Starfleet Year One Read online

  “It is indeed,” the Vulcan told her. Then he turned and walked back into the embrace of his master’s domicile, a sprawling, white structure whose size alone was evidence of Sammak’s prominence.

  The ambassador gazed at the profusion of color again. If Sammak was out there, she told herself, she would find him soon enough—and no doubt derive pleasure from the finding. She descended several white stone steps to the level of the ground and began her search at the only place possible—the maze’s remarkably unobtrusive entrance.

  The shrubs that bordered the initial passageway were a majestic golden orange, lighter than the sky above them. But soon they gave way to an ethereal silver, a sprightly green, and a soft, pale yellow. It was immediately after that, in a corridor of deep, startling crimson, that Barstowe caught sight of a humanoid figure in white garb.

  Sammak, she thought. No question about it. She could tell by the curling gray of his hair. The Vulcan was kneeling, pruning back a branch that had grown out too far.

  He didn’t turn to acknowledge his guest. Instead, he spoke a single word of recognition: “Ambassador.”

  Barstowe responded with the same economy. “Sammak.”

  Finally, he glanced at her. “I trust you are in good health.”

  “I am,” she told him. “And you?”

  “I have no complaints,” the Vulcan responded.

  The human touched the crimson shrubbery, which was made up of slim, pointed leaves. “I don’t recall seeing this color the last time I was out here,” she said. “Is it a seasonal effect?”

  Sammak looked pleased. “It is,” he confirmed. “In the colder months, these tuula leaves turn pink with small brown spots.” He assessed them for a moment, brushing the underside of one with his forefinger. “But I have come to prefer them this way.”

  “So do I,” Barstowe told him.

  The Vulcan regarded her. “It has been a long time since last we saw each other. More than three years.”

  “Travel has been limited,” the ambassador noted. “None of us in the diplomatic corps get around as much as we would like.”

  Sammak’s brow creased ever so slightly. “But I do not imagine you have come to Vulcan simply to compliment me on my tuula bushes.”

  Barstowe smiled. “That’s true. In fact, I came to give you some news. It seems the Romulans are suing for peace.”

  Sammak was known to be a great believer in the teachings of Surak, an individual who prided himself on his ability to master his emotions. Yet even he couldn’t conceal a look of surprise . . .and approval as well, she thought.

  “Peace,” said the Vulcan, savoring the word.

  “That’s right. The Romulans were staggered by their defeat at Cheron,” the ambassador explained. “If the war goes on much longer, their homeworlds will be threatened.”

  Sammak looked at her. “Poetic justice?”

  Barstowe shrugged. “One might say that.”

  A few years earlier, the Romulans had pushed their offensive all the way into Earth’s solar system. If not for the courage and determination of Earth’s forces, the war might have ended then and there.

  For a moment, the Vulcan seemed to mull over the information she had given him. “I am pleased, of course,” he said at last. “As you know, Ambassador, I spoke against my world’s decision to remain neutral in the conflict.”

  Barstowe nodded. “I recall your speech. It was quite stirring.”

  “For all the good it did. Clearly, neutrality was an illogical stance. If the Romulans had succeeded against Earth, they would have come after Vulcan in time as well.”

  “We of Earth always believed so,” said the ambassador. “Together, my people and yours might have pushed the Romulans back in three years instead of five or six. And if we could have secured the aid of some of the other neutral worlds, it might only have been a matter of months.”

  The Vulcan sighed. “It is useless to engage in conjecture. The past is the past. Surak taught us to look to the future.”

  Barstowe saw her chance. She took it.

  “I’m glad you hold that conviction,” she told Sammak. “You see, my superiors have a revolutionary idea—one that can radically change the face of this quadrant for the better.”

  The Vulcan returned his attention to her, his dark eyes narrowing. “And the nature of this idea...?”

  The human met his gaze. “I’m talking about a union of worlds. A federation designed to offer its members mutual protection against aggressor species like the Romulans . . .and maybe even facilitate an exchange of ideas into the bargain.”

  Sammak took some time to ponder the notion. “A federation,” he repeated. He shrugged. “It is, as you say, a revolutionary concept.”

  “But one whose time has come,” said Barstowe. “As we speak, similar conversations are taking place between Earth’s ambassadors and people of vision on a dozen worlds from Sol to Rigel—worlds like Andor, Dopterius, Arbaza, Dedderai, and Vobilin.”

  The Vulcan cocked an eyebrow. “I am impressed.”

  Barstowe smiled again. “That’s a start. But what I really want—what I need—is your support, my friend. You see, I would like very much to present this idea to T’pau...and I’m sure my arguments would be more persuasive if I didn’t have to present them alone.”

  Sammak considered the proposition for a moment. Then he nodded. “I will accompany you to T’pau’s court, Ambassador. And as you suggest, we will plead your case together.”

  The human inclined her head. “Thank you, my friend.”

  Her host shook his head. “No, Ambassador. For giving me an opportunity to improve my people’s lot, it is I who should thank you.”

  “Have it your way,” Barstowe told him. “Who am I to argue with someone as eloquent as Sammak of Vulcan?”

  CHAPTER

  6

  WHEN ADMIRAL WALKER ENTERED THE ROOM, FORTY-SIX faces turned in his direction and forty-six hands came up to salute him.

  He knew every one of them by name. Redfern, Hagedorn, McTigue, Santorini . . . Beschta, Barrios, Jones, Woo...

  “At ease,” the admiral said, advancing with echoing footfalls to the exact center of the soaring gold and black conference facility.

  Earth Command’s surviving captains relaxed, but not much. After all, they were men and women who had learned to thrive on discipline. That was why they were still alive when so many of their comrades were dead.

  All around Walker, curved observation ports conformed to the shape of Command Base’s titanium-reinforced outer hull, each one displaying bits and pieces of the visible galaxy. Only a couple of weeks ago, Earth’s forces had seen the enemy abandon the last of the closer pieces.

  As for those that were farther away . . . well, the admiral thought, that was the subject of this blasted meeting, now wasn’t it?

  “I know you’ve all got people you want to see and no one deserves to see them more than you do,” he told the assemblage, his voice bounding from bulkhead to bulkhead. “With that in mind, I’ll try to make this brief.”

  Forty-six pairs of eyes attended him, waiting for him to begin. Walker took a breath and did what his duty demanded of him.

  “I have just come from a meeting with President Littlejohn—a very important meeting, I might add.” The admiral scanned his officers’ faces. “She tells me there’s a change on the horizon—one that may keep us from being caught with our pants down the next time an invader comes knocking.”

  The prospect met with nods and grunts of approval. No surprise there, Walker mused. These were the men and women who had borne the brunt of Earth’s miserable lack of readiness for five long, hard war years. No one could be happier to see some improvements made.

  That is, if they were the right improvements.

  “This change,” he told them, “is manifesting itself as something called The United Federation of Planets. It’s an organization that’s going to include Earth and her allies. So far, we’ve got eight official takers. Several more are expe
cted to follow over the course of the next few weeks.”

  The captains exchanged glances. They seemed impressed but also a little skeptical. The admiral didn’t blame them. Nothing of this magnitude had ever been seriously contemplated.

  “And that’s not all,” he said. “This Federation will enjoy the services of something tentatively called a ‘star fleet’—an entity that draws on the resources of not just Earth, but all member worlds.”

  “You mean we’ll be flying alongside Tellarites?” asked Stiles.

  “And Dopterians?” added Beschta, obviously finding the notion a little difficult to swallow.

  “Right now,” Walker declared, cutting through the buzz, “the plan is for all fleet vessels to include mixed crews. In other words, we’ll be working shoulder to shoulder with all Federation species.”

  The officers’ skepticism seemed to increase. Hagedorn raised his hand and the admiral pointed to him. “Yes, Captain?”

  “These fleet vessels, sir . . . where will they come from?”

  “A good question,” said Walker. “For the time being, we’ll be pressing our Christophers into service.

  However, I expect we’ll start building a new breed of ships before too long.”

  Hagedorn nodded thoughtfully. “And will our crews simply be expanded, sir? Or will we be losing some of our human crewmen to make room for the aliens who’ll be joining us?”

  The admiral cleared his throat. “Actually,” he told his officers with unconcealed distaste, “it hasn’t been decided yet who will be asked to command these vessels.”

  The skepticism he had seen in his audience escalated into outright disbelief. But then, Walker himself hadn’t believed it when the president apprised him of the situation.

  “Sir,” Beschta rumbled, “this is an outrage! We are the only ones with experience in such matters. How can an alien be expected to come out of nowhere and take command of a military vessel?”

  The admiral scowled. This was the part of his presidential briefing that he had liked the least. “I truly regret having to impart this information,” he told the men and women standing around him, “but there’s some opposition to the idea of a purely military-style fleet . . .”

  Bryce Shumar gazed at the small, wrinkled woman standing on the other side of the briefing room. “A star fleet,” he repeated.

  “That’s right,” said Clarisse Dumont. “An entity that will draw on the talents of each and every Federation member world...and eventually, over a period of several years, replace Earth Command and every other indigenous military organization.”

  “That’s very interesting,” the commander told her. And it was, of course—especially the notion of a united federation of worlds. “But what has it got to do with me?”

  Dumont frowned, accentuating the lines in her face. “There’s a lot about this star fleet that’s not settled yet, Mr. Shumar... a lot of contention over what kind of fleet it’s going to be.”

  The commander folded his arms across his chest, his interest piqued. “What kind of contention?”

  The woman shrugged. “If people like Admiral Ed Walker have their way, the fleet will be a strictly military organization, dedicated to patrolling our part of the galaxy and defending member planets against real or perceived aggression. But to my mind, that would be a waste of an unprecedented scientific opportunity.”

  Her eyes lit up. “Think of it, Mr. Shumar. Think of the possibilities with regard to research and exploration. We could seek out undiscovered life-forms, unearth previously unknown civilizations. We could go where no Earthman has ever gone before.”

  It was unprecedented, all right. “I’m listening.”

  “If we’re going to make that point,” Dumont told him, “if we’re going to establish the vision of a research fleet as something worth pursuing, we’re going to need scientists in the center seats of our vessels. Scientists like you, Mr. Shumar.”

  He looked at her. “You’re asking me to apply for a captaincy? After I spent years on a remote Earth base, watching out for Romulans and longing for the day I could return to my work?”

  “I’m sure your work is important,” the woman conceded. “But this is more important. This may be the most important thing you ever do.”

  Shumar wished he could tell her she was crazy. But he couldn’t. He saw the same possibilities she did, heaven help him.

  Dumont fixed him on the spit of her gaze. “Will you do it? Will you help me mold the future?”

  He frowned, hating the idea of putting off his research yet again. But, really, what choice did he have?

  “Yes,” said Shumar. “I’ll do it.”

  Dumont nodded. “Good. And keep in mind, you’ll be receiving the support of some of the most powerful people on Earth—men and women who see this opportunity the same way we do. With even a little luck, we’ll turn this star fleet into the kind of organization we can all be proud of.”

  Shumar figured that it was worth the sacrifice. He just wished it were someone else who had been called on to make it.

  Hiro Matsura stared out a curved observation port and longed to get back among the stars.

  The last two days on Command Base had been increasingly tedious for him—and he wasn’t the only one who felt that way. The other Christopher captains were antsy as well. He could tell by the way they stood, the way they ate, the way they talked. They wanted out of this place.

  “Touch of cabin fever?” asked a feminine voice.

  Matsura turned and saw Amanda McTigue joining him at the observation port. “More than a touch,” he admitted.

  McTigue frowned a bit beneath her crown of plaited blond hair. “We’ll be out of here before you know it,” she told him. “That is, most of us. The ones they end up picking for this new fleet of theirs... who knows what’ll happen to them.”

  “Yeah,” said Matsura. “Who knows.”

  He knew there wasn’t a chance in hell that he had been selected by the Fleet Commission. After all, he’d heard there were only six spots open, and three of them had reportedly been earmarked for nonmilitary personnel.

  Hagedorn was dead certain to get one spot, and Stiles and Beschta were the front runners for the other two. There were a couple of space jockeys deserving of the honor in Eagle and Viper squadrons as well, but Matsura’s money was on his wingmates.

  After all, they were the best. They had proven that over and over again. And Hagedorn, Stiles, and Beschta were the best of the best.

  Suddenly, the door slid open and Admiral Walker entered the room. Matsura and McTigue and everyone else in the place faced Walker and straightened, one hand raised in a salute. As always, Beschta thrust his rounded, stubbly chin out with an air of invincibility.

  “Good morning, Admiral,” said a dozen captains at once, their voices echoing in the chamber.

  “Morning,” Walker replied flatly, as if the word left a sour taste in his mouth. “At ease, people.”

  As Matsura relaxed, he noticed that the admiral didn’t look happy. But then, when had Big Ed Walker ever looked happy?

  “I’ve received a list of the Star Fleet Commission’s selections,” the admiral announced. He took in everyone present with a glance. “As I expected, three of you have been chosen to command vessels.”

  Here it comes, Matsura thought. He turned to Beschta, Hagedorn, and Stiles, who were standing together in the front rank of the group, and prepared to congratulate them on their appointments.

  Walker turned to Hagedorn. “Congratulations, Captain. You’ve been appointed a captain in Star Fleet.”

  Matsura’s wing leader nodded, expressionless as always. He seemed to accept the assignment like any other.

  “Sir,” was his only response.

  Next, the admiral turned his gaze on Stiles. “Congratulations,” he remarked. “You’ve been selected as well.”

  Stiles’s smile said he had only gotten what he deserved. “Thank you, sir,” he told Admiral Walker.

  “You’re quite wel
come,” the admiral replied.

  Beschta, Matsura thought, rooting silently for his friend and mentor. Say the word. Beschta.

  For a moment, Walker’s gaze fell on the big man and Matsura believed he had gotten his wish. Then the admiral turned away from Beschta and searched the crowd for someone else.

  Damn, thought Matsura. It’s not fair.

  He was still thinking that when Walker’s gaze fell on him—and stayed there. “Congratulations,” said the admiral, staring at the young man across what seemed like an impossible distance. “You’re our third and final representative. Do us proud, Captain.”

  Matsura felt his heart start to pound against his ribs. Had he heard Walker right? No... it was impossible, he told himself.

  “Me, sir?” he blurted.

  The admiral nodded, his blue eyes piercingly sharp beneath his bushy white brows. “That’s right, Captain Matsura. You.”

  Matsura tried to absorb the implications of what he had just heard. “I . . . I don’t. . . I mean, thank you, sir.”

  “Don’t mention it,” said the admiral.

  The other captains in the room looked at one another, confused and maybe even a little angry. No doubt, they were asking themselves the same question Matsura was: why him? Why, out of all of the brave men and women standing in that room, had Hiro Matsura been tapped for the Federation’s new fleet?

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Beschta’s reaction. The big man looked embarrassed, as if he had suddenly realized he had come to the meeting without his pants. Then he turned to Matsura.

  His expression didn’t change. But without warning, he brought his hands together with explosive results. The report echoed throughout the chamber. Then Beschta did it a second time. And a third.

  By then, some of the other captains had joined in. With each successive clap, their number grew, encompassing the disappointed as well as the admiring. Before long, everyone but Admiral Walker was applauding, making a thunderous sound that Matsura could feel as well as hear.

  The admiral nodded approvingly. Then, as the noise began to die down, he said, “Dismissed.” And with that, he turned and left the chamber.