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  “And no diagnostics picked it up?” Garbeck sounded dumb-founded. “I mean, with all respect, your chief engineer sounds like he or she—”

  “S/he, actually.”

  “Oh. A Hermat.” Garbeck let out a sigh of very faint exasperation that gave Shelby the immediate impression Garbeck had her own war stories about dealing with Hermats. Shelby felt herself warming to her. “It sounds like s/he dropped the ball on this one.”

  “That was, indeed, one of the avenues that Starfleet pursued in its investigation. However, Burgoyne’s track record on performing such diagnostics was flawless. The problem is—”

  “The problem is,” Garbeck said, and then immediately stopped herself. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have interrupted, Captain. My apologies. Sometimes I get a bit ahead of myself.”

  “No, it’s all right. Go ahead,” said Shelby. “I know all about me, after all. This is for me to find out about you.”

  “Yes, well … the problem is that, for all the advancements made in everything from cybernetic response time to A.I., computers are still only as good as the information we feed into them. A diagnostic program can only look for that which it is programmed to look for. And if there is a new and unique virus, with a specially designed ‘chameleon’ factor that enables it to hide itself no matter what sort of search program is being instituted—”

  “Exactly. Exactly right,” Shelby said, nodding in approval. “In this instance, what Burgoyne postulated had happened was that the virus created a sort of internal null field around itself. So, any attempts to spot it resulted in those attempts reflecting back upon themselves. To put it in the parlance of old-time magicians: They did it with mirrors.”

  “So, what happened?”

  Ah, now she’s asking, Shelby thought with grim amusement. “Well, eventually the virus revealed itself, all right. Except that, by that point, it was too late. Essentially, once it had—over time—thoroughly ingrained itself into every aspect of the Excalibur’s system, it triggered a self-destruct sequence, setting the warp core to overload. And there was absolutely no way to shut it down. Don’t think we didn’t try.”

  “The saucer section—?”

  But Shelby shook her head. “Locked it in. We couldn’t activate the separation protocol.”

  Garbeck’s eyes widened. It was obvious to Shelby that Garbeck was wondering—given the circumstances—what Shelby was even doing sitting there. All things being equal, there was no way she should have survived. Then her eyebrows puckered slightly in thought, and she said, comprehending, “The lifepods.”

  “Yes.”

  “Let me guess: The auto-eject sequences on the lifepods were also shut down.” Before Shelby could confirm it, Garbeck was continuing, “Which would have meant that the only way to do it would be to employ the extreme option of individual manual override on each of the pods.”

  “Right,” said Shelby. “We started loading crewmen into the lifepods and ejecting them as fast as we could. The problem is—”

  She stopped. She was surprised at herself that she couldn’t get it out. Considering the number of times that she had discussed it already, one would have thought that it would be easy for her by now. Except she found the recounting of the incident sticking in her throat, like a thing alive, refusing to emerge for the retelling.

  And Garbeck seemed to understand. She said nothing at first, giving Shelby the opportunity to continue, but when she didn’t, Garbeck said slowly, “The problem is that manual ejection of the lifepods—in an Ambassador-class ship such as the Excalibur—has to be done from within the ship itself, at the lifepod stations. There wasn’t an in-pod manual release. It was a design flaw that was corrected in subsequent starship models, including this one.”

  “ ‘Design flaw.’ Is that what they’re calling it?” Shelby said with grim sarcasm. “Nice of them to finally attend to that. Now, if I could just sit down with the genius who thinks that it’s a good idea putting the bridge at the very top of the saucer section with a dome, making it an easy target, instead of hiding it in the interior of the ship for maximum protection …”

  “If you’d like, I can send a memo to Central Design.”

  “I’ve sent three. Go argue with tradition.” She shrugged. “In any event, the crew acted smoothly together, I’ll give them that. Helping each other into pods, ejecting them from the ship to a safe distance. Eventually, though, it came down to the captain and me. Naturally, he …”

  She stopped.

  She couldn’t keep going.

  Silently, she cursed herself for what she felt was weakness on her part. It had happened, she had discussed it endlessly, and this simply shouldn’t have been that difficult, dammit.

  Alexandra Garbeck didn’t say anything at first. Then, very softly, she said, “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Shelby nodded.

  “There is, however, something I don’t quite understand,” Garbeck said after a moment’s more consideration. “The standard period of time between the realization of a warp core breach and the subsequent detonation of the ship is, at most, five minutes, eleven seconds.”

  “Something like that.”

  “Captain, with all respect, I feel as if something is still missing. I mean … five minutes.” She shook her head, as if she was having trouble wrapping herself around the concept. “Five minutes to get the crew … the entire crew … into lifepods? To eject them, get them clear? That’s … well, I don’t know, it’s just hard to believe.”

  “You would be amazed, Commander, how fear of imminent death can lend wings to one’s feet.”

  “That may be, Captain, but even so—”

  Shelby shrugged. “I don’t know what else to tell you, Commander, except that we’re here. I know that. We weren’t all blown to pieces and replaced by a thousand or so impostors or clones. Whatever the reality of what should be, I can only tell you about the reality of what was. And what was … was that we survived, no matter how much the time frame seems to have been against us.”

  Her tone of voice suddenly shifted, became all business. “Now, then … enough of me … let’s talk about you.” She looked back to the computer file she had been perusing earlier. “Fast-track for promotion … double majored at the Academy in both science and tactics … four star approval ratings from three commanders you’ve served under …” She smiled and looked at Garbeck. “You’re too perfect. What’s wrong with you?”

  “Nothing. It’s a curse. I’ve learned to live with it,” Garbeck deadpanned.

  Shelby laughed at that. She found herself liking Garbeck even more.

  Garbeck leaned forward and said earnestly, “Captain … it’s very simple. I come from a long line of Starfleet officers. There was never a moment in my life when I didn’t know what I was going to do with that life. It was a given. I freely admit, there has been no mystery, no great journey of self-discovery in my existence. I’ve reserved the voyage of discovery for my activities once I get out into space. That is my true home, and that’s where I’m supposed to be. I know every regulation backward and forward. I know the case history of every major first-encounter situation that every Starfleet captain has ever had. I know the—”

  Shelby interrupted. “General Order eighteen, subsection three.”

  “Although all efforts are to be made to accommodate local traditions and customs whenever representing Starfleet and the Federation on member worlds, commanding officer will not designate away-team leadership responsibilities to any officer who voices personal inability to cooperate with said traditions and customs,” Garbeck said crisply. “Such lack of designation will be done without prejudice and not be reflected negatively on the officer’s record. This will include, but not be limited to, matters of personal attire, specific dietary restrictions …”

  “All right, all right,” Shelby laughed, putting up her hands to admit defeat. “Very good. I’m officially impressed, particularly considering that you had that down word for word. No paraphrasing.”


  “You knew that because you likewise know them word for word,” Garbeck said.

  Shelby nodded. “I’ve prided myself on that for a very long time, Commander. Familiarity with rules, regulations. Knowing precisely how everything can and should be done.”

  “Captain Calhoun didn’t … well, I have no wish to speak ill of the dead, Captain, particularly considering the circumstances, but—”

  “No need to speak ill, Commander, if what you’re saying is a truth that Captain Calhoun himself would have freely acknowledged. He had only passing interest in regs. He saw them as more of a challenge than a guideline, as if … as if he took pride in finding ways around them.” She was surprised to hear herself speak in a tone of such gentle amusement. When Calhoun had been around, and she had served under him, she’d found his attitude to be nothing less than relentlessly aggravating. But now that he was gone, there was a nostalgic haze surrounding the recollection.

  “With no disrespect to the late captain—whose valor remains unquestioned in any event—I believe very strongly in the importance of regulations and procedure,” Garbeck said firmly. “Starship captains have tremendous power at their disposal. Any time any one of them feels that he or she is entitled to live or act outside the laws of Starfleet as set down by the regs, there is going to be a temptation to abuse that power. Power, after all, tends to corrupt—”

  “ ‘And absolute power corrupts absolutely,’ ” Shelby finished the quote. “Well, Commander, I don’t know that the crew of the Excalibur would necessarily have agreed with you. They were a … rather eclectic group, to be certain. A captain, after all, tends to surround himself with those who suit his command style.”

  “If I may ask, Captain—and if the question is too personal, I withdraw it—considering your record of adherence to regs, and … not to be indelicate, but I learned that you had a personal relationship with Mackenzie Calhoun which ended badly …”

  “Why did he make me his Number One?” She laughed softly. “You know, he never actually told me in so many words … but, knowing the way his mind works, I think it came down to the concept that he needed someone whom he could tolerate … and who could, in turn, tolerate him. You know, I still have—” She stopped herself.

  “Still have what, Captain?”

  “Nothing. It doesn’t matter,” Shelby said, abruptly all business.

  “Very well,” Garbeck said, responding in kind. “Let me assure you of this, Captain. I’m putting in a very serious bid to become first officer of this ship. I’m quite familiar with your career, and—if I may say so—admire you greatly as an officer.”

  “You have my belated permission to say so.”

  “I believe that you and I share similar views, and give similar priority to Starfleet regulations. To me, that ensures that, as captain and first officer, we will interact smoothly as a team. Furthermore—”

  “Garbeck,” said Shelby, cutting her off but not in a way that seemed hostile. “Tell you what: I’ll save you time. If this is you putting in a bid, then this is me saying, going, going, gone. Sold. Congratulations.” And she stood behind her desk, extending a hand. “Welcome aboard the Exeter.”

  Garbeck had maintained a veneer of utter reserve, but that veneer slipped ever so slightly as her genuine excitement made itself evident. “Really?” she said, and obviously immediately regretted her “gosh-wow” attitude.

  “Really,” laughed Shelby, confident that she had made the right decision.

  I’m not going to do it tonight, Shelby told herself.

  She lay on her bed, fingers interlaced behind her head, gazing up at the ceiling. The Exeter would not be departing drydock for another week, but Shelby was already living full-time in her quarters. Why not? She really didn’t feel as if she had anywhere else to go or anything else to do. Her parents lived on a far-off colony world; she had only one sibling, whom she almost never saw.

  She had been working on crew rosters and material relating to the Exeter’s launch until the late hours. Her eyes had become sore with fatigue, and that was usually a good indicator for her that it was time to call it a night. But once she was reclining, she felt her fatigue evaporating as she replayed in her head, once again, those events in the final moments of Excalibur.

  She hadn’t wanted to. There was no purpose to it, nothing to gain. And yet, no matter how many times she thought about it, she kept wondering … what if there’d been something she’d overlooked? What if there’d been a way to save the ship, to save … him? Questioning and second-guessing, over and over, and finally it was no wonder that she wasn’t able to sleep. With everything tumbling about in her mind, what person could have slept?

  Before she could even give it any further thought, she heard her own voice say, “Computer. Play entry from personal log.”

  “Specify,” came the automatic voice of the computer.

  Stop this, stop this right now, her inner voice fairly shouted at her, but she ignored it. Instead, she called up the log entries that she had begun while in the lifepod, hanging in space outside the Excalibur, watching in bleak futility, as she knew that there was nothing, absolutely nothing, that she could do.

  As if speaking from a chasm of a great many years, her voice came to her over the cabin’s speaker system. She couldn’t believe the tone of it, no matter how many times she had listened, because it didn’t sound like her. Didn’t sound like someone who was leaving the kind of log entry that could possibly be useful to scholars and historians who might study such documentation later. These were … well, there was no putting a positive face on it. These were the stream-of-consciousness comments of someone who still thought that she was, conceivably, going to die.

  If the ship could feel … speak … what would it be doing right now? Would it be crying, begging for its life? Would it be ranting over the unfairness of it all? And what could it possibly say about “unfairness” that I haven’t already figured out.

  Mac and I moved with such efficiency, such speed, up and down the hallways, launching the lifepods into space. According to my chronometer, we’d gotten all the pods launched in one minute, thirty-seven seconds. That should have been impossible. But I wasn’t thinking about anything like that at that moment.

  All the lifepods were launched but two. One for the second-in-command, one for the captain. Except someone needed to stay behind and provide the manual launch … which would not leave that someone the opportunity to get off the ship in a lifepod. A shuttle might provide a possible escape, but there was simply no time to get down to the shuttlebay. I couldn’t quite believe that we’d managed to get as many people off the ship in so brief a time as we had. It was one of those instances, I suppose, where things become so focused that it seems as if time has slowed to a crawl. Sort of an emergency scenario not dissimilar to the approach to light speed: the faster you travel, the more time seems to slow down around you. I suppose that’s what was happening on the Excalibur. As the time we had left before the ship blew up dwindled, the time we spent in trying to escape the calamity lengthened.

  But it wasn’t going to, couldn’t possibly, lengthen enough.

  It had come down to us two. A computer voice was echoing over the ship, giving a calm countdown. We had just over a minute. I wanted to scream at the computer, as insane as that sounds. I wanted to ask it why, if it was so damned smart, it was going to allow the ship to blow itself to kingdom come instead of lifting one digitized finger to stop it.

  Even as I spoke, even as I said the words, I knew he was never going to allow it. But I said them anyway: “I’m not leaving.”

  “Now, Eppy. That’s an order.”

  “The captain is too valuable a commodity to lose. Starfleet has too much invested in you.” In retrospect … I think I was being selfish. As crazy as it sounds, at that instant I felt as if I would rather die than have to live, thinking of what his last moments had been like.

  “The captain goes down with his ship,” he said.

  “There’s no up or d
own in space.”

  And suddenly, just like that, he was kissing me. His lips were so hard against mine, and it roused a hunger in me so fierce that I started to wonder what it would be like to be making love to him just as the ship went up. To perish in an explosion of white light at that moment of passion that the French refer to as “the little death.”

  He lifted me up in his arms. I had been about to argue with him more, but I couldn’t remember what I was about to say.

  And the son of a bitch threw me into the lifepod. As I landed, he lobbed something gently in my direction. It clattered on the floor, and I looked down and realized that it was his short sword. He’d been carrying it with him the entire time; it represented a direct link to his youth on Xenex, and he wasn’t about to let it go up or down with the ship. It was as if it was the only tangible aspect of him that was of any importance, and if it managed to outlast him, then, in some way, he would live on.

  I started to lunge for him, but he slid the door shut and, instinctively, I yanked my hands back before the closing portal could sever my fingers. The last view I had of him, just before the door closed him off from view, was Mac, mouthing two words to me.

  I threw myself against the door of the lifepod, trying to will it open, trying to get back to him. I look back upon my behavior and can only feel relief that no one else saw it. It was not remotely appropriate for a Starfleet officer. I should have handled it far better. I have been in life and death situations, after all. I am not anxious to die, I do not embrace it … but I am not terrified of it, either. It’s simply something that happens, sooner or later.

  But, at that moment, if I was going to die, I wanted to die with him. And if one of us was going to live, I wanted it to be him. I had placed his welfare above mine. On some level, I can argue that that was exactly the right attitude to have, because part of a first officer’s job is to protect the captain under any and all circumstances. But there was more to it than that, and I can admit it to myself now that he’s gone. He has to be gone, because there was no doubt that the ship was destroyed. I know, because I saw that momentary flash of white, and then came the impact of the shock waves. Odd. They taught us that shock waves don’t travel in space. Well, these certainly did, sending my pod tumbling end over end.