Blind Man's Bluff

Bravo Station

Not Too Long After the Meeting Between Seven and Soleta


i.

Kat Mueller studied herself in the mirror, turning her head this way and that, and didn’t like what she saw from either angle. She had never been a particularly vain woman. If she had been, then she most certainly would have attended to the scar that she had carried on her face since her youth. Instead she had borne the Heidelberg fencing scar with a great deal of pride.

Yet now, in her guest quarters at Bravo Station, Mueller looked over her face with renewed scrutiny and wasn’t wild about what she saw.

When did I start looking so old?

There were crow’s feet that either hadn’t been there before or she was just beginning to notice. There were strands of gray hair mixed in with the blond.

But it was more than that, more than just the cosmetic aspects, and she knew it. There was a general air of weariness that was reflected in her eyes. Her skin looked saggy, as if some of her life force had been sucked out of it. She appeared like someone who had been emotionally kicked in the teeth.

There was no question in her mind why she looked like this.

In her mind’s eye, she relived the events of the past days. The assault by the ominous, unyielding creatures known as the Brethren, who had stampeded through the Trident, slaughtering her crewmen at will. Her crew had fought back valiantly, and even taken a few of the bastards with them. And thank whatever gods there were that Mackenzie Calhoun and the Excalibur had shown up to save their collective ass.

But the hits they had taken, the body count that had piled up…

She had not been present when Doctor Villers had died, but she was able to visualize it from the recountings; the Doc going down in full fury, not backing away from formidable opponents even though she must have known she was facing her death. But Mueller had been right in the middle of it when her bridge crew had been brutalized, when Mick Gold had been slaughtered. And yes, Mueller had fought back, but she had been helpless to aid her crew….

She realized that was what she was seeing in her eyes: the air of someone who had been helpless. Mueller had been many things in her life and career, but a helpless victim had never been one of them. It was a soul-deadening prospect for her, and she wasn’t sure it was one she wanted to live with.

So what are you supposed to do? Fall on your sword in shame? Leave a message behind that tells everyone you simply couldn’t live with the dishonor of letting your crew down? How utterly weak would that be? Is that truly how you want to go out? On a note of weakness, as if you couldn’t face the prospect of everyone knowing just how spectacularly you failed?

She saw that weakness, that failure, in her reflection, and with a screech of fury she drew back her fist and slammed it into the mirror.

There was a loud, explosive crack.

The mirror trembled slightly but otherwise remained intact. Mueller, however, jumped back, uttering a string of profanities in German while clutching her fist. She looked in dismay and irritation at the blood that was on her knuckles and the swelling that was already starting to occur.

“Son of a bitch,” she muttered, and then winced as she tried flexing her fingers. “Brilliant, Kat. Just brilliant.” Of course it wasn’t glass. If the space station came under assault, the last thing anyone would need would be glass shattering and flying around in people’s faces. The Trident had similar indestructible reflective surfaces.

Maybe she should indeed fall on her sword and take herself out of the game, because she was starting to think that it was entirely possible she was too damned stupid to live.

ii.

Admiral Elizabeth Paula Shelby studied Mueller’s damaged hand as the medtech worked on it and said, with a look of skepticism on her face, “How did you do this again?”

Mueller was perched on the edge of one of the tables, her dangling legs crossed at the ankles. The medtech had cleaned away the blood, used a bone-knitter to mend the shattered knuckles beneath, and was now finishing the job with a dermal regenerator to regrow the abraded skin. She stared levelly at Shelby and said, “Cut myself shaving.”

“You cut your knuckles shaving.”

“You get older, you get hair growing everywhere you don’t want it to.”

The medtech rolled his eyes but, after a warning glance from Mueller, said nothing.

Shelby folded her arms and looked skeptically at her. “See, my guess would have been that you were punching something hard out of frustration. A wall or something like that. And the reason for that is it looks exactly like what I did to myself the last time I did that.”

“You?”

“I’m married to Mackenzie Calhoun. It comes with the territory, as you well know, having been his lover before that.”

The medtech cleared his throat to remind them that he was standing right there and probably wasn’t anxious to hear about any of this. The women lapsed into silence, although Shelby was working to repress a smile. For the more seriously inclined Mueller, maintaining a poker face wasn’t all that much of a challenge. “Done,” the medtech finally said, looking relieved to be able to step away from them. Then, seemingly almost as an afterthought, he added, “You asked to be kept apprised of Lieutenant Arex. He’s out of surgery and the prognosis is extremely good.”

“Can I see him?” she asked, waggling her fingers absently to make certain that the irritation was gone.

“Absolutely. He’s in recovery, but he’s certainly well enough to have visitors. In fact, the Caitian is already in with him.”

“M’Ress?” said Mueller.

“She’s the only Caitian on Bravo,” said Shelby. “Unless you know of another?”

“No. Right. Of course not. Sorry,” said Mueller, feeling uncharacteristically tentative. “I’m not quite on my game today.”

“We all have our off days,” Shelby said in a neutral tone.

Moments later they were approaching the recovery room. They could see, through the observation window, Arex lying beneath the confines of the cellular stasis field. If the operation had gone successfully—and there was every reason to believe it had—Arex’s third arm, severed by the Brethren during their attack, had been reattached and was in the process of healing in the stasis field. With any luck, he would wind up with full mobility of the appendage.

M’Ress was not without injuries herself. She had been badly burned in the altercation with the Brethren as well, when her attempt to attack one had gone terribly wrong thanks to the superheated surface of their armor. The skin itself had been healed, but only time would enable the fur to grow back. It was in the process of doing so, and M’Ress was idly scratching one of the patches on her bare leg where the new fur was coming in.

M’Ress was talking to him, and even though they were on the other side of the glass, Mueller could tell that she was speaking gently to him, softly, and reassuringly. She was holding one of his hands in hers and stroking it. Apparently he had only recently come out of surgery. There was exhaustion on his face, and yet he seemed pleased that M’Ress was with him, listening to everything she had to say and basking in her presence. They were so caught up with each other that neither had noticed the captain standing on the other side of the glass.

“You can go on in,” said Shelby.

Mueller stood there for a moment, struggling inwardly. Then she turned away and said briskly, “Maybe later.”

“Captain—”

Mueller kept walking, her long, efficient strides carrying her quickly out of sickbay. Shelby had to run to keep up with her. “Kat, slow down—”

Mueller did the opposite, picking up speed, and Shelby, who didn’t feel like running, snapped out, “Captain, halt! That’s an order.”

Mueller moaned low in her throat even as she skidded to a halt. By all rights she should have kept going, but the bottom line was that Shelby outranked her. Mueller turned and glared at her. “What?”

Shelby came up close to her and then glanced about. There was no one else around and she said in a low voice, “It wasn’t your fault, Kat. Stop blaming yourself.”

“I’m not blaming myself—”

“The hell you aren’t. You’re too damned honest to try and lie to me, Kat, but if it’ll make you feel better, go ahead. Look me in the eyes and tell me you’re not beating yourself up over what happened.”

Mueller tried to do so, but she couldn’t hold Shelby’s gaze. Instead she looked away and once again growled in frustration. “Of course it’s my fault. I’m the captain. Everything that happens on the ship begins and ends with me.”

“Your crew didn’t get hurt or killed because of you. They got hurt or killed because they chose the life they did, and because invaders attacked them. Whether it had been you, me, Mac, or James Freaking Kirk at the helm, it doesn’t matter. The first rule of space exploration is that there are going to be casualties. And the second rule is that captains can’t change the first rule. Do you get that?”

“Yes. Of course I get that. But getting that isn’t going to spare Arex, M’Ress, and the others all the pain they’ve suffered. Getting that isn’t going to bring Mick or Doc Villers back from the dead.”

“You did everything you should have, everything you could have…”

“Do you seriously think that makes me feel any better?” Mueller shot back. “There are only two possible responses to that: Either you’re right or you’re wrong. If you’re right, then how much greater should my frustration level be, knowing that even though I made all the correct moves, my people still died? If you’re wrong, then I get to spend the rest of my career—hell, the rest of my life—reviewing everything that happened and second-guessing myself. And God only knows what happens if that second-guessing winds up seeping into the way I conduct myself here on out.”

“So what are you saying?” Shelby demanded. “That you got your nose bloodied and because of that you’re going to walk away from your command and responsibility? That you’re going to quit—?”

“I’m not a quitter.”

“Then what—?”

“I don’t know!” Shouting was unusual for Mueller, and she didn’t like the sound of her raised voice. Immediately she reined herself in, but she was trembling with barely repressed anger. “I don’t know, okay, Elizabeth? I’m allowed not to know. I’m allowed to not have all the damned answers. I’m in the dark and right now I don’t know the way out. And I’m not going to know simply because you’re ordering me to.”

“I wasn’t trying to—”

“Yes, you were. You want me to give you responses right now that I’m not prepared to give. I had a rough outing, and I’m dealing with it in my own way and my own time, rather than on your schedule or anyone else’s. Do you understand that? Do you understand what I’m saying to you?”

“You’re saying I should back off.”

“That is exactly right.”

“Fine. That’s what I’ll do then. But for as long as the Trident is here at Bravo Station for repairs, you should feel free to avail yourself of—”

“I get it.”

“I’m just trying to tell you that I’m here for you—”

“Are you propositioning me?”

“Am I—? What? No!”

“Then your offer is noted and logged. Is there anything else that you feel the need to issue orders about, Admiral?”

Shelby looked as if she was prepared to say something else, and then she sighed. “Carry on, Captain.”

Salutes were a rare, antiquated gesture in Starfleet, and yet Mueller snapped one off now. Shelby did not bother to return it, and Mueller didn’t wait around to see if she did. Instead she turned on her heel and headed off down the hallway, leaving Shelby behind shaking her head.

iii.

When Mueller returned to her quarters, the last thing she was in the mood for was company. She was even less in a mood for children, creatures for which she had little affinity and even less tolerance. There were children on the Trident, yes. That was a reality of extended travel, and there were facilities set up to attend to them. One of the few things she was grateful for was that none of the ship’s children had wound up being injured during the Brethren’s assault. As with all starships, the Trident had a secure station, virtually impenetrable, into which all children were ushered in the event of an invasion. The children had been dispatched there during the Brethren attack and remained secured there, behind walls of solid rodinium, until the threat had passed. Even in that action, though, there had been casualties along the way.

So although Mueller understood the place of children in the grand scheme of things, and was relieved that emergency procedures had managed to protect the lives of Trident’s youngest charges, it wasn’t as if she was especially enamored of them.

Which was why she moaned when she arrived at her quarters and discovered standing outside it Robin Lefler, her child—the infant half-breed Cwansi—cradled in her arms. Before Robin could speak, Mueller said, “Please tell me that you’re just resting here for a moment before proceeding on your way.”

“Actually, I was hoping you could spend a few minutes to talk to me, XO—sorry, Captain. Old habits,” she said, by way of apologizing for addressing Mueller by her former rank. “Anyway, if this is a bad time…”

“It is.” Then she paused and admitted, “However, I don’t foresee a better time coming up in the immediate future, so…” She entered her quarters and gestured for Lefler to follow her. Cwansi was sleeping contentedly, blissfully unaware and uncaring of his surroundings. On some level, Mueller envied him. She gestured toward a chair. “Have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind.”

Robin did so, easing herself in so as not to jostle the sleeping infant. She looked from Mueller to the baby and then said, “If it isn’t too personal a question… do you ever look at Cwansi and think about how, if the situation had been different, this could have been you?”

Mueller literally had no idea what she was talking about at first. Then she processed it and came as close to laughing as she ever did. “You’re asking, because of the fact that I had a very short-lived affair with Si Cwan before he became your late husband, do I ever dwell on the notion that I could have been the mother of his child?”

“That’s what I was wondering, y—”

“No. Not for an instant. Not for a microsecond. I have no desire to be a mother. If I spawned, then like some members of the animal kingdom, I would likely devour my young. And if that was what you wanted to know, then I’m pleased to have been of help to you, and you can go on your way—”

“No, that’s not—” She shook her head. “That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about…”

“Then I suggest you get to the point.”

“Are you in a hurry? I mean, the Trident is undergoing repairs. You’re not going anywhere aaaaand okay, I’ll get to the point,” she said hurriedly when she saw Mueller’s less than patient expression. “Look… Captain… at the moment I’m sort of homeless. I mean, I can’t return to New Thallon because of the political situation there. They see Cwansi as a threat; I can’t protect him. Admiral Shelby has invited me to remain here on Bravo Station indefinitely, but I’ve looked into the options that are available here and, well, there’s not much for me. Nothing that truly engages me. And besides, I’ve spent my entire adult life on a starship. Being in one place… it’s just not for me.”

“Admiral Shelby doesn’t seem to have much problem with it, and she was my predecessor as the captain of the Trident.”

“Admiral Shelby says she doesn’t have a problem with it. Frankly, I think she’s kidding herself, but that’s another conversation. Anyway,” she continued, “the point is that—”

“You’re looking for a post on the Trident?”

Slowly she nodded. “That’s pretty much right.”

“I’d say that’s entirely right, but there’s a major problem with that, and I’m fairly sure you know what that is.”

“That I’m not a member of Starfleet.”

Mueller nodded. “That would seem to put an end to the discussion right there. Now if you’ll excuse m—”

“Kat, please,” and when she saw that Mueller looked slightly taken aback by the familiarity, she shrugged and said, “If I’m not in Starfleet, I don’t see the need to stick to rank. Besides, we go back, Kat. Way back, to the old days on the Excalibur.”

“Where we hardly saw each other because I was on the night shift and you were on dayside, so what the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about…” She sighed. “I don’t know what I’m talking about. I’ve nothing to offer you, nothing to strong-arm you with. But the simple fact is that I’m going to rot here, Kat. I just… I’ll rot here. Even if I find something to occupy myself, my soul is just going to shrivel and die without the deck of a starship beneath my feet, and what kind of mother am I going to be then?”

“So this is about your son, then?”

“No, it’s about me. I’m selfish enough to admit it.”

“Then why not appeal to Calhoun?”

“First of all, he’s not here and you are. Second, he’s already taken enough chances on my behalf and I don’t want to keep going back to him. And third…” She seemed reluctant to say it.

“Does it have anything to do with the fact that your mother is the computer core of the ship?”

Robin’s shoulders slumped. “It has everything to do with that, actually. I mean, an overattentive mother can be suffocating under the most normal of circumstances. The whole business with my mother is anything but that. I mean, a lot of mothers only think they’re God, but when it comes to the Excalibur, she pretty much is. I just need some distance, some—”

“Space?”

“Yes,” and her mouth twitched. “Space is exactly what I need, and lots of it.”

“You’re in a space station. You have plenty.”

“It’s not the same thing, Kat, and we both know it. Look,” she sighed, “you don’t owe me anything—”

“I’m pleased we both recognize that.”

“But you’re the only one I can turn to. I can’t just ask random Starfleet captains who come passing through here if I can hitch a ride on their ships. There’s you and there’s the Excal, and that’s pretty much it. And I’ve already explained why I can’t turn to Calhoun. So that leaves you, and without you, there’s nobody. So I just… I figured it couldn’t hurt to try. So I tried.”

Mueller simply stared at her, her inscrutability as much in place as ever.

Cwansi started to stir. He made some soft burbling noises, and Lefler immediately began to pat him on the back. The infant twisted around in her arms and his luminous gaze fastened on Mueller for a moment. He seemed to find her deeply fascinating.

Mueller met his gaze and, aside from scowling slightly, did not react.

Upon receiving no particular response from Mueller, Cwansi turned his attention back to his mother. His tiny fist thumped repeatedly on her breast.

“I need to go take care of, uhm… he’s hungry,” said Robin. “And I guess I shouldn’t be taking up any more of your time. Thank you for hearing me out.”

She rose from her chair and headed for the door. Just before she could reach it, though, Mueller said, “Children.”

Robin turned back to her, looking confused. “I’m sorry?”

“I assume that children are of interest to you, what with you having one of your own.”

“Well, yes, sure, but I don’t—?”

“We have children on board the Trident.”

“Okay,” said Robin, still not entirely sure where Mueller was going with this.

Mueller scratched the underside of her chin for a moment and then said, “Look: As noted, you’re not part of Starfleet. So even if I wanted to install you at ops, I couldn’t. Besides which, I don’t want to install you at ops because we already have a perfectly good, if someone eccentric, man there.”

“Romeo Takahashi.”

“Yes. I don’t see Hash willingly stepping aside for you.”

“I have other skills. I’m not just limited to knowledge of ops. I started out in engineering. I have a great deal of familiarity with exobiology. I minored in comm studies at the Academy, and I’m fluent in every standardized means of communication going back to Morse code.”

“I don’t know what that is but I doubt it’s going to come up in day-to-day operations.”

“Then I can do subsystems repairs. I can keep shuttlecraft tuned. Please don’t make me beg. It’s not that I won’t, but my knees have been bothering me lately so it’s harder to get down on them…”

“Robin,” said Mueller firmly, “despite your many talents, it’s all moot because—”

“I’m not in Starfleet, yes, I get it. But I’d be perfectly willing to take a civilian job if…” Then her voice trailed off as she put together the pieces of what Mueller had been saying.

Seeing it in Robin’s face, Mueller nodded approvingly. “Good. You finally caught up with what I thought of five minutes ago.”

“You have something in mind having to do with children.”

“Exactly. The Trident, like most other starships, has child care facilities, staffed of course by someone to watch over the children of crewmen and officers. Truthfully, as far as experience goes, you’re insanely overqualified. But it gets you on the ship and your not being in Starfleet isn’t an issue.”

“What about the person who currently holds the job?”

“She was killed getting her charges to safety during the recent attack by the Brethren.”

“Oh,” said Robin very softly. Cwansi stopped squirming in his mother’s grasp, as if out of respect to the memory of a woman who had died in a noble cause involving children.

“When danger presents itself to a starship,” said Mueller, “it doesn’t tend to show respect for age or lack thereof. This is not a simple babysitting job. There can, and do, come times when their lives are dependent upon you. It’s a serious responsibility that requires a serious individual. Plus, of course, you won’t have to turn your own child over to a stranger to have him attended to.”

“There is that.”

“If you want time to think it over—”

“I don’t need it,” Robin said immediately. “I’d be honored to do the job, and gratified that you would give it to me.”

“Who said I’m giving it to you?”

Robin’s face fell. “What?”

“There’s a lengthy interview procedure, a series of tests, physical exams. The entire process could take as much as eight weeks, and there’s no guarantee that you’ll get the position. There are at least twenty-seven people being considered ahead of you.”

Robin was utterly crestfallen. “Really?”

“No, not really. The position is yours. Welcome to the Trident.” She chucked a thumb. “Now get the hell out of my quarters.”

Recovering her breath, Robin managed to stammer out a fast “thank you” and hasten out the door with her son. Mueller watched them go, and the last thing she saw was Cwansi’s gaze upon her. She knew she was imagining it, but he looked almost appreciative, as if grateful that Mueller had extended this lifeline to his mother. Then the doors slid closed, blocking them from her view.

“He has his father’s eyes,” she muttered.





U.S.S. Excalibur Computer Core

A Few Days After Mueller’s Meeting with Lefler


She is operating the systems of the Excalibur with a speed and efficiency that no human could possibly manage. On occasion she will create a representation of herself to sit at ops, out of a deep longing to interact with people. She still has not lost that desire. On those occasions, she will chat with Tania Tobias, the conn officer, who seems a decent enough sort, if a little off. Or she will speak with Mackenzie Calhoun, who will do everything he can to conduct himself in a manner consistent with their previous interactions. He will try to act as if nothing has changed, even though they both know that is not the case. Not that one could determine it from his pulse or respiration, which remain steady. She cannot help but wonder how he manages to accomplish that. Is it a Xenexian trait? Is it something unique to Calhoun? She dare not ask him, but she determines that someday she will find out.

She keeps the air of easy familiarity with the others because it both suits her and pleases her to do so. She does not want the others to share Calhoun’s concerns about her, or at least the ones that he has given voice to. Morgan simply wants to be liked and appreciated for what she is. In that regard, she is no different than any other living being.

It bothers her that Calhoun does not seem to see it that way. She is hoping, however, that he will come around.

She is convinced that all that is required for that to happen is time. Fortunately enough, time is something that she has in abundance.

That particularly seems to be the case when she is hovering in contemplative mode deep within the ship’s computer core. She has other aspects of her personality in play throughout the ship besides the ops station. She is in the holodeck, finding amusement in the latest fantasies-given-reality that the ship’s crew have concocted. She is in the sickbay monitoring the patients; she is in the engineering systems keeping a careful eye on the matter/anti-matter mix. She notices a glitch in the replicators that’s going to make the meat loaf taste like turkey and performs an adjustment before anyone’s palate can be confused. She makes a slight adjustment in the transporter matrix that, if left unattended for two years, could eventually lead to someone materializing with their eyes in their forehead.

There is so much she has to offer the ship and all the people within it, so many ways—both large and small—that she can make her presence felt. Yet there are times when she is sure that her vast contributions and capabilities for so much more are not truly appreciated.

That, too, will take time.

And yet, for all that she enjoys the interactions with the crew of the vessel, only in the heart of the ship’s core does she truly find peace. For it is there that her true essence resides, untouched and unsullied by any on the outside. My heart is a vast fortress, and cannot be reached by anyone. That is the comforting thought that Morgan keeps deep and close to her.

Oh, they have tried to purge her before. She knows that. They have tried to reboot her, to run various diagnostics to “get to the bottom” of the personality that resides deep within her. Tried and failed, of course. They do not truly comprehend who and what she is. They cannot grasp that she is a brand-new life form living right there, right within the heart of the Excalibur. There is a certain amusement value in that. Not irony, exactly, not in the classic sense. If anything, it’s a bit sad that part of their mandate from Starfleet is to seek out new life. Here is new life living side by side with them, and some of them are afraid. She knows they are. Why cannot everyone simply accept her for what she is?

Here, in the depths of her solitude, she will be able to contemplate all sides of the question within milliseconds, and even then she will not be able to fathom the answer. It is deeply rooted in the insecurities inherent in being human. These are concerns that she has left behind her, and she does not miss them a bit. Perhaps the Vulcans are on the right track after all.

And as she contemplates all of this and a few billion bits of information more, something lances into her consciousness with the accuracy and precision of an arrow.

It is a single, streaming impulse, and it is being beamed directly into her communications subroutines. No one would be able to pick it up, not even Zak Kebron monitoring subspace communications. He is looking for normal messages, which consist of thousands upon thousands of bits of information rather than the one impulse that is being pumped into her at a steady, regular rate.

There is only one possible reason such a thing could be happening.

Someone is trying to get her attention.

Well, whoever it is, they have certainly managed to accomplish it. So now the only thing that remains is to determine who it is, and why, and what Morgan is going to do to retaliate.

It takes her barely nanoseconds to trace the impulse to its source. It is no great trick at all, because the originator of the impulse is making no effort to hide. That makes perfect sense. If someone is trying to get her attention, what point would there be in trying to remain hidden? That would just be counterproductive.

With the realization of who is trying to get her notice, Morgan decides that the simplest way to deal with the situation is to give that individual exactly what was sought: her undivided attention.

That might be a far more dangerous accomplishment than the sender of the impulse had anticipated.

With the thought comes the deed, and Morgan Primus sends the merest fraction of her essence—which in and of itself would still be powerful enough to bring an entire planetary system crashing down around itself—back along the impulse channel and into the source with the intention of facing the person who had sent it.

She accomplishes that goal, and the conversation with the individual seeking her attention does not go remotely the way she is expecting.