Текст книги "Gods Above"

Автор книги: Peter David

сообщить о нарушении

Текущая страница: 8 (всего у книги 16 страниц)

“Why?” asked Shelby. “Why such interest in being worshipped? It sounds like ...”

“Ego run amok?” suggested Kalinda. “Because I’ve had some small experience with that.” When Si Cwan stared at her in surprise, Kalinda immediately added, “I wasn’t referring to you, Cwan.”

“I should hope not,” he said archly.

Spock continued to stand precisely where he was, but Si Cwan noticed that he had steepled his fingers and appeared quite thoughtful. “Apollo’s interest in worshippers seemed to stem primarily from a sort of nostalgia. He appeared to prefer humans when they were more pliable ... more impressed by the various feats he could perform which—to more primitive minds—appeared to be magic.”

“It had to do with control, then?” asked Shelby.

“Possibly,” said Spock. “I myself did not have the opportunity to interact with Apollo to any degree when the captain and the landing party went to the planet’s surface.”

“I would have thought,” said Gleau, “that as science officer, you would have been first to the transporter pad to go down and interact with such a new and fascinating life-form.”

There was an air of challenge to Gleau’s tone that did not strike Si Cwan as especially respectful. Nor did he think it seemed that way to Shelby or the others, judging by the annoyed look that Shelby and her second-in-command gave him.

Spock, however, was naturally unperturbed. “Indeed. Were it an option, I would have been most anxious to interact with the newfound ‘god.’ Unfortunately, he was disinclined to invite me to his world.”

“On what basis?” asked Mueller.

“Apparently,” said Spock without a trace of irony, “I reminded him of Pan, and Pan always bored him.”

“Pan?” said Gleau. “That doesn’t make much sense.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Does it not?”

“What do you mean, Lieutenant Commander?” asked Shelby.

“Well,” and Gleau turned in his chair, facing Shelby with a relaxed attitude. “I’ve done a bit of studying of Terran myth. Pan was a god of nature, of music and ribaldry and comic adventures. No offense intended to Ambassador Spock, but he doesn’t exactly strike me as the comic adventuring type.”

“Pan also traditionally had pointed ears,” Shelby said. “That may well be where the familiarity arose from.”

“Plus I remember Mr. Spock played some sort of Vulcan musical instrument,” said Arex.

“Lyre,” Spock said.

Arex blinked and looked confused. “Oh. I’m sorry. My mistake. I wasn’t intentionally trying to deceive—”

“The Vulcan lyre. Or harp, as it is also called.” He looked at Shelby with mild curiosity. “Do allyour meetings tend to wander in this manner?”

“Sometimes,” she admitted.

“You may wish to consider restoring the term ‘briefing room.’ ‘Conference lounge’ implies a leisurely pace is to be taken. ‘Briefing room’ is far more to the point.”

“I’ll take that under advisement, Ambassador,” she said dryly.

“That would be wise,” said Spock, and without blinking returned to the point. “Had I interacted with or questioned Apollo myself, I might have been able to determine if there were any priorities beyond a salving of his ego and a desire for control over what he deemed to be mere mortals. I was not given that opportunity. As it is, there are hypotheses. But there are always hypotheses. Without definitive fact, it would be pointless to speculate about them.

“Nevertheless, given my presence during the Enterpriseencounter, I am as near to an expert as Starfleet has available, aside from Montgomery Scott. Of the two of us, given my status as ambassador, it was decided I would be best suited on this mission.”

“And what mission is that?” asked Shelby.

Spock began to walk the perimeter of the conference room in slow, unhurried strides. “The Danteri have slowly begun to inform chosen races of the existence of ambrosia and their involvement with the Beings. It is believed by Starfleet that they are doing so in order to build a power base with the Beings at its core. Such a development could seriously affect the current, rather delicate, balance of power within the Federation. It is Starfleet’s directive that the Tridentbring me to Danter—and remain on station—so that I may converse with the Beings and determine the full extent of exactly what they have in mind.”

“And which way does the Federation fall on this?” asked Si Cwan.

The Vulcan turned and looked at Si Cwan. “In what respect?”

“I believe,” Kalinda said, “my brother is asking whether the Federation is interested in keeping the Beings at arm’s length ... or interested in getting their hands on the ambrosia so they, too, can have this beloved ‘golden age’ the Beings claim to want to bring to us all.”

Si Cwan nodded in confirmation.

“That decision,” Spock said, “will stem, to some degree, from my recommendation ... although mine will not be the only voice to be heard in the matter.”

“Then hear mine,” Si Cwan said immediately. “They are dangerous. I’ve experienced them close up. They altered the mind-set of an entire world in a relatively brief period of time. I can’t believe that sort of influence is remotely healthy.”

“Frankly, with all respect, I can’t believe I’m hearing this,” Mueller said. She had gotten to her feet, and the scar on her face was turning bright pink. It reminded Si Cwan of Calhoun’s own scar, which tended toward similar discoloration when he became upset. “These Beings, in pursuit of bringing about their supposed golden age, nearly annihilated the Excalibur!Or has that been forgotten?”

“The Federation is well aware of the assault upon the Excalibur,”Spock said. “My understanding is that it was a hotly debated topic at Starfleet Headquarters. Ultimately, however, they are looking at the bigger picture.”

“The bigger picture!?”

“Sit down, XO,” said Shelby.

Mueller whirled to faced her. “The Excalibur,Captain. That’s your husband’s ship. I’d think that should matter to you. Or are youonly concerned about the bigger picture as well?”

Suddenly the atmosphere in the room became very cold, although the temperature remained the same. Si Cwan thought he saw a flash of contrition in Mueller’s eyes, as if she realized she had gone too far.

Shelby’s face could have been carved from teak.

“Sit. Down. XO.”

Mueller sat, the scar burning even more brightly pink against her face.

“And that,” Spock abruptly spoke up, “is another reason it was felt I would be the best suited to be involved. Emotions have a tendency to run high in connection with the Beings. That is not a consideration for me.” He passed forward a data chip to Shelby. “The full details and official Starfleet orders are contained on this, Captain. It is not expected that you were to take solely my word on this matter.”

“Thank you, Ambassador,” she said. She rose from the table. “I will review this immediately, and then we’ll make ready for the trip to Danter. Naturally the full facilities of the Tridentwill be at your disposal. Anything else?” She glanced around the room. Si Cwan noticed that her gaze seemed to skip right over Mueller. “Arex, M’Ress, if you’d be so kind as to escort Ambassador Spock to his quarters. That’s all, then. Dismissed.”

Everyone rose, with Shelby leading the way. That mildly surprised Si Cwan. He would have thought that Shelby would hang back, desire to speak to Mueller. Obviously she was too annoyed, and wanted to have the opportunity to calm down.

Si Cwan quickly caught up with Shelby in the corridor outside the conference lounge. “Captain, two things?”

She turned, her hands on her hips, clearly making an effort to be patient. “Yes, Ambassador?”

“First, I very much appreciate, in regards to my personal situation, the lack of—what’s the best way to put it ... ?”

“I-told-you-so’s?” Despite her clearly distressed air, she said it with a sense of humor.

“Yes. That,” admitted Si Cwan.

Kalinda, speaking from just behind him, piped up, “Cwan was extremely concerned about what you were going to say.”

“I wouldn’t say ‘extremely concerned,’ ” he corrected her.

“Ambassador,” said Shelby, “I try not to kick people when their pride is down. I advised against your going to Danter because I was concerned about your welfare. When we heard about what happened there, I had no idea what happened to you and Kalinda, but I wasn’t holding out much hope. The bottom line is, you’re back and you’re alive, and that’s all that matters. Although I suppose I should be flattered that my opinion means that much to you. What’s the second thing?”

“Yes. The second thing. I am aware that Commander Mueller spoke out of turn just now. I would consider it a personal favor, however, if you were not too—”

“Don’t overstep yourself, Ambassador,” Shelby interrupted. She didn’t sound angry, but there was a definite edge to her voice. “Anything else? No? All right then,” she continued without waiting for him to respond, and then she turned and headed off down the corridor.

The Thallonians watched him go, and Kalinda said softly, “You should have stayed out of it.”

“Your retroactive advice is always appreciated, little sister,” replied Si Cwan. “Have you considered ... ?”

Suddenly there was a thump that sounded from within the conference lounge, and Si Cwan thought he heard raised voices. He exchanged a brief, bewildered look with Kalinda, and then started quickly toward the lounge, Kalinda right behind him. Before he could get there, however, the door slid open and Gleau emerged. He looked slightly stunned, but when he saw the others approaching, he immediately pulled himself together. He gave a nonchalant nod and quickly headed off in the opposite direction.

Then Mueller came out, smoothing out her uniform shirt. “Ambassador,” she said briskly. “Good to have you back. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

“I ... suppose, yes.”

“My quarters. Twenty-two hundred hours. You remember the way?”

“Yes, I—”

“Good.” Her back ramrod-straight, she walked briskly away in the opposite direction from Gleau.

Si Cwan and Kalinda stared at one another. “You know what I’ve noticed about these Starfleet vessels?” asked Kalinda. “I always feel like I’m coming in on the middle of someone else’s scenes.”

III.

As the conference lounge emptied out, Kat Mueller realized that she and Gleau were going to be the last ones out. “Lieutenant Commander Gleau,” she said softly, standing right next to him. “A moment of your time, if you please.”

He looked at her questioningly as the conference lounge door slid shut behind the departing form of Spock. He had been standing, but now eased himself into the nearest chair. “What can I do for you, Commander? If you’re looking for advice ... ?”

“Advice?” There was confusion in her cobalt blue eyes. “On what?”

“Well, on your little mishap with the captain just now.” He smiled in a manner that Mueller believed he felt extraordinarily ingratiating. “I’ve been known to have a way with people, and I might be able to give you some hints ...”

“I studied your psych profile records,” she said abruptly, her eyes hardening.

She was pleased to see that Gleau was thrown off by her switch in topics. “Pardon?”

“Your psych profiles. From when you first joined Starfleet. All incoming cadets are required to undergo psych profiles and, as part of that, a study for any potential talents that would be considered ‘paranormal abilities.’ ”

“Paranormal meaning those things that humans are incapable of doing,” said Gleau with a smug air. “Amazing. You know, in your Earth’s history, you all once thought that your world was the center of the galaxy. It’s curious how so many of Starfleet policies continue to be derived from that philosophy.”

“Yes, curious as hell. That’s not the point, Gleau. The point is, such profiles are standard issue ... except you didn’t undergo them.”

“Didn’t I?” He cocked an eyebrow. “It was so long ago, I don’t recall.”

“You received a special exemption for anything except the most minimal, surface scanning,” she said. She had gotten up and had come around to where Gleau was sitting. She rested a hand on his shoulder as if she were being friendly with him. “The specific reason given was that Selelvians had a long cultural tradition of believing that intrusions into the mind were the height of personal violation. The argument was that it would be a violation of the Prime Directive to force such procedures on you. The request came down directly from Federation representatives to exempt you from more detailed scans, and Starfleet deferred to the UFP.” Her hand squeezed tighter on his shoulder. “Remember now?”

“It’s starting to come back to me, and by the way, you’re hurting my shoulder.” He kept his voice low and even, but Mueller was reasonably sure she heard a touch of fright in it. Good.

“So tell me, Gleau,” said Mueller. “Did Selelvian representatives use ‘the Knack’ on any Federation representatives to sway them over to their concerns? You know ... that handy little Selelvian technique of convincing people to do what they’d like?”

“Commander,” and he laughed uncomfortably, “I’ve genuinely no clue what you’re—”

“Or did you seek cover for yourself because you have other talents, in addition to the Knack, that you don’t want anyone to find out about.”

He paused. “Such as?”

“Such as being able to insert yourself right into somebody’s mind. To haunt them in their dreams.”

He blew air through his lips in annoyance. “What has M’Ress been telling you now?”

“I never mentioned her.”

“You don’t have to. It’s painfully obvious what this is about: more harassment. If you’ll excuse me ...”

“I don’t think I will.”

“I don’t think I’m giving you a choice, Commander,” he said, and he got up from his chair and shoved her hand away.

Without hesitation, Mueller spun him around and shoved him down on the conference lounge table. The tabletop shook as his back slammed into it and he gaped up at Mueller, all of his posturing and self-satisfaction having magically evaporated.

Mueller stared deep into his eyes, because she was confident of one thing above all else, and that was that she was an excellent judge of character. She assessed everything that was going through his mind, looked for a hint of what was truly going on with him, and became convinced in a heartbeat that what the Caitian had told her—what she had, at first, dismissed out of hand—was, in fact, true. An innocent man would have had anger in his eyes. But what she was seeing was fear and, above all, guilt. Her gaze dissected him and found that what was left was the equivalent of a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar.

“If I find out that you’ve been threatening Lieutenant M’Ress—or anyone—or if anything happens to her, or if I happen to have a bad dream about you ... you’re finished. Are you clear on that, Gleau? I will finish you personally.”

“Are you threateningme?” he gasped out.

“Yes. Absolutely. Are we clear on it?”

He looked as if he was about to make some sort of defensive, arrogant retort, and so to be preemptive about it, Mueller raised him up slightly and then slammed him back down again.

“All right! All right!”

“Good. Then we have an understanding.”

She released him then and stepped back. Quickly he sat up, out of breath, watching her with glazed eyes like a trapped animal. Then, losing no time, he bolted from the conference lounge.

Mueller came right after him and then saw Si Cwan and Kalinda standing there. Her mind raced, allowing for possible future developments, and she came to the conclusion that the Thallonian ambassador might be of help.

“Ambassador,” she said, smoothing her uniform top to achieve some semblance of polish. “Good to have you back. Are you free for dinner tonight?”

He looked bewildered, as if he had expected her to say something else entirely. “I ... suppose, yes.”

“My quarters. Twenty-two hundred hours. You remember the way?”

“Yes, I—”

“Good.” She turned on her heel and walked off, wondering what she had just gotten herself into.

EXCALIBUR

I.

MACKENZIE CALHOUN LEANED FORWARD, resting his elbows on his desk, and stared thoughtfully at Zak Kebron. “Are you quite sure of this, Mr. Kebron?”

“Positive, Captain,” Kebron said firmly.

The Brikar security chief was idly scratching at the base of his nonexistent neck. Calhoun noticed that more large flakes of his hide seemed to be coming off. “Are you having a problem, Mr. Kebron?”

“Problem?”

He gestured. “With your skin. Significant chunks of it appear to be breaking away.”

“It’s seasonal,” Kebron said.

“We’re on a starship, Mr. Kebron. We don’t get seasons.”

“That’s true.”

Which seemed to be more than enough of an answer to satisfy Kebron, even though it naturally made no sense whatsoever to Calhoun. Calhoun exchanged a glance with Commander Burgoyne, who had been standing there listening to the exchange. Burgoyne shrugged hir slim shoulders ever so slightly, but gave no reaction beyond that. Obviously it made little sense to hir as well, but both knew Kebron well enough to be certain that further questions along such lines would be useless.

So instead Calhoun turned his attention back to what Kebron had wanted to inform him of. “So the Tridentis being sent to Danter?”

Kebron nodded. At least, he gave what approximated a nod for a Brikar, namely bending slightly at the waist as if he were bowing in deference.

“And the Beings appear to be gathering there in force?” asked Burgoyne. “As part of some sort of new, grand plan by the Danteri to form an alliance of Being worshippers?”

Again Kebron nodded/bowed.

“Well, this is certainly an interesting turn of events,” said Calhoun, tilting back in his chair. “Zak ... are you positive?”

“I answered that.”

“Yes, I know. I’d like to know the source, though. Because Captain Shelby has not informed me of this.”

“No reason she should, Captain,” Burgoyne pointed out. “No more so than any other starship would keep every other ship up-to-date about its activities. If she received word directly from Starfleet, she’s under no obligation to file a flight plan with you.”

“You’re saying it’s none of my business.”

“No. You’re saying that.” S/he paused and then added, “I’m just thinking it.”

Calhoun looked back to Kebron. “Source, Mr. Kebron?”

“Ensign Janos,” Kebron said after a moment’s hesitation. “Felt I should know.”

“Hmmm,” said Calhoun. “Well, he’s certainly a dependable enough man ... or being, I’m never entirely sure what to think of him as, actually.” He scratched his smooth chin thoughtfully, missing the beard that he had shaved clean by popular request. With nothing of substance to do in drydock, the crew had amused itself during copious downtime by taking polls. The only thing the crew of the Excaliburseemed to agree on, nearly to one hundred percent accord, was that he should lose the beard. Calhoun had acquiesced, and a party had been held in his honor. It had been a damned good party and he couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten quite as drunk. But he was still nostalgic for the whiskers. “How did he find out?”

“He keeps his ear to the ground,” said Kebron.

Burgoyne nodded. “That would certainly explain his odd posture.”

“All right,” Calhoun said. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention, Mr. Kebron.”

Kebron was not one for words or sentiment. He tended to speak directly when he chose to speak at all, and he was not much for expressing sentiments of any sort. The matter-of-fact dismissal in Calhoun’s tone would normally be more than enough excuse for Kebron to depart, since face-to-face discussions and conferences were not his favorite thing. So Calhoun was duly surprised when Kebron moved toward him and rested his massive hands on the edge of Calhoun’s desk. In Calhoun’s imagination, the entire ship actually tipped slightly in Kebron’s direction due to the shift in weight.

“When I first started serving under you, Captain, I had very little patience with you,” Kebron said. “Frankly, I didn’t think much of you.”

Burgoyne and Calhoun exchange bewildered looks. “I think, for form’s sake, one generally prefaces a comment like that with ‘Permission to speak freely,’ ” Calhoun observed. “I invariably grant it, but it’s the thought that counts.”

As if Calhoun hadn’t even spoken, Kebron continued, “That’s changed over time. I’ve come to believe you to be a just individual. What those ... creatures,” and he said the word with more loathing and contained fury than either of them had ever heard from him, “did to this ship ... it must not be countenanced. We must find them. We must make them pay. You will make them pay for what they did to us, won’t you, Captain.” It was not exactly a line drawn in the sand, defying Calhoun to ignore the sentiment under pain of personal retribution. But neither was it posed as a question. Kebron wanted to know right then, right there.

Calhoun’s instinct, based upon protocol alone, was to inform Kebron that he had stepped way over the bounds of personal conduct. Even though Calhoun was extremely elastic in how he allowed his subordinates to address him, there were still rules and limits, and Zak Kebron had clearly exceeded them. He could dress him down, confine him to quarters, put him on report, even stick him in the brig if he was so inclined. Although, truthfully, the spectacle of security guards trying to haul Kebron to the brig if the powerful Brikar was disinclined to cooperate was not a particularly appealing image.

But Calhoun saw the fervency, the anger in Kebron’s eyes. The truth was, Calhoun had always thought that one of Kebron’s few weaknesses was the utter dispassion he brought to all his duties. His blasй nature often made it seem as if he didn’t care whether he did his job or not, although he invariably did it better than anyone else could. So Calhoun was reluctant to do anything that might extinguish these first buds of genuine passion for his work that might be blooming in Kebron.

As a consequence, Calhoun opted to walk a fine line. “On the record, Mr. Kebron,” said Calhoun, although it wasn’t as if he was actually keeping a record of the meeting, “I am not enthused with the manner in which you just addressed me. Another captain would have busted you back to ensign because of it. So keep that in mind. Off the record,” and slowly he nodded, “we’ll get the bastards. No one does that to my crew and my ship. No one. Not even the gods themselves. In this case, whom the gods themselves tried to destroy, they didn’t just make mad; they made fighting mad.”

“Good,” said Kebron with that approximation of a nod, and then he turned and walked out of the ready room.

“Where the hell did that come from?” Burgoyne demanded the moment Kebron was out of the ready room.

“I don’t know. He was never one for fervent discourse.” He tapped his fingers idly on the desk. “Talk to Soleta. She’s known him the longest. Perhaps she can shed some light on this. Oh ...” he added, with a smile. “Dr. Selar informed me of Soleta’s little stunt in sickbay. Officially, I’m required to disapprove of her actions. Unofficially, please convey to her my sentiment that her attempted mind-meld with McHenry took a lot of guts, and I admire her for it. According to Selar, Soleta actually managed to ... come into contact with him somehow. That single action has given us the first real cause for hope since this entire, hideous affair began. Tell her ... I appreciate it. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

“Yes, sir,” said Burgoyne, obviously amused. Then s/he grew serious again. “About Kebron ... about what you said to him ... about the gods making us fighting mad?”

Calhoun rose, smoothing his shirt. “I remember what I said, Burgy.” His sword from his days as a Xenexian warlord was hanging, as always, from its place of honor on the wall. He took it down, removed a soft cloth from his desk, and proceeded to polish the gleaming blade. “We’ve been laid up for weeks, Burgy. Last thing I heard was three days to finish everything up.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is that ironclad?”

“Pardon?” asked Burgoyne.

“Whatever needs to be done, can it be done in transit? On the way to, say, Danter.”

Burgoyne was clearly considering all that needed to be attended to. Then, thoughtfully, s/he nodded. “It’s possible, Captain. I wouldn’t advise it.”

“I wasn’t looking for advice, Burgy. Just a simple yes or no.”

“Yes,” Burgoyne said briskly.

“Good. Inform Chief Mitchell down in engineering to fire up the engines. We’re taking her out for a spin.”

“For a spin, sir?” said Burgoyne with a look of caution in hir face. “Or for vengeance?”

Calhoun was halfway around the desk when Burgoyne spoke, but he paused and leaned against the side. “You disapprove?” he asked, folding his arms.

“It is not for me to approve or disapprove.”

“You disagree.”

“Captain, I had a firsthand view of the threat the Beings pose,” said Burgoyne reasonably. “Believe me, if they had one great heart, I would rip it out and personally devour it.”

“Your sentiments are appreciated, if not your cuisine choices.”

“But,” continued Burgoyne, “I believe there may be issues at work here that you haven’t considered ... not the least of which is that Tridentmay see this as an encroachment.”

“I’m aware of that, Burgy,” said Calhoun with a mildly regretful sigh.

“And that doesn’t concern you?”

“Yes. It concerns me. But Burgy ... I didn’t trust the Danteri from the get-go. They subjugated my people. They always have other motives. And the Beings were malevolent rather than beneficent. McHenry saw right through them.”

“McHenry said they were not to be trusted, and only then was the assault started,” Burgoyne reminded him.

“What are you saying? That the attack was McHenry’sfault?”

“No. It likely would have come sooner or later anyway. But his sentiments likely triggered it. I’m simply saying, Captain,” s/he continued quickly when s/he saw the increasing clouding of Calhoun’s face. “I’m simply saying that Captain Shelby, considering her lack of personal animus with the Beings, might be the ideal choice of officer to be on the scene at Danter.”

“You’re right, Burgy. She might be.” Then his face hardened. “But she might not. And I’m not interested in playing the odds. Not when my presence can double them in our favor. Now ... let’s get this boat under way.”

II.

Robin Lefler was seated at her ops station, moving her hands slowly over the totally rebuilt surface of the controls. There was no trace of the damage that had been done during the attack. It was almost as if the assault by the Beings were imaginary. If the evidence was gone, it was just that much easier to sweep the reality away into the farthest recesses of recollection.

Well, that was why she had wanted to get rid of the holoimage of her mother, wasn’t it? As selfish as that had been? By banishing that ... that thingfrom existence, it would be that much easier for Robin to avoid thinking about her. Just toss her from her mind, erase any feelings of hurt or love or ... or anything. Just be nice and blissfully numb over the loss of the one individual in her life whom she had never known quite how to relate to.

On the screen in front of her was the steady image of Starbase 27 as they continued their leisurely orbit around it. Her gaze wandered from the rather boring view over toward the conn station. Fully repaired, gleaming and new, it nevertheless looked pitifully empty. In addition to McHenry, two backup navigation officers had been killed during the attack of the Beings. Naturally there were crewmen who could fill in in a pinch, but Starfleet had dispatched two new officers to cover the day and night shifts. They were expected to arrive within the next three days.

Devereaux was finishing some work at the tactical station, as Zak Kebron stood near and glowered down at him. It was obviously distracting the hell out of Devereaux, but he lacked the nerve to say anything about it. She couldn’t entirely blame him; Kebron could be a daunting figure when he wanted to be. Or even when he didn’t want to be.

Then Devereaux looked up as the door to the captain’s ready room slid open. “Captain on the bridge,” he barked out.

The rest of the crew had long since given up sending odd looks Devereaux’s way. There were indeed some Starfleet captains who preferred the ceremonial announcement whenever the top-ranked commanding officer set foot on the bridge. But Calhoun’s priorities did not lie in that direction. The first time Devereaux had bellowed the proclamation, Calhoun had told him quite politely that it wasn’t necessary. That everyone in the place had eyes and could see him just fine.

Devereaux, equally politely, had told him that—the way he was raised in a family that had followed a tradition of Starfleet service for two centuries—there was simply no option. He had sworn to Calhoun that he would try to restrain himself. Sometimes he managed to refrain from saying it at all, and other times he said it softly. Every so often, though, he just had to let it out. Calhoun simply shrugged it off. Lefler had even begun to suspect that—on some level—the captain kind of liked it. At the very least, he seemed to get a kick out of the way everyone looked at Devereaux.

Instead of heading to the captain’s chair, Calhoun stopped a few feet from the exit of the ready room and said, “Mr. Devereaux ... three hours ago you told me your work on the computer core would be completed. Because I’m a generous sort of fellow, I’ve given you three hours and two minutes. Where do we stand?”

“We stand completed, Captain,” said Devereaux briskly. “The entire system has been stripped down, flushed out, buffed up, and is ready to go. And without so much as the loss of a single operating system for so much as a minute.”

“There are fewer great satisfactions than that of self,” Calhoun replied solemnly.

For her part, Robin felt a distinct sinking sensation. She felt ... unclean. Ungrateful. Hell, she had to be candid with herself: Even though she knew there was no basis in fact to feel that way, it was as if she had somehow condemned her mother to death with her own hand.

“All right then,” said Calhoun after a moment. “Impress me, Mr. Devereaux.”

“Computer,” Devereaux called.

Without a moment’s hesitation, the computer voice filtered through the bridge. “Working.”