have, I might have prevented all
of this. Instead I let it happen. I did that."
  "Mac, you can't blame yourself for everything."
    "I have to stop him. I have to stop him before it
goes any further."
    She stared at me in disbelief. "Further? Mac, Anzi-
bar Four is in smoking ruins. The Dufaux are, for the
most part, crushed, begging for an end to it. They've
been defeated .... "
    "It may not be over," I warned her. "The leaders.
The Dufaux leaders... Kradius, and whoever his
associates might be... do you know if they're dead?
If so, then maybe..."
    "Actually, Kradius is alive. The Carvargna have
him in custody on the planet's surface right now. That
was part of the terms of the surrender as dictated
by..."
 "By Captain Kenyon."
 "We don't know that for sure," she told me.
    I shook my head. "Perhaps not. But I wouldn't bet
against it. In fact... I bet I can tell you how the rest
of it is going to go."
    "Dazzle me with your knowledge, Calhoun." De-
spite the seriousness of the situation, the delicacy of
our position... she actually managed to sound re-
markably casual about the entire thing. She was quite
a woman, our Katerina was.
    "They're putting Kradius on trial," I said. "The
trial will be overseen by the Carvargna rulers and the
heads of the alliance they've formed. And they've
invited Captain Kenyon to take a position at the trial,
a position that he's accepted. In fact, he's probably
already down there. No reason to delay matters...
particularly since the longer he delays, the more
chance there is that somehow Starfleet will manage to
shut this all down and stop him from exacting the full
measure of his vengeance."
    Despite her faintly sarcastic air from moments
before, she actually looked at me with genuine amaze-
ment. "I'm impressed," she said. "How did you know
all that?"
    "Because, Kat, things don't happen in a vac-
uum... well, most things," I added ruefully, touch-
ing my lips, which were only at that point starting to
have some degree of sensation in them. "I've seen
scenarios like this play out, time and again. Some in
Earth history, some on other worlds. These things
tend to turn out depressingly the same. The wrinkle in
this instance is that Captain Kenyon is a part of it."
    "Right now I'm less concerned about the captain
than I am about you," Kat told me. "We've got a
serious problem here. I'd hate to see them put you on
trial for court-martial. It'll be your word against the
captain's and Lieutenant Cray..."
 "It's not going to come to that," I said.
 "Mac, this isn't the time for false confidence."
    "That's not it. Cray isn't going to want to take any
chances."
    She stared at me as if she couldn't believe what I
was suggesting. "You're not saying that he's... you
think... ?"
  "He'll try to kill me."
    "No." She shook her head vehemently. "No, I don't
believe it .... "
    "Mueller, there's too many ways to get at the truth.
Computer readouts, telepathic scans... the works.
The last thing that Cray is going to want to risk is my
living to tell exactly what happened."  
"He's a Starfleet officer, dammir!"
    "He's an Artdorian, first and foremost," I told her.
"There are certain traits that are part and parcel of
being an Andorian."
  "Don't be a bigot, Calhoun."
    "It's not bigotry, it's simply observed. Andorians
speak quietly on the whole, but when it comes to an
opponent they can be absolutely ruthless."  
"So can you," she reminded me.
    I smiled grimly. "That's true. That's how I know
just what it is he's going to do. That's one of the
reasons I've been trying to stay out of lockup. Not for
a minute do I believe that I would live to get to a
starbase for trial if I were in Cray's hands."
    "I don't know that I believe it. But for sake of
argument, we'll say you're right. In that case, then
we've only one choice," Mueller said reasonably. "We
have to get to the captain directly. We have to..."
Her confidence faltered a bit. "We have to... what?"
    "I don't know," I admitted. "I have to get through
to him. To make him realize that what he's done is
horribly, horribly wrong. There may be no way that he
can make amends. But we can stop him from making
it worse."
    "You said that before. How could it possibly be
worse?"
  "That's easy," I said. "He could kill Kradius."
    "Kill? You mean... murder? He'd... he'd never
do that .... "
    "Oh, yes he would. Where his state of mind is
at the moment... he absolutely would. It's one
thing to rationalize firing on the Dufaux vessels that
fired upon the Grissom. We were acting to protect
ourselves. Likewise he could explain away to him-
self the defense of the Carvargna flagship. But to
cold-bloodedly stand there and execute a helpless
opponent... doing something like that changes you
forever. I wouldn't wish that on anyone, least of all
the captain."
     It seemed to me that she was dissecting me with her
eyes. "You did it once... didn't you?"
  "No."
  "No?"
    "No. More than once. Many... more times than
once. Don't you see, Kat? No one... should have to
be like me. No one."
    She said nothing for a long moment. And then, to
my surprise, she reached over and hugged me. "Why
did you do that?" I asked.
    "My own reasons. And they'll remain my own."
She considered the situation a moment, stroking her
chin thoughtfully. Then she tapped her cornbadge.
"Mueller to Takahashi," she said in a very soft voice.
    "This is Hash. Go ahead." His voice was also soft.
Clearly they had coordinated earlier.
    'Tll need the coordinates for where the captain
beamed to on Anzibar Four."
    "Hold on." Obviously he was double-checking
them off his ops board. After a moment he told Kat,
and she repeated them carefully to make sure she had
it right.
 "That's it."
 "Much obliged. Mueller out."
 "Okay, we know where he went. Now what?"
      "Now we get down there," she said as if it were the
most reasonable thing in the world.  "How? We jump?"
    "No. We're going to have to get to one of the
transporter rooms. It'll probably necessitate overpow-
ering the security guard. If you don't think you're up
for that..."
    I raised an eyebrow. "Is that to be considered a
challenge, XO?"
  "Whatever you want to call it."
    "Kat..." I hesitated. "There's... there's really
no way I can thank you for all this. I--"
    "You're right," she said immediately. "So it's prob-
ably better that you don't even try."
    She moved off down the utility shaft, and I immedi-
ately followed her. I had to admit it: It was tough to
argue with logic like that. It probably was better that I
didn't try. We made our way through the utility shaft,
approaching the main transporter room. The plan
was going fairly well. By sticking to the utility shafts,
we were able to stay out of sight. If we were able to get
close enough to the transporter room, then we might
face minimal opposition once we got there.
    In fact, according to Mueller, we might face even
less than I had previously thought.
    "There's a lot of people who aren't thrilled with the
way all of this has turned out," she told me. "Not the
majority of the crew, certainly. But enough. Enough
to make people wonder whether all of this has gone
down properly. It might not just be your word against
the captain and Cray .... "
    "Whether people believe or don't believe is up to
them," I said as we climbed down one of the ladders. I
took each step slowly and carefully. The last thing I
needed to do was slip and break my ankle or some-
thing similarly intelligent. "I'11 be perceived as the
instigator. What we have to do is--"

    I didn't get a chance to finish the sentence, because
suddenly the utility shaft was filled with a terribly
familiar noise. It was the whine of transporter beams,
and before we could do anything at all we were caught
in their grip. The utility tubes dissolved around us
and suddenly we found that we were in the main
transporter room.
    Lieutenant Cray was standing there with his phaser
aimed levelly at us.

THE ANDORIAN

THERE WAS NO ONE else around. Just Cray. Cray,
Mueller, and me. Kat looked dumbfounded, staring at
Cray as if she couldn't comprehend what she and I
could possibly be doing there.
    As if he'd read her mind, Cray spoke in that same
eerie whisper of his, "You and he. Obviousø"
    "He figured you were the one who helped me,
Katerina," I said. I didn't bother to raise my hands.
"He's head of security, after all, and he's very thor-
ough. I strongly suspect that he knows just about
everyone's business aboard this ship."
He inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment.
"So he locked on to my cornbadge," she said in slow
understanding, "and beamed me and whoever was
with me here, on the assumption that it would be
you."
    He nodded again. His blue lips thinned in a self-
satisfied smile.
    For a moment, no words were spoken. Then I said,
"Cray... it's pointless to discuss this further. We're
two of a kind, you and I. We both know what needs to
be done here. The only question will be whether you
do it as a coward... or as an Andorian. Oh... I
forgot. That's pretty much the same thing, isn't it."
  The amusement vanished from his face.
    "What are you doing?" Mueller said softly out of
the corner of her mouth.
    I ignored her. "Tell you what, Cray. I'll make it easy
for you. This is what your kind prefers, after all." I
turned my back to him. "Here. That's your method of
operation, isn't it."
 "This won't work," he said softly.
    I faced him once more. "Cray... don't waste my
time or yours. We both know you're going to fire the
phaser from a nice, safe distance. No stomach for
hand-to-hand, to show who's the better man. Finish
us off, nice and quick. No witnesses. That's the way
you want it, isn't it. You've probably already made
adjustments to your log to fake receiving entries from
Starfleet, so no one else can find out your deceit as I
did. But just out of curiosity... how long do you
think that's going to last? Once the real investigation
starts... whatever entries you've cooked up will
never stand up to scrutiny. You've totally miscalcu-
lated the game, Cray. You thought by cooperating
with the captain, doing whatever he wanted, that
would be how you'd get ahead. Plus there was cer-
tainly no love for me lost on your part. If my career,
and I, had to be destroyed, well... you weren't going
to shed any tears about that. Correct?"
    He said nothing. The phaser hadn't wavered. This
wasn't a good sign. Cray wasn't going for the taunting,
wasn't allowing his advantage to slip away. There was
only one thing that could possibly make the situation
worse.
      Katerina Mueller drew herself to her full height.
"Cray... put it down. Now. That's an order."
  That was it.
  Cray turned and fired at Katerina.
    I saw it coming about a half second before he fired. I
shoved her to the right as I lunged to the left. But
Katerina didn't move fast enough as the phaser blast
clipped her right shoulder. Kat let out a howl of pain
and crumbled to the ground. Cray wasn't screwing
around. The phaser was set on kill. If he'd struck a
vital area, such as her heart, she would have been
dead before she hit the floor.
    "Don't move," he said. The order wasn't addressed
to Kat, but to me. He had the phaser aimed at her
head and the threat was clear. If I didn't make myself
a nice easy target, she was dead.
 But she was dead anyway. We both were.
  I spit at him.
    It was the purest means by which I could express
contempt, and certainly the most pointed. The wad of
spittle sailed across the room and struck Cray on the
right side of the face. His eyes went wide with fury as,
in silence, he felt the spittle trickling down.
    And then, very slowly and very deliberately, he
placed the phaser down on the control console.
    "You will never..." It was as if every section of his
sentence was an effort. "... insult Andorians...
again .... "
    I struck a defensive pose. He matched it. Slowly we
circled the cramped quarters of the transporter room.
There wouldn't be a lot of room for maneuvering.
Despite the fact that he was an enemy, I couldn't help
but admire the fluid way in which he moved.
    "You will receive... what you desired," he said,
his hands tracing elaborate patterns in the air. Slowly
I paralleled his steps, keeping the console between us.
I moved slightly to the left and he already moved in
anticipation of it. His eyes glittered with fury. "No
weapons, save our hands. We will see... who is the
coward. We will see... who is the better man. We
will see... who is the..."
     Calmly, I reached over the console and picked up
the phaser that he'd put down and I aimed it at him.
  His face twisted in contempt. "Coward!"
    "Idiot," I replied, and fired. I hit him squarely in
the chest. The impact of the phaser blast lifted Cray
up off his feet and sent him slamming back into the
far wall of the transporter room. He hit it with a most
satisfying thud and slid to the ground, his head
slumped to one side, his eyes closed.
    I knelt down next to Kat, took her arm gently, and
tried to bend it at the elbow. "Does this hurt?" I
asked.
    "A little. I can handle it." She started to sit up, her
teeth gritted against the pain that she was obviously
feeling. She glanced at Cray. "Is he dead?"
 "I doubt it. Andorians are fairly tough, actually."
 And suddenly Cray was sitting up.
    There was red-hot fury in his eyes and, without
slowing down, he lunged at me. The hole where I had
nailed him was still smoking from the blast.
    "Fairly... tough?" he snarled, as if the modifier
was the worst insult I could have hurled. His hands
were around my throat.
    I tried to bring the phaser around but he released
one of his hands briefly enough to knock the phaser
away, sending it clattering into a far corner of the
room. He straddled me, choking me, and Kat tried to
throw herself against him to knock him off me.
Without even looking away from me, Cray swung his
right fist around and caught Mueller squarely on the
point of her chin. Her eyes rolling up, Katerina sank
to the ground and Mueller returned to the important
business of crushing my larynx.
    My hands were gripping his wrists, pulling as hard
as I could. It didn't seem nearly to be enough. His
powerful fingers, like iron bars, dug deeper and
deeper.
 I rammed the heel of my hand into his nose.
    I felt a satisfying crack beneath my fingers and
knew that I had just busted his nose. He was momen-
tarfly dazed as I shoved him to one side and got to my
feet, facing him.
 He didn't look happy.
    I wanted to finish it quickly and swung a round-
house. No chance. He blocked it as ifI were moving in
slow motion and drove a fist into my gut. I gasped,
doubled over, and he spun and slammed a foot into
my head. I went down, tried to stand and he was
moving so fast that I never even saw the backspin that
sent me crashing to the floor when it connected. I
tried to roll back out of the way, but he was up and
kicking me in the torso, eausing me to tuck my legs up
as if I were assuming the fetal position. He grabbed
me by the scruff of the neck, hauled me to my feet,
spun me around and slammed me face first into the
wall. The impact expelled air from me, winded me.
He released me for a moment, much to my surprise,
and I stood there and wavered as I tried to mount a
defense. No chance again. Leaping high, he spun in
midair for the purpose of crushing the front of my
face with his feet. Fortunately enough I managed to
block it partly, but that wasn't enough to save me
from the full impact. Someone dropped an anvil on
my skull as I collapsed again under the superior hand-
and-footwork of Cray. I was getting knocked about so
badly that my thoughts were completely tattered. We
shouM hire this guy, he's good, I mused. That's how
bad a shape I was in.
    Cray reached down, snagged my shirtfront in his
huge hands, and hauled me to my feet with the very
likely purpose of finishing me off. I had been right.
Right straight down the line. Why, dammit, why did I
have to be right all the time? "Die," he growled.
    I grabbed one of his antennae atop his head, got a
firm grip, and pulled as hard as I could. Cray hadn't
realized what I was doing until I actually did it. There
was a nauseating ripping sound and antennae sud-
denly tore free of his head and came up, truncated
and bloody, in my hand.
    Cray was beyond agony. He screamed as loudly as
I've ever heard a sentient being scream. He dropped
to one knee, clutching at his head, blood pouring out
and staining his head of white hair. I leaned against a
wall, gasping, observing Cray's discomfort.
 "You... bastard!" he managed to get out.
    "You're still an idiot," I replied, and I hit him as
hard as I could.
    I knew instantly that something had broken, al-
though whether it was his jaw or my fist was a bit hard
to tell. He went down, his eyes rolling up and back,
and then he keeled over and thudded to the floor.
    I immediately went over to Katerina and shook her
gently. Her head lolled a bit, but slowly her eyes
opened. "Are you okay?" I asked.
 "Oh.., fine," she managed to get out.
    "I need you to beam me down to the planet. Do you
remember the coordinates that Hash gave you?"
    She grinned lopsidedly and tweaked my cheek.
"You're cute," she informed me.
    "That's a relief to hear. Get up, Katerina. Can you
get up?"
 "Why? Is it time for school?"
    I realized that the process of bringing her out of it
was going to take slightly longer than I had antici-
pated.

THE SENTENCE

PERHAPS MATTERS MIGHT have been a bit more difficult
for Captain Kenyon if Kradius had at least looked
repentant. Or, for that matter, had even looked re-
motely like someone sympathetic.
 It didn't help that Kradius had horns.
    In point of fact, he looked almost demonic. Kradius
was huge, over six feet, and about as wide as a
shuttlecraft. He had a huge head of hair that bore a
resemblance to the mane of a lion, an impossibly huge
brow, and small horns situated just above the hair-
line. His eyes were dark red, and there was a thin
covering of what appeared to be fur on him.
He was surveying his captors with open contempt.
The Carvargna board of inquiry and trial sat in a
row of chairs, regarding Kradius with what appeared
to be equal amounts of boredom and disdain. To say
that they were in a room might be to overstate it.
They were in the burned-out remains of what once
had been the central government site of the Dufaux.
Now it was smoking ruins, the ceiling gone and the
night sky glittering. There was a faint chill wind
cutting through, but nobody seemed to be paying
much attention.
    There were no other Dufaux there aside from
Kradius. All of the government officials had either
died in the assault or were in a holding facility
awaiting their own "trial"... much too generous a
word, really. Kradius's accusers were arrayed before
him, and most prominent among them was Captain
Kenyon.
    He sat in the middle of the line of judges. He stared
at Kradius, his eyes half-lidded, hiding whatever
thoughts were going through his mind. Hatred seeped
from him like a toxic waste. Barhba was next to him.
And Barhba...
    Barhba seemed tired of it all. It was as if the
immensity of their activities, the full weight of the
slaughter that they had perpetrated, was starting to
weigh upon him. The novelty, such as it was, had
worn off. The Dufaux were no threat anymore, and
the sooner that this business was ended, the sooner
Barhba would be able to return home and put all of
this behind him.
    Except it was unlikely that he would. Far more
likely was that he would lie awake at night, imagining
the screams of terror of the Dufaux people as death
hammered down on them from on high. He would
probably think about his finger on the trigger, his
involvement in the eradication of the Dufaux. He
would begin to wonder if, indeed, there hadn't been
some other way possible. A chorus of imaginary
shrieks of despair and death rattles would be the
serenade that would sing him to sleep at night and the
alarm that roused him in the morning. No, Barhba
did not have an enviable life ahead of him.
    Kenyon, on the other hand, did not look tired at all.
He was completely focused on Kradius. Kradius did
not appear to notice him. Either that or he held him
in such contempt that he simply didn't bother to
acknowledge his presence.
    Doc Villers was standing directly behind Kenyon,
and there were two security men, Meyer and Boya-
jian, directly behind her. The guards were armed, and
even Kenyon had a phaser on his belt.
    Kenyon had no greater supporter aboard the ship
than the irascible Doc Villers, but even she seemed a
bit daunted by the proceedings. She kept looking at
Kenyon as if she were trying to urge him, mentally, to
give up his seat on the tribunal and return to the stars.
For in truth, he had no business here. Not really.
 Yet here he was.
    "Kradius," Barhba said, sounding fatigued, "this
board has found you guilty of crimes against sentient
beings of this sector. You have remained silent during
your trial, offering no defense. Would you speak
now?"
    His gaze swiveled toward Barhba and he appeared
to be aware of the Carvargna, as well as the Carvarg-
na's allies, for the first time. When he spoke his voice
was surprisingly low. "Why?"
    "Why?" The question seemed to puzzle Barhba.
"In order... to have your side heard. To explain
yourselL"
    "To you?" Kradius dripped contempt. "I do not
acknowledge that you have power over me."
    "Whether you acknowledge it or not, your life is in
the hands of this board."
    He snorted derisively. "My life is in the hands of
our god. He does with it as he sees fit. You are simply
the instruments of his will."

    This pronouncement appeared to intrigue Kenyon.
He leaned forward, his fingers interlaced. "You have a
god?" he asked in clear amazement. "You believe in
something greater than yourselves?"
    "Greater than ourselves. Greater than you," Kra-
dius replied. "We are his chosen. You... are noth-
ing."
    "Oh. We are nothing. I see." Kenyon rose from his
seat at that point and slowly started to approach
Kradius. The huge Dufaux posed no threat, his hands
bound in front of him. "Is that how you see it, then? Is
that how you justify your actions?"
    "We do not need to justify anything," said Kradius.
"We do what we will. If you do not like it, that is your
problem."
    "Ohhhh no," Kenyon said, shaking his head. "It's
your problem. It is entirely your problem now, sir."
    "Captain." It was Villers who had spoken. She was
looking increasingly uncomfortable with everything
that was happening. "Captain, please... perhaps it
would be best to..."
    "Quiet, Doctor," Kenyon said, cutting her off.
There was a demented gleam in his eye, as if he were
running a fever. "I want to hear about this bastard's
religion. I want to hear what he has to say for himself.
To hear him spout about his superiority while he is
standing here in chains awaiting his punishment."
    Kradius was looking Kenyon up and down, and
then comprehension appeared to dawn on his face. "I
thought you looked familiar to me," he said at last.
"The Federation ambassador... he was related to
you in some way, wasn't he."
    "He was my brother." Kenyon fairly shook with
anger. "And the girl was my daughter. They were the
last of my family, and you killed them. You did that.
I'm now alone in the galaxy. You did that, too."
 "Norman..." Villers started again.
  "Shut up, Doctor."
    This was the second time Kenyon had rebuked the
doctor. Meyer and Boyajian glanced at each other,
looking a bit nervous. The relationship between Ken-
yon and Villers was well known as one of total respect
and genuine admiration. For Kenyon to have cut
Villers off at the knees in that way... it indicated
that something was truly very, very wrong.
    But Barhba spoke up at that point. "This is ac-
complishing nothing, honored Kenyon. We see no
reason to continue with it. Kradius, it is the decision
of this board that you be executed. Said execution,
in the interests of mercy, will be performed in as
timely and painless a manner as can readily be
devised."
    "You are alone in the galaxy?" Kradius was ad-
dressing Kenyon as if the others hadn't spoken. "You?
I had three mates, human. Three. Nineteen children.
They are all dead now. Dead, thanks to the barrage
from you and your associates. Do not speak of being
alone to me, human. You cannot even begin to grasp
the definition."
 "You brought it on yourself. You killed..."
 "I killed trespassers."
    "You killed representatives of the Federation that
you yourselves gave permission to come to your
world!"
    He shook his head violently. "I refused permission.
It was subsequently granted by a lieutenant of mine
who had no respect for my wishes in the matter. Who
felt that the attitudes of my government were too
extreme. He desired that I speak at length with those
whose opinions were different from mine. The mo-
ment I discovered his schemes, I had him executed. I
gave the Federation representatives the opportunity
to leave unmolested. They insisted on trying to speak
with me." He had been speaking in an almost convet-
sational voice, but now his tone became louder. "I
refused them. They insisted and insisted. Imagine the
disrespect, to ignore my wishes in that matter. I am
Kradius. I am Kradius," and he sounded indignant
over the mere thought of how he had been "treated"
at the hands of those he had killed. "They were
overconfident. They were certain that I would desire
to listen to them. Warning after warning I gave them,
and still they would not leave. They desired to talk
when I had no interest in doing so. I had no choice in
the matter. To treat me with disrespect, before my
advisers, before all of the Dufaux, by not honoring my
wishes. They had to die for that offense."
    "You butcher," Kenyon snarled. "You goddamn
butcher."
    "They had their opportunities to survive. They had
their chances and chose not to take them," Kradius
replied. "Those were offered to them by me. What
chances did you offer my mate and children, eh?" He
looked at all of them then, not just Kenyon. "What
chance did you offer? My understanding--from what
I hear your soldiers tell--is that I put up a consider-
able fight when they came for me. The truth is that
when your soldiers arrived, I was sitting in the ruins
of my house cradling the body of my newborn son. I
said nothing to them, did not lift a hand against them.
That is the tale of the mighty Kradius at bay... but
it's not remotely as interesting, is it. So it has to be
built up, exaggerated."
    "Your crimes are no exaggeration. Your brutality is
documented," Kenyon told him.
    "I do not care for your opinion of me, human.
Perhaps you'd be well advised to save it for those who
do."
    "Honored Kenyon," Barhba addressed him. He
rose from his chair and took a couple of steps in
Kenyon's direction. "The anger you bear this man is
quite clear. We," and he indicated himself and the
council, "feel it right and just that you handle his
execution. He has committed crimes against us, of
course, but yours are the most personal and therefore
it is the most appropriate that the requirement of
blood be settled by you and only by you. His life...
will be in your hands."
     "Thank you," said Kenyon, bowing slightly. He
turned to Meyer and Boyajian. "Gentlemen."
  "Yes, sir?" said Meyer.
  "Line up, please."
    They did as they were told, still clearly a bit
puzzled. But Villers was ahead of them and Kenyon.
"Norm," she said urgently, "don't do this. This is
crossing a line."
    He ignored her. Instead he stepped in close to
Kradius and grabbed him by the elbow. With a force
that was surprising in the older man, he shoved
Kradius back against a wall, or at least what remained
of a wall. Carvargna and other allies who were observ-
ing made sure to clear away. Kenyon stepped back,
leaving Kradius standing there by himself. His huge
fists were clenched.
  "Norm!" She was becoming more insistent.
    "Not now, Doctor. Security team... weapons
up."
    The reality of what they were being faced with
slowly began to dawn on Meyer and Boyajian. Acting
automatically, they removed their weapons from their
belts and gripped them firmly, but there was nothing
but uncertainty and even confusion on their faces, as
if they were in the middle of a truly demented
nightmare.
  "Ready..." began Kenyon. "Aim..."
    They didWt aim. They just stood there, holding
their weapons but down and at the side. Meyer, who
had been all for attending to the captain's wishes back
 in the transporter room, seemed racked with indeci-
 sion. "Captain... this is..."
"Problem, Mr. Meyer?" Kenyon asked icily.
"Captain... we're security guards," Boyajian now
spoke up. "We're not... we're not executioners.
We're not acting on behalf of the Federation here. We
don't even have a death penalty in the UFP .... "
    "Yes, but we're not on one of the United Federation
of Planets members now, are we," Kenyon said with
forced calm. "We're on a world where brutal deaths
are apparently part of the standard policy. The death
that has been ordered for this... person... is far
more merciful than what he dealt out to the two UFP
representatives who were here weeks ago. Now do as
you're ordered. Weapons up."
    They looked at each other, as if trying to decide
what to do.
    "My God," Villers said in low astonishment, "Cal-
houn was right. How could I not have..."
    "This is not a noninterference question, gentlemen.
This thing has been condemned to die!"
    "They said it was in your hands, Norman," Villers
spoke up. She turned to Barhba. "Does that mean
that... that if he doesn't..."
    "If the honored Kenyon shows mercy, I do not see
how we could do less," Barhba said. He looked to the
others, who nodded in agreement.
    "There will be no showing of any such thing. Now
I'm not going to order you again!" Kenyon said, his
ire mounting. He walked right up to Meyer and
Boyajian. Kradius observed the entire scene with cool
amusement.
     "That... is fortunate, sir," Meyer said. "Because
I've never disobeyed a direct order before. And I..."
  "Typical," Kradius said.
 "You shut up," Kenyon said sharply.
 For someone whose death was being debated, Kra-
dius seemed remarkably detached from the whole
thing. "So typical. Your own soldiers cannot carry out
a simple execution."
 "I'm warning you..."
    "Would you like to know the real reason that we
were not interested in becoming involved with your
Federation?" Kradius asked. "It's because we sensed
your weakness. Your whining brother came across as
an effete, petulant snob rather than someone who
should be attended to. His death was inevitable the
moment he set foot on our world. He didn't have the
strength of character to survive."
    Kenyon started to turn a distinct shade of purple.
"You... heartless bastard," he snarled. "Not enough
that you killed him... killed my child... now you
say these things..."
    "You Starfleet men are seekers of truth, are you
not?" said Kradius. "Here is the truth for you, then. I
handled his execution myselfi I did. He seemed so
weak, so insufferable, that I wanted to see how much
he could take. To see how much pain he could endure
before he cried like a child, begged for his life. It took
almost no time at all. Then I continued to beat him so
that I could see how long it would take him to realize
that begging would do no good. That took a much
longer time. Actually... he never stopped begging.
Right until the end. He died with whimpering and
pleading on his lips, or what was left of his lips."
  'Tll... kill you..." whispered Kenyon.
    "Yes, by all means, do so," sneered Kradius. "For
all your posturing, prove to me at the last that you're
no different. Would you like to hear of your daughter's
death as well? She had more bravery, I will grant her
that. She only begged at the end... and I believe she
called for you repeatedly, although you of course
didn't come .... "
  Kenyon snapped. His own phaser forgotten, he
grabbed instead the first weapon that he saw, which
was Meyer's phaser. He snatched it right out of the
hands of the startled security officer, took several
steps forward, and brought it to bear on Kradius,
ready to shoot him down on the spot.
  And that was when I stepped forward.
    I had been able to secret myself easily enough in the
crowd of onlookers. It wasn't as if Kenyon was
particularly looking for me at that point. Mueller had
recovered enough to beam me down, and I had stayed
out of sight during the entire confrontation, hoping
and praying that Kenyon would do the right thing on
his own. But that, it was becoming clear, was not
going to be the case.
    I was holding the phaser that I had taken off Cray,
and now it was leveled directly at Captain Kenyon.
There I was, first officer of the Grissom, with my
commanding officer at gunpoint. As I said to you
before... if one is going to go down, best to go down
in flames.
    Amazingly, Kenyon didn't seem surprised to see
me. "Hello, Calhoun," he said as if I'd happened to
wander in during a family picnic.
      This didn't seem the time for niceties. "Put the
phaser down, Captain."  "You first."
  "I can't do that."
  "Well, then we have a problem, don't we."
    His phaser didn't waver from being pointed at
Kradius.
    "Meyer, Boyajian... back away from him. Doc-
tor, you too. This is between the captain and me."
    I was pleased to see that they didn't dispute or
debate me. They did precisely as IiI, ordered. It was
entirely possible that it was the last order I was ever
going to wind up giving. At least it had been obeyed.
 What I found most significant about the moment
was that Kenyon hadn't fired yet. In point of fact,
there was nothing stopping him. I wasn't in the way,
and even if I fired upon him after he squeezed the
trigger, there was nothing I could do about his killing
Kradius. I couldn't knock Kradius out of the way, and
I certainly couldn't move faster than the beam of light
that was the primary discharge of a phaser. But if
Kenyon hadn't fired yet... then it was entirely possi-
ble that something deep within him was stopping
him. Perhaps he wanted me to talk him out of it
somehow.
    "Between you and me?" Kenyon asked with faint
amusement, echoing my words. "Calhoun... there's
nothing between you and me. It's all me," and he
gestured with the phaser, "and him. That... thing
who killed my--"
    "I know what he did, Captain. And believe it or
not--and I know it's not going to feel like much
consolation at the moment--but I know what you're
feeling. But I cannot let you do this thing. There has
to be a point at which this ends."
    "Yes. That point is his death," and he indicated
Kradius.
    "No, sir. Enough has already happened. Enough is
enough. Don't you see? If you turn away from this
now... turn away from the vengeance that's present-
ing itself to you... there's still a chance for you. Still
a chance to--"
      "A chance? You mean like the chance he gave my
baby... my Stephie..."  "Captain..."
    "This tribunal has condemned him to death. I'm
simply carrying out their will .... "
    "This tribunal wouldn't be here if it weren't for
you, Captain! You set this entire thing into motion!
You made it possible! All of it, possible!" I kept my
phaser leveled on him. "My God, Captain, think of all
 the people who have died thus far! Died because of
 the guiding hand provided by the Grissom! It has to
 end, sir!"
  "It does. It ends with him."
    "If that's the will of these people, then let them
attend to it. But not you. You're not one of them.
You're separate from them, you're..."
    When Kenyon spoke, it was as if from very far
away. "You can't stop me, Mac," he said. "Whether
you approve or not... whether it costs me my com-
mand or not... I am going to do this thing. I... I
can hear them .... "
    And before my eyes, before the eyes of everyone,
Kenyon came completely unraveled. It was the man
whom I had seen losing control of himself in the ready
room, but this was worse, far worse. He lost it
completely, tears pouring down his face. Kradius
sneered in contempt at the sight, and I could only be
grateful that Kenyon was so much in a world of his
own at that point. For if he had seen Kradius's
expression at that moment, nothing in the universe
would have been able to prevent him from blowing off
the Dufaux's head.
    "I can hear my brother... my... my little
gift... begging me for help, I can hear them in my
head... begging me, cursing me because I let them
down... I can't live with that, Mac .... "His voice
was going in and out, louder and softer, a bizarre
mixture of laughing and crying.
    "Captain," I said desperately, "I'm trying to save a
fine officer... a fine and distinguished career .... "
    I knew I was losing him then. Because I saw his
finger starting to tighten on the firing control. "If you
want to stop me... you're going to have to kill
me .... "
    All the options raced through my mind at that
moment.
    I could try to shoot to stun or wound. But that
might not stop Kenyon in the state of mind that he
was in. He might still manage to get a shot off and kill
Kradius.
    The problem was that I was a practical man. Always
had been. And I knew at that point that there was
really only one possibility open. Kradius had to die.
    Kenyon was too far gone. Weeks of imagining his
daughter's and brother's awful deaths had completely
unhinged him. The voices were in his head, voices
crying for vengeance that I knew only too well. I had
lived with them all my life, and would continue to do
so. But Kenyon, he was too new at this, too good a
soul to have to tolerate it.
    The harsh but inescapable reality of the situation
was that, as long as Kradius was alive, Kenyon could
never heal. Never be the man that he was. It was
possible that it was too late for that anyway ....
  Possible... but not impossible.
    I had pledged to watch out for the captain. To
support him. He was going to have enough difficulties
defending his actions up until that point. Cold-
blooded murder would be damned near impossible. It
was possibly the difference between being asked to
retire after a distinguished career and being brought
up on charges, being forced out in disgrace.
    There was already so much blood on my hands, so
much blackening of my soul... what was one more
death, really, laid at my doorstep? And if they tried
and convicted me, court-martialed me and stuck me
in a prison camp somewhere, well... so what? Small
loss in the grand scheme of things. Just another
commander with only a semi-promising future at
best. That couldn't even begin to compare to what
Kenyon would be giving up.
  The answer was obvious, really.
    Understand... I didn't really give a damn about
Kradius. I had killed far less worse than him, with far
less provocation. It was what he represented in terms
of Kenyon's own life and career that concerned me.
    If Kradius's life ended... then Kenyon's at least
had a prayer of continuing in something vaguely
resembling its previous form. If Kenyon were the one
who killed him, that was pretty much it for Kenyon. It
was going to be bad enough as it was; Starfleet would
roast him alive if he took that final step. Plus, I was
convinced that Kenyon was in the throes of a tempo-
rary insanity, driven there by the trauma of losing
those who were so beloved to him. If and when that
madness passed, everything that he had done would
come crashing down on him. I desperately wanted to
avoid homicide being added to the list.
    If Kradius lived, however, then the drive for venge-
ance would continue to eat away at Kenyon. I knew
from personal experience what that was like.  
That left only one option.
    I didn't know what to do. I was completely torn,
and the savage within whispered, Just do it. Get it
done.
    Before I had given it rational thought, before I was
completely resolved, I had already swung my phaser
in the direction of Kradius. All it would take was a
quick squeeze and the problems would be over.
     And as fiercely as the savage had called to me, the
would-be civilized officer within me begged me not to.
  I hesitated for a split instant...
    ú.. and then I aimed at Kradius and blew his head
off.
    Because at the last second, the moment of indeci-
sion before I knew absolutely what I was going to do,
that was when I had seen the phaser in Kradius's
hand. Even though Kradius's hands were shackled,
somehow he was holding a phaser in them. As his
headless body started to tumble forward, I glanced at
the only source I could think of and saw that I was
right. The phaser was gone from the captain's belt.
When Kenyon had pushed him up against the wall, he
had been so irate that he hadn't noticed Kradius
palming his phaser.
    And Kradius had chosen now, this very moment,
when Kenyon and I seemed totally distracted by, and
wrapped up in, each other, to try and take a shot
directly at Kenyonú His arms were already half raised
in Kenyon's general direction when my phaser blast
had drilled right through his face and splattered his
brains on the back wall. The phaser slipped from his
nerveless hands and Kradius, or what was left of him,
pitched forward and hit the ground with such impact
that the floor shook beneath our feet.
    "My... God..." Villers said in amazement. She
looked at me with something that I had never thought
I would see in her face: admiration. "You're the
fastest shot I've ever seen. You're lightning! I didn't
even see the phaser until just now. You saved the
captain's life."
    I couldn't believe it. I absolutely couldn't believe it.
They had thought that I was acting to prevent Kradius
from shooting Kenyon, when in point of fact I had
been totally unaware that Kradius posed any sort of
threat until the very last instant. I was "lightning"
only because I was already in motion before I knew
Kradius posed a threat.
    I said the only thing I could, given the circum-
stances:
  "Thanks."
    Kenyon hadn't moved from his position. He still
had the phaser leveled at Kradius, or at least where
Kradius had been. His eyes were wide, his brow still
covered with sweat.
  "Captain... it's over," I said gently. I took a step
towards him. "Kradius is dead. it's done. So just lower
the phaser now and we can all go home .... "
    And Kenyon turned to look at me with a more
haunted expression than I had ever seen in any
man... including myself.
    "You didn't understand me, Mac. I said I couldn't
live with their voices in my head. Killing Kradius
would balance the scales... but it wouldn't stop the
voices. ~ ~ only one thing can do that .... "
 I saw it coming an instant before it happened.
    Kenyon reversed the phaser, aimed it at himself,
and fired.

THE HEARING

I STOOD BEFORE the Starfleet tribunal on Earth and
offered no defense whatsoever. I refused to have
defense counsel. I refused to utter a word as to why I
had done anything that I had done, because t felt that
my actions should speak for themselves. The main
reason that I did so was that I felt like a total and
complete failure.
 I was exonerated anyway.
    Officer after officer came before the tribunal and
testified as to my bravery, to my diligence. Mueller
called me the greatest officer she had ever known.
Villers blamed herself for not flagging the problem
earlier, blinded by loyalty. Takahashi admitted his
culpability in the Grissom mutiny and wound up
getting a commendation, as did Mueller. Cray was
tossed into a Starfleet prison camp for a sentence of
five years for attempted murder and falsifying Star-
fleet orders.
  And I was hailed as a hero.
    When the verdict came down, I sat before the
tribunal, disbelieving. Dead center, beaming, looking
proud as anything, was Admiral Jellico. Jellico, whose
life I had once saved and who was one of my biggest
boosters as a result. There in the council room, with
the crewmen who had testified on my behalf present,
Jellico read the unanimous decision of the tribunal. I
had acted in a manner in accordance with Starfleet
regulations, and was not to be blamed for any aspect
of the unfortunate behavior which had resulted in the
mutiny and Kenyon's unfortunate demise. They even
held up my shooting Kradius as an example of exem-
plary behavior.
    I sat there, stunned. I simply couldn't believe it. I
had failed, failed in every way possible. My sworn
duty was to protect Kenyon. I had failed. I might have
averted the entire thing if only I'd been firmer, if I'd
stepped in when there was still the opportunity. I had
refused to do so. And I had been that close to shooting
a man dead in cold blood... probably would have,
given another second... but it hadn't looked that
way to anyone who had been present.
  They thought me a hero.
  I was a fraud.
    I heard them speaking of captaincy, of advance-
ment. Of being a shining example of everything that
Starfleet stood for. All I wanted to do was vomit.
    I rose from behind the table where I was seated and
approached the tribunal. They were smiling, clearly
figuring that I would be pleased over their decision.
Without a word, I removed my combadge and placed
it on the table in front of them.
 "I quit," I told them.
    "What?" Jellico actually laughed, as if he thought I
was joking.
    "I quit. I resign my commission. I'm out," I said. I
turned away and started to leave.
    Jellico was around the table inside of a second, and
he grabbed me by the arm, sputtering. "Command-
er... we know this has been a great stress on you. If
you give it some time, however, we're sure you'll
see...
    "You know this has been a great stress? Admiral,
believe me when I tell you: You know nothing.
Nothing." Inside I was furious, furious with myself,
and I took it all out on Jellico. "What you don't know
could fill volumes. I resign. I quit. I'm out. You are no
longer a superior officer; you're just a man holding my
arm. Let go."
    Anger started to darken Jellico's face. "Don't talk
to me that way, Calhoun. I went to bat for you. You
owe me. Now sit down and we'll discuss this in a--"
    "Let go of me," I told him, "or I will knock you
down."
    "Calhoun..." he started to say, and he pulled on
my arm again.
    I never heard the rest of what he was going to say.
I'm sure it would have been very interesting. It might
even have made a major difference in my life.
    My fist swung around and caught him squarely in
the side of the head. Jellico went down, landing hard
on his rump and staring up at me in open astonish-
ment. The other two admirals were on their feet. If I
had suddenly ripped off my head to reveal I was a
Regulan blood worm in a man suit, they couldn't have
looked more surprised.
  "I warned you," I said.
    I didn't even look back over my shoulder as I heard
Jellico raging, "You're finished, Calhoun! You hear?
You're finished in Starfleet! Finished!"
    Considering that I had just resigned, that wasn't a
threat I was particularly concerned about.
    I went back to my apartment to clear out my stuff.
What I could carry I simply shoved into a suitcase
that would be easy to travel with. What I couldn't
carry... furniture and such... I was going to leave
behind.
  There was a chime at my door. "Go away," I called.
  "Mac," came a familiar voice.
    I sighed, knowing that standing there and arguing
wasn't going to do any good where she was concerned.
"Come," I said.
  Katerina Mueller entered. And stood there.
  "So?" I said.
    I was curious as to how well she truly knew me.
Whether she would bother to try and argue. Whether
she would give me grief, or tell me how I was throwing
away my career, or besiege me with any number of
unasked-for and unwanted reasons why I was being
an idiot.
 For a long moment, no words were spoken.
 And then she said simply, "One for the road?"
    I smiled and accommodated her. It seemed only
polite.

THE END

I LEFT EARTU shortly thereafter and began to wander.
After about a year, I was found by one Admiral
Alynna Nechayev, who had her own plans and inter-
ests for me. I cooperated with her for a time, doing
things that were of interest to me and of service to her
because it seemed an equitable arrangement. And one
thing led to another, and I eventually found myself as
a captain once more in Starfleet. Becoming involved
in Starfleet, serving on a starship... I wasn't particu-
larly anxious to embrace the concept. I'd done it
before, and as the old saying goes, once burned, twice
shy. Then again, it wasn't such a terrible thing, I
suppose, going back. If nothing else, it allowed me to
be here at the Captain's Table.
    When I took command of the Excalibur, I wound
up bringing some associates with me. Lieutenants
Hash and Gold work the nightside on the Excalibur.
Katerina Mueller is likewise along, serving as ship's
XO as she did so capably for the Grissom. It's an odd
situation, really, since my first officer and former
fianc6e, Elizabeth Shelby, doesn't know about how
closely Mueller and I served together beforeú She
probably wouldn't care if she did... but then again,
on the other hand, it's probably better that she not
know.
  And then there's Captain Kenyon.
    Right there. Seated right there, on the other side of
the Captain's Table, obviously having wandered in
from an earlier time in his life. He has no idea what's
to come, and thanks to the rules of this place...
I can't warn him. Can't let him know what's to
come.
    I still have his cornbadge, tinted with blood. It's
right here, in fact. I keep it with me to remind
me...
 ú.. to remind me of...
 . .. to hell with it.
 Here.
    Here, you take it. Let me pin it on you... there.
There. It actually looks rather good on you.
    I've never spoken of this to anyone. Not in all the
detail. No one truly knows all the aspects of it, not
even Mueller. I suppose that I was holding on to the
badge... until I found someone that I could trust
with the story. So I've trusted you now. You have the
cornbadge, you have the story. I've opened my-
self up to someone, as I promised Cap I would. I
chose you. Do with the story, and the badge, as you
will.
    As for me... I was just trying to meet my obliga-
tions as best as I was able to. Which, in the final
analysis... is all any of us can do.
 Nice talking to you.

    Captain Mackenzie Calhoun stood up, ignoring the
Gecko that scurried quickly from under his chair, and
looked once more in a forlorn manner across the bar.
Then he turned away from Captain Kenyon and
started to head for the door.
    Cap, the bartender, intercepted him halfway out.
He looked at Calhoun with a slightly scolding air.
"You cheated, Mac," he said.
    "Cheated? You said I owed a story. I did exactly as
you said. I sat down at a table and told my story to
another captain."
    "The purpose is for you to share aspects of yourself,
Mac. To open up, to air things out. You, of all
people--the most tightly wrapped, the one who is
mostly likely to internalize everything and keep it to
yourself--you, most of all, could have used that
release. Instead you dodged it."
    "I told the story. And I figured if anyone could
appreciate a story about a disaster, he could."
    "Yes, but you know damned well he didn't hear a
word you said."
 Calhoun shrugged.
    Cap tried to look gravely at him and ream him out
some more, but ultimately he wasn't able to. Instead
he laughed. "You know... you remind me of an
arrogant, disheveled kid who came in here thinking
he was smarter and better than everyone else."
 "Yeah. Whatever happened to him?"
 "He was in here just yesterday."
 "Really?" Calhoun smiledú "Seems like ages."
    He clapped Cap on the back and headed toward the
door.
    And behind him, at the table he had just left, a man
continued to sit there. A man with a white beard and
an old-style naval uniform, circa early 1900s. A man
who just sat there as he had for so long, and would
continue to do, shaking his head and murmuring over
and over, "Damned iceberg. Goddamned iceberg."
    And on his chest, hidden among various medals
and service ribbons he'd received, a blood-tinged
Starfleet communication badge sat unobtrusively and
glinted faintly in the subdued lighting of the Captain's
Table.

    Evening painted the sky orange, and a chill wind
off the bay made Christopher Pike shiver as he walked
along San Francisco's waterfront. Red and yellow
leaves swirled in the air and danced around the other
pedestrians on the street. Coming toward him, a
young couple struggled to keep control of both their
hovercart full of baggage and their exuberant four- or
five-year-old son, who called out happily as he passed,
"We're going to Affa Centauri!"
    "That's nice," said Pike, who had often traveled to
Alpha Centauri and beyond. During his ten years as
captain of the Enterprise he had gone many places
indeed, most of them far more distant--and far more
exotic--than Sol's nearest neighbor.
    History moves in cycles, he thought as the family
swept past. The street on which he walked had once
been named the Embarcadero because it ran along the
wharves, and it was from the wharves that people
embarked on sailing ships in their travels around the
world. When the age of ships had given way to the age
of the airplane, the street had become a commercial
center, full of warehouses at one end and tourist shops
at the other, but nobody had set out on long journeys
from there. Then had come space travel and the need
for a good place to launch and land passenger ships.
The airport was already too busy, and acreage else-
where was at a premium for living space, so the
fledgling industry had turned to the last open space
near the sprawling city: the Bay. Now, four centuries
after the Embarcadero's genesis, the same street was
once again busy with travelers. They were boarding
shuttles to take them into orbit rather than wooden
ships that plied the ocean, but the spectacle of fami-
lies struggling with overpacked bags looked the same
no matter where they were headed.
    Pike wished them all well, but he was glad to be on
solid ground again. He'd done his time in space, and
now he was putting that experience to use as fleet
captain, assigned to Starfleet Headquarters right here
on good old Mother Earth. He had the best of both
worlds: an adventurous past and a position of respon-
sibility on his own home planet.
 So why did he feel so unfulfilled?
    He'd been telling himself for the last year or so that
he was just growing restless. It had been five years
since he'd brought the Enterprise back home for
refitting and renovation. He'd originally thought he
would resume the conn when the ship was ready to fly
again, but it had taken two years to replace all the
worn and outdated machinery on board and to in-
crease the crew complement from 203 to 430, and by
then Starfleet had already promoted him out of the
job and given it to James Kirk. Pike didn't begrudge
him the post; Kirk was a good officer, if a bit impul-
sive. He would do well if he didn't get himself killed
in some defiant act of bravado. And Pike had come to
enjoy his new position, but he had to admit he
sometimes missed the thrill of facing the unknown.
    Not very often, though. That thrill usually came
hand in hand with mortal danger, and even when Pike
survived it, other members of his crew often didn't.
He had lost more friends than he cared to count
during his decade on the Enterprise, and he had no
desire to experience that again. Maybe some captains
could go on after a crew fatality without blaming
themselves, but he had never been able to. Every time
it happened he went through days of anguish and self-
recrimination. And every time he took the ship into
danger again he worried that his actions would lead to
more deaths.
  No, he didn't envy Kirk the job.
    Another gust of wind bit through his light topcoat.
He had underdressed for the weather. Mark Twain
had often said that the coldest winter he ever spent
was a summer in San Francisco--well, he should have
tried it in autumn. The western horizon was clear
enough to allow a sunset, but the sky directly over-
head threatened rain and the air was humid enough
that it felt like mist already. Pike looked at the
buildings along the waterfront, seeking a store he
could duck into to warm up for a moment, and his
eyes came upon a sign he hadn't seen before.
    It was an old-style wooden sign, with letters carved
deep into planks held together with black iron bands.
It projected out over a windowless doorway and
swung gently in the wind, its iron chain squeaking
softly. The orange light of sunset made the words THE
CAPTAIn'S TABLE stand out in bold relief on its rough
surface.
    Something about the place seemed inviting, yet
Pike hesitated before the door. He couldn't very well
just duck into a bar for a minute. He would have to
order something, and it was a bit early in the evening
to start drinking. That wasn't what he had come down
here for anyway. He had merely wanted to get some
exercise and some fresh air.
    On the other hand, he didn't have any place special
he had to be.
    The first few drops of rain on his face decided him.
He was willing to put up with cold, but cold and wet
wasn't part of the plan. He reached for the wrought-
iron handle on the solid door and tugged it open,
noting a faint tingling sensation as he touched it. A
security field of some sort? Or... a transporter? He
turned and looked behind him. The Embarcadero was
still there. Not a transport beam, then. It sure had felt
like it, though.
"Close the door!" someone shouted from inside.
Pike nearly let it swing back into place without
entering, but the rain was picking up so he ducked in
and pulled the massive wooden slab closed behind
him.
    He couldn't tell who had spoken. Everyone in the
bar was looking at him. There were a dozen or so
people, mostly human, seated in twos and threes at
tables between him and the bar itself, where a Klingon
woman held down a stool and a tall, heavyset man
stood on the other side, polishing a beer glass. The
glasses were either very small, Pike thought, or the
bartender had huge hands to go with the rest of his
bulky frame.
    Fortunately he also wore a smile to match. "Don't
pay no mind to Jolley, there," he said. "That's just his
way of saying 'Hello.'"
    Pike nodded. He wouldn't. All his attention was on
the Klingon woman. Not because of the unusual bony
ridges on her forehead, nor her exotic face with wide,
full lips and an enigmatic grin, nor even the ample
cleavage revealed by her traditional open-chested
battle garb, though Pike found the latter alluring
enough for a second look. What drew his attention
was the fact that she was there at all. The Klingon
Empire and the Federation had been in conflict for
nearly fifty years. All-out war seemed imminent, yet
here sat a Klingon in a bar on the waterfront not a
kilometer from Starfleet Headquarters.
    She had to be a member of a peace delegation.
She had probably snuck away from their hotel to
check out Earth without a chaperone breathing down
her neck. Maybe she thought she could seduce some-
one here in the bar and learn military secrets from
them.
    She had undoubtedly recognized Pike the moment
he walked in. A fleet captain would be well known to
the enemy. Well, Pike would keep his eye on her, too.
One of the other patrons was no doubt a Secret
Service agent assigned to tail her, but it wouldn't hurt
to back him up.
    He looked for a good place to sit. There was a piano
to his immediate left, and a single small table wedged
in next to the piano. A lizardlike alien with slits for
eyes and talon-sharp fingers was sitting at the table,
sipping at a glass full of something red. Pike didn't
look too closely; he just nodded and stepped past,
unbuttoning his jacket.
    Most of the tables were to his left, clustered in a
semicircle around a large stone fireplace that popped
and flared as if it were burning real wood. The ones
nearest the fire were obviously the popular places to
sit. Pike didn't see any vacant tables there as he
approached the bar.
"What'11 you have, Captain?" the bartender asked.
Pike wasn't wearing a uniform, but he assumed the
bartender called everyone "captain," after the name
of the place. He looked to the mirrored shelves on the
back wall to see what kind of stock they kept here, and
was surprised to see several bottles of rare and expen-
sive alien liqueurs in among the more common bour-
bons and gins. He was tempted to ask for Maraltian
Seev-ale just to see if they had it, but he wasn't in the
mood for the green stuff tonight. "Saurian brandy,"
he said instead. He had picked up the taste for that on
the Enterprise, and it was still his favorite drink.
    The bartender poured a snifterful from a curved,
amber-colored bottle. Pike took a sip and smiled as
the volatile spirits warmed their way down, then
turned away to look for a quiet table. He didn't want
to sit at the bar; he would either have to sit right next
to the Klingon woman or close to a scruffy-looking
fisherman who had taken a stool halfway between her
and the wall.
    There was a stairway to the right of the bar and two
tables in an alcove between that stair and the front
door. Neither table was occupied. Pike went over to
the smaller of the two and sat facing the rear of the
bar at an angle, neither turning his back on the others
nor staring at them. He sipped his brandy and exam-
ined the decor while conversations started up again at
the other tables.
    There was plenty to look at. Artifacts from dozens
of worlds hung on the walls. Pike saw drinking mugs
with handles for nonhuman hands, wooden carvings
of unrecognizable creatures, and metallic hardware
that might have been anything from engine parts to
alien sex toys. A Klingon bat'leth stuck out just
overhead, its curved blade buried so deeply into the
wood that Pike doubted anyone could remove it
without a pry bar. A thick layer of dust on it
provided evidence that few people even tried. A
Vulcan harp hanging from a peg next to it apparently
came down more often; there was no dust on it, and
the strings were discolored near the fingerboard from
use.
    That was a good sign. Pike liked music better than
fighting, too.
    The fisherman belched loudly, then said to the
bartender, "Another tankard o' grog." He looked over
at Pike while the bartender refilled his stoneware
mug. Pike looked away--the guy had a drunk and
despondent air about him--but when the fisherman
got his drink he stood up and walked over to Pike's
table anyway.
    "You look like a man who's got a lot on his mind,"
he said as he pulled out a chair and sat down
uninvited. Pike could smell the salt and fish and
seaweed on him.
    "I suppose I might have," Pike admitted, "but I
didn't really come here to talk."
    The fisherman didn't take the hint. He leaned back
in his chair--the wooden frame and leather seat
squeaking under his weight even though he was lightly
built--and said, "What then? To drink yourself into
oblivion? I've tried that. It doesn't work."
    Pike laughed softly. "I came in because it was cold
outside and starting to rain."
    "An admirable reason for a drink," said the fisher-
man. He took a gulp of his grog--Pike could smell the
rum from across the table--and belched again.
    How could he make this guy go away? "Get lost"
would probably do it, but for all Pike knew this was
the bar's owner. Or the Secret Service agent. "I'd
really rather not--" he began, but the fisherman
waved a hand in dismissal.
    "Now me, I drink because my wife and son were
killed on a prison colony."
    His statement hung in the air between them like a
ghost. The short, brutal intensity of those few words
and the deep sadness with which they were spoken left
Pike gasping for breath even as he tried to think of a
response to them.
    "I--I'm sorry to hear that" was all he could
manage.
    "Tortured to death," the man went on. "Right in
front of me. A place called Rura Penthe."
What had Pike gotten himself into now? He looked
up toward the bar, saw the Klingon woman flinch as
she heard the name of the place, but he had no idea
why. It meant nothing to him.
    "They damned near killed me, too," his unwelcome
companion went on. "Forced me to work in the
mines, digging nitrates and phosphates for gunpow-
der while I held the secret that would make their puny
chemicals obsolete overnight! I held it, too. Never
told a soul. Saved the world, I did."
    "I'm sure you must have," Pike said. "But perhaps
you shouldn't be talking about it now, if it's such a
dangerous secret."
    The man laughed, a single, quick exhalation. "Ha!
What do I care now? It's apparently old news. Nuclear
power! Splitting the atom! The most elemental force
of the universe--only two hours ago in this very bar
someone told me it was nothing compared to antimat-
ter annihilation. And that's apparently nothing com-
pared to zero-point energy, whatever that is." He
looked at Pike with eyes red as cooked shrimp. "I held
my tongue for nothing."
    Who was this guy? Talking as if the secret of nuclear
fission was something new. Pike looked at him more
closely. His clothing was rough, coarse cotton and
wool dyed in drab brown and blue, and he wore a red
bandanna around his neck. He had a high forehead
and wide-set eyes, and he sported a two- or three-
week beard that hadn't been trimmed since he'd
started it, but his features underneath it were fair.
And young. His general appearance had made him
look older, but his hair was still coal black and his
skin smooth. He couldn't be much over thirty-five, if
that.
 "Who are you?" Pike asked him.
    "A fool, apparently," he replied. "One who's seen
and suffered more than should be required of any
manJ' He slurped noisily at his grog, then said softly,
"At first I tried to serve humanity, then when I
realized what I had discovered I tried to protect it, but
now I find that I despise humanity and all it stands
for." He looked Pike directly in the eyes and said,
"And a man who despises humanity must needs
despise himself as well. Many's the day I've wondered
if I should put an end to it all."
    Pike heard the sincerity in the man's voice, and his
experience as a ship's captain raised the hackles on
the back of his neck. Just his luck. He'd come out this
evening to dwell on his own problems, and now it
looked like he might have to talk someone out of
suicide.
    "Come now," he said. "Whatever your past, you're
safe now. You're a free man, warm and dry with a
drink in your hand and a roof over your head. Your
future can be whatever you make of it." Especially
with a little psychiatric help, he thought, but he left
that unsaid.
    "Oh, aye, I'm aware of that," said his unwelcome
visitor. "I'm clever enough to make a go of it if I
choose. I have made a go of it, come to that."
 "Oh?" asked Pike. That sounded promising.
    The fisherman took the bait. "Well, sir, not to brag,
but I masterminded an escape from the prison island.
I and twenty men stowed away in empty powder casks
and let the stevedores load us on board a warship. It
was cramped, but no worse than what we suffered in
our barracks at night. And there was no worry of
being mistreated in a powder cask!" He grinned, then
took a drink. "We waited until the ship was at sea,
then rose up in the night and took her. The men
pronounced me 'captain,' and we became pirates of a
sort, preying on our former captors until they brought
in too many ships for us to match. We eventually took
damage too heavy to repair ourselves, so we withdrew
and set sail here for refitting." The glint faded from
his eyes and he shook his head sadly. "It may not be
worth the effort. Even if we return to Rura Penthe, no
amount of battle has yet managed to vanquish the
memory of what I have suffered."
    The man told his story with the air of someone who
believed every word. Yet how could any of it be true?
A prison colony, in the twenty-third century? Mining
nitrates for gunpowder? And transporting it by sailing
ship? This guy was about four hundred years out of
phase with the rest of the world.
    Yet he was so convincing that Captain Pike actually
looked around the bar again for confirmation that he
wasn't somehow in the wrong time. He found it in
abundance: the Klingon woman on her stool, the
Vulcan harp overhead, the Saurian brandy in his
glass. He took a sip of it and savored the tart, smoky
explosion of flavor.
    His gaze fell on the alien by the door. He had seen a
few lizardlike humanoids in his travels, but never one
like that. It was from an entirely new species. And its
kind had to be fairly common for one to be here on
Earth, unescorted, in a hole-in-the-wall bar in San
Francisco. Pike wondered how he had missed hearing
about them before this.
    The fisherman--if that's what he was--noticed
where Pike was looking. He shook himself out of his
reverie and said, "Yes, strange things are about. But
I've seen stranger."
    "Have you now?" Pike asked, interested despite
himself.
    "Aye, that I have. Under the sea. Even a single
fathom below the surface, everything is different."
    "So I've heard," Pike said. He had grown up in
Mojave, and even after he'd moved away he'd never
felt comfortable in the water.
    "So I've seen, "the seaman said. "Manta rays bigger
than sails, fish with lanterns dangling before their
noses so they can see in the black depths, pods of
whales all the way to the horizon, making the sea boil
as they breached and dove."
    Now Pike knew the man was having him on. There
hadn't been a whale on Earth for two centuries.
    Well, if he was just telling tales then Pike had a few
of his own to share. And maybe he could get this guy's
mind off his troubles for a while. "I saw some whales
once," he said. "But these weren't in the ocean."
    His companion considered that a moment. "I've
heard there are lakes in China where--"
  "Not a lake, either. These were in space."
    The man snorted, but when he spoke there was an
air of sophistication that hadn't been there before.
"Sir, you force me to express doubt."
    Pike laughed out loud. "I didn't believe them
myself when I first saw them, but they were real
enough." He took a sip of brandy and settled back in
his chair. "It was back when I was captain of the
Enterprise. We were out in the Carrollia sector, map-
ping subspace anomalies and looking for new sources
of dilithium, when we received a distress call from a
planet called Aronnia. They had a problem with their
interstellar fleet. Seems all their starships had run
away .... "

    To be continued in
Star Trek: The Captain's Table
Book Six: Where Sea Meets Sky
by Jerry Oltion

Captain Mackenzie Calhoun
         by
      David Mack

Captain Mackenzie Calhoun was well known as the
leader of the planetary revolution that freed the
planet Xenex from Danteri control before he entered
Starfleet Academy.
    During Calhoun's tenure in the Academy, he earned
a reputation for being high-energy and quick with his
fists, and for never backing down from any confronta-
tion.
    Calhoun is never afraid to say precisely what's on
his mind; nor does he suffer fools gladly. Although he
understands and appreciates the chain of command,
respect and loyalty are not commodities he gives to
superior o~cers simply because they are of higher
rank. He feels those privileges must be earned.
    Captain Calhoun's given name on his homeworld
of Xenex was M'k'n'zy. When he joined Starfleet he
changed it to Mackenzie, the closest Terran equiva-
lent, and adopted the name of his home city, Cal-
houn, as his surname.
    Calhoun has an older brother, D'ndai, who con-
spired with ThaiIonian Chancellor Yoz to overthrow
the ThaiIonian royal family.

       --from the Star Trek: New Frontier Minipedia