Star Trek: New Frontier®: Blind Man’s Bluff Read online

  Then M’k’n’zy saw several shards of rock within his reach. He grabbed them up, lunged to his feet, and collided with the armored figure even as he brought his hand up and around and shoved as hard as he could. The prolonged contact with the superheated armor was even worse this time, and M’k’n’zy wanted to scream in agony as he clutched on like a bat, pounding the rock fragments into the vent. But he refused to give his opponent the satisfaction of hearing his weakness.

  Instead he punched his fist once, twice more against the vent, which was all he could do before his mind nearly went into sensory overload from the pain of being against the armor. Then he fell backward and hit the ground, rolling into a crouch. His battle-trained mind was already coming up with a new plan of attack.

  As it turned out, it wasn’t necessary. The armored figure was staggering, clutching at the area of the vent access. M’k’n’zy was thrilled to see that there were fragments of rock wedged in, and they weren’t coming out anytime soon. The thick fingers of the figure’s gloves were unable to get any sort of grip on them.

  The armored figure twisted and spun bizarrely, as if it were some sort of stringed puppet whose operator was completely inebriated. The legs began shaking, the knees buckling, and it was clawing at its helmet. For a moment, M’k’n’zy thought he might actually see the unprotected head of one of the damned things. He wasn’t entirely sure if they could survive without the helmet since he wasn’t certain of the environment that had spawned them. For that matter, he wasn’t altogether positive that—if one of them exposed its head—he wouldn’t be able to restrain himself from grabbing the nearest blunt object and using it to reduce the bastard’s skull to a bloody pulp.

  The armored figure was shuddering even more violently, and then M’k’n’zy was sure that he heard a muffled explosion from within the armor. The soldier’s arms flew out to either side and his body trembled one final time. Then, like a newly chopped tree, he fell slowly forward and hit the ground with a resounding thud. He lay there, flat and unmoving, and it was obvious to M’k’n’zy that his opponent would not be trying to kill anyone else in this life.

  He stood over his downed foe, knowing and regretting the fact that he didn’t have any tools that would have enabled him to crack open the armor. Then, before he even knew he was going to do it, he drew back a leg and drove a furious kick straight into the side of the armored figure. It tilted slightly from the impact but otherwise didn’t move.

  It was a rare indulgence for M’k’n’zy, allowing anger to seize him in such a way that he would waste the energy on physically assaulting someone who posed no threat.

  He was surprised by the result as yet another explosion, this one even louder, sounded from within the armor. He jumped back, alert to whatever danger might be posed by the discharge, but he needn’t have concerned himself. The armor contained the detonation. It bent outward slightly, bulges appearing all over it. Other than that, aside from the muffled noise, no one would have known that anything untoward was transpiring. Indeed M’k’n’zy, standing a short distance away and looking on in confusion, wasn’t entirely certain what had just happened. He couldn’t tell whether the second explosion had been some biological follow-up—perhaps a cataclysmic release of internal gasses—or if it had been some sort of fail-safe within the armor itself, determining that the warrior within was no longer capable of functioning and self-detonating to prevent enemy capture. Either way, it was the final movement that the downed combatant made.

  M’k’n’zy allowed himself only the briefest moment of relief, a quick exhalation in a situation where others might have needed to take a few minutes to compose themselves. It wasn’t as if near-death experiences were uncommon for those who walked the same path that M’k’n’zy did. But it was a somber fact that M’k’n’zy seemed to have far more close scrapes with death than the average individual.

  He briefly considered the idea of trying to drag his fallen opponent with him. Perhaps someone else might have some thoughts as to how to crack open the armor. He then dismissed the idea in short order, for two reasons: First, the surface of the armor was still hot to the touch, and waiting around for it to cool down—presuming it ever did—simply was not an option. And second, the armored figure was just too damned heavy. If he had an antigravity sled or maybe about a dozen extra hands, it might have been feasible. But he possessed none of those things, and so dismissed the idea.

  Leaving the body behind, he continued to the backup rendezvous point. It was a network of caves at the base of the Tower Rim, a mountain range that had often served him in the past as a refuge where he could elude pursuit.

  As he ran, doing his best to stick to concealment, he was already developing new strategies to use against the enemy, new ambushes that might be planned, and new ways to marshal his forces as effectively as possible. There was never a moment where M’k’n’zy considered the notion that his people might be defeated and that he himself would fall before the weaponry of the enemy. He was prepared for setbacks. Everyone had them. But there was no question in his mind that he would eventually triumph.

  He encountered none of the enemy as he made his way to the Tower Rim. He wondered if this was simple happenstance or if it was indicative of something bigger. Was there a possibility that they had withdrawn from Xenex entirely? If that was the case, then how had he happened to encounter and kill one of them? Perhaps he was the last one remaining on the planet’s surface, separated from the rest of his squadron, and they’d had the poor luck to run into each other. At least the other guy’s luck wound up being poorer than mine, M’k’n’zy thought grimly.

  It seemed to M’k’n’zy that the sun had not moved in its path across the sky, as if time itself had come to a halt.

  He made it to the base of the Tower Rim, so named for the unusually tall peaks that dotted the area. It was one of his favorite hiding places, since the height of the rocky spires that surrounded them made aerial attack problematic. The spires provided some degree of protection. Even if enemies got it in their heads to carpet bomb the entire area, the network of caves that threaded through the Rim afforded considerable protection.

  He arrived at the mouth of the cave entrance where he was expecting to see his people. The stench of death wafted through the air.

  “No,” he whispered, as he froze there in a rare instance of uncertainty as to what to do next. He wanted to believe that his senses were wrong. Or it could have been that he was detecting the remains of some random animal rather than what he was afraid that he perceived.

  It only took moments for his olfactory senses to confirm for him, however, that his first impressions were exactly correct. The contents of the cave were precisely what he feared them to be.

  His feet growing heavier with each step, he entered the cave. He knew that he was potentially heading into danger, but he trusted his instinct to alert him to any such hazards. Furthermore, on some level, he simply didn’t care. If something was lurking within, then he was essentially inviting it to take its best shot. He would either kill it or he would be killed, and at that moment he wasn’t sure which outcome was preferable.

  He moved slowly through the dark, his eyes adjusting immediately to the dimness as they typically did. To some degree it didn’t matter; his nose would have been able to guide him even if he’d been stumbling around sightless.

  Bastards. Bastards, kept going through his mind, stoking the fire in his chest that was helping to propel him forward when so much of him simply wanted to give up.

  M’k’n’zy stopped just short of the first body, his foot nearly bumping up against it. He knelt next to the corpse and discovered it to be one of his lieutenants, a young woman who had possessed a steely gaze and a projected sense of invincibility. In that regard, she had reminded M’k’n’zy of himself. The reality, however, had proven to be other than that which she had believed, as evidenced by her corpse. The right side of her face and much of the right side of her body had been burned away. It might have been from
the superheating of the enemy’s armor or perhaps an unleashed blast of power that had broiled her flesh. M’k’n’zy supposed that it didn’t make much difference either way. Dead was dead.

  So were a number of the others.

  Bodies were scattered all over the cave. There was blood everywhere, on the ground and spattered against the interior wall, mixed in with scorch marks indicating that considerable power had been unleashed. It was painfully obvious what had happened: The enemy had tracked them there somehow, found them, and attacked. M’k’n’zy’s people had put up a valiant defense; that much M’k’n’zy was able to discern by looking at the scuff marks on the ground. From those he could determine how many people had been engaged in battle and exactly how the fight had gone, even if the bodies hadn’t been lying there to inform him of what he already knew.

  He sagged to his knees, momentarily overwhelmed. How long had they been waiting for him? Did they die thinking that M’k’n’zy was already dead and their situation hopeless? Did they hold out hope for a rescue right up until the last moment when the life had fled their bodies?

  “I’m sorry I let you down,” he whispered.

  Then he began counting.

  Within sixty seconds, he determined that several people were missing. That meant one of two things: they had managed to escape, or else they had been taken prisoner. The former was far more likely, because this particular enemy wasn’t big on taking prisoners.

  Either way, it meant that M’k’n’zy could still save some lives.

  He had not noticed anything on the ground at the entrance to the cave, but that was because he hadn’t been looking. His awareness of what was awaiting him in the cave had distracted him. Now, though, he scrutinized the ground, looking for a hint of where the survivors had gone, and—even more important—if there was some way that he could follow them.

  Any other eye would have been stymied in the attempt, but M’k’n’zy was quickly able to discern small fragments of dirt, broken stone, and marks that served to tell him with clarity which way his people were and what their condition was.

  He set off after them.

  And as he did so, he couldn’t help but ponder the fact that mere decades earlier, he had been a youthful warlord, his clothes little more than tatters, his shaggy mane of hair hanging askew around his shoulders, leading his Xenexian comrades against a foe determined to crush them. It was during that time that he had made a name for himself, a name that had united the Xenexians and made them a formidable race that would never again allow itself to be conquered. It was also a name that had attracted the attention of one Jean-Luc Picard, a Starfleet officer who had taken an interest in the young M’k’n’zy and had suggested to him that a career in Starfleet was a path worth pursuing. M’k’n’zy had taken him up on his offer after much consideration, and eventually he had become better known as Mackenzie Calhoun.

  Now his two worlds had collided. Calhoun was using all the knowledge, all the cunning and savvy that he had learned under fire in his youth, combined with all the tactics and wisdom he had accrued over the years as a Starfleet captain, to aid his people in battling a fearsome enemy that he had encountered during his tenure as captain of the Excalibur.

  The Brethren—the fearsome armored race that had slaughtered so many aboard the Excalibur’s sister ship, the Trident; the race that Dr. Selar had died battling—were pursing him and his people across the face of Xenex.

  And there was no way of knowing when, or if, help would ever arrive.

  Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco

  Sometime Earlier

  Admiral Alynna Nechayev remembered nearly every word of the conversation she’d had with Mackenzie Calhoun weeks earlier. They had been filled with consequences to which Calhoun was utterly oblivious.

  Calhoun had been dutifully reporting back to her about the events on the remote world of AF1963, which had resulted in the death of Selar and the discovery of mindless bodies being “grown” in a subterranean lair. Most of the bodies, according to Calhoun, his image flickering on the communications screen, had been destroyed in the massive explosion that Selar had touched off… the explosion that had enabled Soleta and the infant Cwansi to escape, even though it was at the cost of Selar’s life.

  “Do you have any idea what intentions these D’myurj might have had for them?” she had asked Calhoun. She had labored to keep her voice flat and even and not betray, in the slightest, the concerns that were hammering through her brain.

  “I’ve been thinking about that,” Calhoun had said, “and consulting with my people. We have a theory…”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Well,” Calhoun had said, leaning in slightly toward the screen, “our initial question, of course, was why they would have all these bodies being grown with what were essentially blank slates for minds. But if you walked into a large warehouse and saw uniforms hanging there with no one in them, you wouldn’t wonder what the purpose of them would be, correct? Wouldn’t wonder what they were designed for?”

  “Not especially. I would assume that they were designed to be…” Her voice had trailed off. “Truly? You think they were designed—”

  “To be worn. Yes. Something in the genetic makeup of half-breeds enables either the D’myurj or their associates the Brethren to transfer themselves into these bodies, once grown.”

  “But, good lord, why?”

  “Any number of reasons. Infiltration. Manipulation. Passing themselves off as members of the Federation, in an undetectable disguise. They might be creating wars in the hopes of ‘testing’ us to see if we rise to the occasion. According to anyone who has had contact with them, they keep claiming that they want to advance us. Soleta told me about something that happened some months ago, during the Paradox incident,” he said, referring to a time ship that had gone missing temporarily. “She encountered an alien vessel that appeared to be upgrading the Paradox. Advancing it. Outfitting it with improvements.”

  “Are you saying that might have been the D’myurj?”

  “It fits the pattern. A race dedicated to evolution of what they see as lower species, no matter what the cost. Individuals purporting to be beneficent when they’re really destructive. Who knows how far it goes back? There was an incident I studied involving a probe—I think it was called Nomad—that was upgraded and advanced when it encountered another, more advanced entity.”

  “I know of that incident, yes. We had theorized it was the Borg.”

  “But why would the Borg upgrade something else? They just take. They don’t give. That might well have been connected to the D’myurj as well. That means we’re talking at least a century of their getting involved in Federation affairs.”

  “It sounds to me, Captain, as if you’re treading on very thin ice here. Pulling together disparate strands and trying to weave together a whole that doesn’t quite work. Still,” and she had drummed her fingers on her desk, “this merits further investigation, at the very least. It would probably be wiser to keep this quiet, at least for the time being.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Admiral.”

  “All right. And, Mac… my condolences on the loss of Doctor Selar. A tragic story all around.”

  “Thank you, Admiral. Calhoun out.”

  The screen had gone blank, leaving her leaning back in her chair, her thoughts racing. Calhoun knows. Something is going to have to be done…

  There had been much thinking on her part about that, and some discussions that she had not especially been looking forward to, nor did she enjoy them while she was having them. In doing so, however—in taking firm actions regarding Calhoun and what he did know, or didn’t know but strongly suspected—Nechayev had set upon a course that she knew was ultimately going to cost her one of her most reliable and useful allies.

  But it could not be helped. If Calhoun had to go, then he had to go. And she had to do whatever was necessary to make certain that happened. There was too much riding on it.

  He was clever, thou
gh, and even though he trusted Nechayev implicitly, he would not blindly fall into line and obligingly march straight into a trap. He had survival instincts that made cockroaches look like lemmings.

  So she had to lure him in, and the only way to do that was to play upon the trust that he already had in her. Trust was not something that Mackenzie Calhoun embraced easily. He was the most suspicious bastard in the galaxy. The flip side of that, fortunately enough, was that once that trust was given, it was a sacred thing with him. He was relentless with his enemies, but utterly dedicated to his friends. In some respects, it was arrogance on his part. Once he trusted someone, the trust became self-sustaining, a reason unto itself. The notion that someone could betray that trust never entered into his thinking because if he trusted someone, then they were permanently worthy of it. Circular reasoning. Q.E.D. It was the one vulnerability in Calhoun’s intellectual makeup, and the only one that she was in a position to exploit.

  She intended to do just that. And the first step in that process had already been put into motion.

  Nechayev was sitting in her office, absolutely immobile. Anyone glancing in at her would have thought that she was either dead or a statue. Her gaze focused on thin air, as if she had selected a particular point at random and was now putting all her attention on it. She could have remained that way for an indefinite period. If an earthquake was shaking the building to pieces around her, it would not have jolted her from her meditative state. She had “preset” her mind so that only one thing would allow her to be roused from her contemplations.

  The office intercom beeped and her aide said briskly, “Admiral. Captain Calhoun is here.”

  The Admiral blinked once, twice, and then pulled herself back into the real world. “Admiral?” came the aide’s voice a second time, but she was already clearing her throat and saying, “Send him in.”