Blind Man's Bluff

U.S.S. Dauntless

i.

Until the last moment, Jellico wasn’t sure that he was just going to stand by and let Kemper open fire on the Excalibur.

The damning thing was that Kemper was absolutely in the right, and Jellico knew it. The orders had come from above Jellico and he had no authority to countermand them without some excuse, and at the moment he had none. It was the reason that Jellico was hesitating to take charge of the ship: because it would mean undercutting an officer who was doing nothing more than obeying the orders that had been handed down by Starfleet. The fact that Jellico believed they were wrongheaded was Jellico’s problem and not anyone else’s.

It would have been one thing if the captain was incapacitated or otherwise unavailable. Then Jellico, as the ranking officer, would have been able to take command of the ship. But Kemper, despite his negative history with Calhoun, was by all evidence operating with clear faculties and a full awareness of everything he was doing. Consequently, his direct authority as the ship’s commanding officer would be the final arbiter, at least on all practical levels. It might be possible for Jellico to make a case at a subsequent disciplinary hearing that Kemper should have willingly ceded command to him, but none of that would solve the immediate problem.

Furthermore, there was no one in Starfleet who had a greater respect for the chain of command than Jellico. And he was loath to be the weak link in that chain. But was he really supposed to just stand by and allow Calhoun and his people to be blown to bits?

He needed a cause, a reason to intercede. He stared fixedly at the ship on the screen. Give me something. Give me anything. Come on, you bastard, find a way to—

Then he squinted. Was that—?

“Fifty eight… fifty nine… sixty seconds, Commodore,” said Commander Williams, and there was a sense of real tragedy in his voice.

Kemper didn’t share the setiment. “Mr. Hopkins… fire pha—”

“Hold it!” said Jellico.

As if anticipating that Jellico was going to try and intercede, Kemper said, “Admiral Jellico, if I need to get security—”

“Magnify the image. I think I see something.”

Kemper hesitated, as if suspecting that Jellico was up to some sort of trick. But then he nodded and said, “Increase by fifty percent.”

The Excalibur grew in size. Jellico approached, staring at it for long seconds, and just at the point where Kemper was about to say that enough was enough, Jellico pointed and said, “Look! There!”

“What am I looking at?” Kemper said impatiently.

“The running lights. They’re not flashing in normal sequence. They’re flashing three short, three long, three short, repeatedly.”

Kemper stared at him. “So?”

“It’s SOS. Morse code.”

“It’s what?”

“Morse code. An ancient form of communication conveyed through a series of dots and dashes via a device called a telegraph.”

“Sir, with all respect, are you making this up?”

Jellico almost laughed but caught himself, since this was hardly the type of situation where laughing would help anything. “SOS was the international signal for dire emergency. Some people claimed it stood for ‘save our ship,’ but it was just a handy way of remembering the key letters: three quick transmissions, then three slower ones, then three quick ones again.”

Kemper regarded him suspiciously and then said, “Computer. Analyze image of vessel designated Excalibur, cross referencing for something called Morris co—”

“Morse.”

“Morse code,” he corrected. “Analyze and report conclusions.” He then sat there with what was clearly an expectant look in anticipation of the computer informing him that it didn’t know what the hell he was talking about.

And the computer reported crisply, “Running lights are signaling a pattern consistent with Morse code designation SOS, indicating that vessel is in distress and requires assistance.”

There were impressed looks from around the command crew. Even Kemper appeared stunned. “And how do you know all about this code stuff?”

“I’m a history buff, Commodore. You ought to try it some time, the entire concept of listening to history.”

It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Kemper bristled and then said brusquely, “So what? This is exactly the type of trap that Calhoun would set.”

Jellico couldn’t keep the incredulity from his voice. “He would signal for help using an ancient means of communication on the off chance that someone looking at it might see it? Seriously?”

“We’re dealing with a madman. There’s no predicting his actions or figuring out what makes sense to him and what doesn’t. The point is: This changes nothing.”

“Wrong, Commodore,” said Jellico, his voice ringing with confidence. “This changes everything.”

“How do you figure that?”

“Because the Starfleet Charter supersedes orders. That’s why the charter exists: to be a grounding for right and wrong, something to measure orders against. In this particular case, Starfleet Charter Article Fourteen, Section Thirty-one, clearly states that Starfleet personnel can take extraordinary measures in times of dire emergency. An SOS, by any definition, constitutes probable belief that a dire emergency is present.”

Kemper looked from the ship on the screen back to Jellico. “What are you saying, Commodore?”

“I am saying that if you do not stand down your weapons, I am authorized by the Starfleet Charter to take an extraordinary measure and assume command of your vessel immediately.”

“That is a rather broad interpretation of Article Fourteen, Section Thirty-one.”

“You can take it up with a review board if you wish. I emphasize that it is not my first choice, but I feel it is my only choice. It’s up to you, Commodore.”

Kemper took a long time to respond. That was fine with Jellico; the more time, the better.

“Mr. Hopkins,” he said finally, “stand down the phasers. Secure from general quarters.”

“Aye, sir,” and Hopkins had never sounded so happy to obey an order as he did at that moment.

Jellico noticed out of the corner of his eye that Detwiler was smiling and nodding in approval, but he chose not to dwell upon it since it was none of his business.

“I’m going to prepare a security team to board her and see what’s going on,” said Kemper. “Admiral Jellico, I was wondering if you would like to head it up?”

It was a canny suggestion on Kemper’s part. If he was right, and this turned out to be some sort of elaborate trap, then Jellico was going to be the one who found himself in the middle of it. But it was a chance that Jellico was willing to take, because he still firmly believed that Calhoun was innocent of the charges against him or that, at the very least, there was more to it than met the eye.

As it turned out, though, it wasn’t going to be necessary.

ii.

The strange-looking vessel that dropped out of space moments before Jellico and the security team could be beamed aboard was completely unknown to anyone on the bridge. The Dauntless immediately went to yellow alert as Kemper prepared for a possible assault.

“There’s every likelihood,” said Jellico, who had been about to head down to the transporter room, “that their target is going to be the Excalibur. It may well be a member of the Protectorate that we’re not familiar with.”

“Well, then this will be a hell of a get-acquainted party,” said Kemper.

“Sir,” said Hopkins, “we’re getting an incoming hail—” Then his voice trailed off for a moment before he looked up again with confusion and astonishment on his face. “I’ll be damned.”

“What’s going on, Hopkins?” said Kemper, who wasn’t thrilled with Hopkins’s reaction.

“Commodore… it’s Captain Calhoun.”

“What is?”

“On the hailing frequency.”

“So the Excalibur finally decided to talk to us?”

“No, sir. He’s on the ship that just arrived.”

Kemper couldn’t believe it. “Say again?”

“He’s not on the Excalibur. He’s on the ship that just got here.”

Not knowing what else to say, Kemper said, “Put him on.”

Moments later the image of Mackenzie Calhoun appeared on the screen. The bridge crew made no attempt to hide their shock. Calhoun’s hair was disheveled and he had a length of beard that had grown in. His clothing was torn, his skin was badly burned. He looked like he hadn’t slept in weeks. All in all, it seemed impressive that he was still standing. Yet there was the customary determination in his eyes, as if he was resolved to ignore all the weaknesses to which a mere mortal’s body was heir.

Slowly Kemper rose to his feet. “Calhoun…?”

Calhoun squinted and then his mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile. “Well, if it isn’t Glass Jaw Kemper.”

There was a ripple of snickering from behind the Commodore, which quickly ceased. Then Calhoun noticed that Jellico was there as well. “Admiral,” he said, and there was definite exhaustion in his voice. “Wasn’t expecting to see you here.”

“Mac? What are you doing in that ship?” Jellico stared at him in confusion. “Why aren’t you on the Excalibur?”

“It’s an interesting story,” said Calhoun with effort. “I think we need to talk, about quite a few things. But first I have to get to my ship.”

“Your ship appears nonresponsive,” Jellico said. “Sensors indicate the normal crew complement, so she seems more or less intact. But we haven’t been able to get a rise out of her.”

“That’s either a bad thing or a good thing. We’ll have to find out.”

“Bad or good. Not a lot of room in between.”

“There rarely is,” said Mackenzie Calhoun.





Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco

i.

Admiral Nechayev strode across the pavilion in front of Starfleet Headquarters. It was a gorgeous morning, but she wasn’t paying any attention to it. Instead her mind was literally light-years away.

She didn’t understand why in the world she hadn’t heard from any Starfleet vessels as to a confirmed kill of the Excalibur. Nor had she heard anything further from Morgan Primus, even though she had sent a pulse via a subspace channel in an effort to summon her, just as she had earlier. It had worked perfectly the first time, but this time: nothing.

Nor had any of her other “associates” been in touch with her. That was not necessarily unusual. They minimized contact with her as a matter of security. The less she knew, the less she would be able to tell someone else in the event that she was captured. Not that Nechayev considered that to be a genuine threat, but she supposed that one couldn’t be too careful about these things.

Lost in thought, she almost collided with a man who was directly in her path. She stepped around him reflexively and then let out a startled cry as his hand clamped down upon her shoulder. She turned and reacted as if she had just been slapped hard across the face.

It was Mackenzie Calhoun, and there was quiet anger in his face, discernible by the way that his scar was shining a brighter red against his cheek. To his immediate right was Edward Jellico.

Neither of them seemed happy to see her.

“M-Mac…” she stammered out. “I… I don’t—”

“It’s over, Alynna,” said Jellico flatly.”

What’s… over?” She forced a smile. “Ed, what are you talking about?”

“I told you about Morgan,” said Calhoun, “and about the D’myurj. Things that you wanted to keep quiet about.”

“I keep quiet about a lot of things, Mac. That’s my job. And I… I don’t understand what you’re doing here. Ed, what is he—?”

“He wasn’t responsible for the slaughter on New Thallon. Neither was the Excalibur herself, as I’m sure you know,” he said tightly. “Too many things came together from too many directions in order to make this happen. Too many disparate elements.” Jellico watched her grimly, looking for any sign of a reaction that would indicate guilt. “Morgan, the ambassador, the Brethren, the kill order on the Excal. All of it. There had to be one person who was coordinating it all, and no matter how we look at it, it all keeps coming back to you.”

She summoned massive amounts of indignation the way that someone else would summon courage. “That is an outrageous accusation, Edward, and I will see you busted down to ensign if you even dare to repeat such calumnies. And you, Calhoun,” she continued. “You now say that you are innocent of all charges. What you say doesn’t matter; you’re still going to have to face the Federation Council—”

“Tusari Gyn admitted everything.”

Calhoun said it so matter-of-factly that at first it didn’t quite register to her. “I’m… sorry?”

“He put up quite a struggle,” said Jellico, smiling at the recollection. “He was a tough nut to crack. He lasted a whole… what would you say, Mac? Twenty minutes?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen minutes before he gave you up.”

Nechayev’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You’re bluffing, Ed. I can always tell. Calhoun is unreadable, but you have a lousy poker face. Furthermore, if you had any proof of these… these outrageous claims, then you wouldn’t be here, the two of you. You’d be here with security guards, ready to take me in.”

“We are.” Jellico snapped his fingers and, pointing behind her, said, “Take her.”

Nechayev spun, startled, expecting to see Starfleet security guards right behind her.

Should that have been the case, she would have killed them instantly. Her carefully designed, meticulously manufactured hybrid body had that capability for emergency situations, and this would certainly have qualified as such.

But she didn’t see a guard. Instead, she found herself looking into the face of Soleta.

She hesitated, caught up in a moment of confusion.

The moment cost her.

ii.

Soleta’s hand speared forward, clamping onto Nechayev’s face as if she were about to tear it off.

Vulcans were forbidden from using the technique of the mindmeld in any manner that even vaguely resembled that of employing it as a weapon. Such a use would have been considered an abomination, a perversion of the sacred techniques that had developed the mindmeld in the first place.

During the time in her life when Soleta had thought she was pure Vulcan, she would have been as appalled as anyone else over the notion of utilizing the mindmeld as one would a spear or a club.

But Soleta knew her heritage, and had come to grips with it, accepting it and herself for all that she was.

Consequently, she was a good deal less delicate about it.

She slammed her mind into Nechayev’s, having no idea what she was going to find. She was determined not to give Nechayev the slightest opportunity to fight back.

And a barrage of images comes at her, fast, relentless, so many, so much, that Soleta cannot discern or individualize any of it; she has never encountered anything like it, a mind so different from hers, so impossible to understand, that she cannot even conceptualize it, and she sees that Nechayev wants to attack her, she has some sort of neuralizing toxin built right into her DNA but she has to use an act of will and Soleta shoves that act of will back, back, back into the recesses of Nechayev’s brain, or the thing that says it is Nechayev, and it may be her or may not be, whatever it is, wherever, it’s overwhelming, and Soleta has no idea how long she has been inside Nechayev’s mind, it must be hours, days, weeks, she is lost in there and will never find her way out, and she cannot let herself be taken down, there is too much riding on it, and Nechayev pushes back with her mind, and Soleta meets the challenge, and their consciousnesses collide, and Soleta is on the verge of destruction, just that quickly, just that easily, and Soleta focuses all her will, all her essence, her ego, her id, everything, into one great vicious destructive spear and she drives it forward with as much force as she can, and as she does this, as she commits this incredible act of determination, she wonders why she has done this, why she has, time and again, risked herself to serve, whenever possible, an organization that tossed her away, that treated her so very, very badly, and it is at that moment that she is struck with the thoroughly astounding realization that she is totally, madly, and completely in love with Mackenzie Calhoun, and she has just enough time to think, Well, of COURSE you are, how could it be anything else but that, you should have realized that ages ago, and that is when everything goes black…

iii.

Calhoun had not known what to expect when Soleta had agreed to force her mind into that of Nechayev so that they could discern just what it was they were dealing with. What ultimately happened transpired so quickly that it was hard for him to believe anything had occurred at all.

From the moment that Soleta clamped her hand onto Nechayev’s face to the time that it all ended horribly, it was scarcely the blink of an eye. And then Nechayev screamed, and it was not a scream that sounded like anything remotely human or, for that matter, anything that Calhoun had ever heard before. It started low and then got louder and louder, escalating until it was earsplitting, like something that might be torn from the throat of a dying bat.

And Alynna Nechayev melted.

He had never seen anything like it. It was as if her body had simply lost cohesion, transforming into a gelatinous mass of protoplasm, suffused with a blue glow. Her head descended between her shoulders, her arms melted into her body, and her legs dissolved beneath her body, causing it to sink very rapidly as if she had just stepped into a pool of quicksand. She made the most appalling noise when she collapsed in on herself, like a sucking noise through a huge straw, and then her body utterly dissolved into a mass of flesh and liquid bones that mixed together into a disgusting, multicolored agglomeration.

Soleta pitched backward and Calhoun caught her. Her face, typically with a light green tint, was completely yellow. Were she human, she would have been diagnosed with kidney failure. He shouted her name but her yellow-tinted eyes rolled up into her head and she was nonresponsive.

Passersby stopped in their tracks, unable to process fully what they had witnessed. Instantly he hit his badge and shouted, “Calhoun to Excalibur! Emergency beam up, two to sickbay, now! Now!”

In a burst of color and molecules, Calhoun and Soleta vanished, leaving a stunned Admiral Jellico with a spreading puddle where an esteemed admiral had previously been standing, and a hell of a lot of explaining to do.