"It would not be discovered through me," he told her in no uncertain terms. "That much, at the very least, I can promise you. Do not take this wrong, but you would be merely a means to an end. But you are a means I must take advantage of, for I see no other way at this point. I cannot command you to help me, obviously. But I ask you now, for the sake of your own life, which you owe me . . . for the sake of my sister's life, which might possibly yet be saved . . . help me." And then he added a word that he could not recall using at any time in his life.
"Please."
And from the depths of her soul, Soleta let out a long, unsteady sigh, and wondered just who she should get to represent her at her court-martial.
III.
CALHOUN GLANCED UPfrom the computer screen as the door to his ready room slid open. Dr. Selar entered and, with no preamble whatsoever, said, "Dr. Maxwell's performance is unacceptable. Please dismiss him from the crew complement immediately."
"Computer off," said Calhoun as he rose from behind his desk. He gestured for Selar to sit. The Vulcan doctor merely stood there and, with a mental shrug, Calhoun sat back down again. "His performance is unacceptable?"
"That is correct."
"Did you have sex with him?"
Selar seemed taken aback, although naturally she did not let her surprise become reflected in anything more than a raised eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
"Did you have sex with Dr. Maxwell?"
"No, of course not. Nor do I—"
"Is Dr. Maxwell an actor? Does he tend to burst into monologues or soliloquies?"
Selar was completely lost. "Not to my knowledge. I do not see how—"
"Does he play a musical instrument?"
Giving up trying to understand where her captain was going with the conversation, Selar said simply, "It does not appear on his resume. If he does, he has not done so in my presence."
"Well, I was wondering. You see, you come in here complaining about his performance, and since I know perfectly well that no patients have come through sickbay yet, I assumed you couldn't possibly have evaluated his performance as a doctor . . . which is, last time I checked, the reason he was here."
She tilted her head slightly. "Captain Calhoun, are you always this circumloquacious?"
"No, not really. Generally I simply tell people whom I feel are wasting my time to get the hell out of my office. But we haven't even left drydock yet, so I'm trying to be generous." He came around the desk. "Look, Selar . . ."
"I prefer DoctorSelar."
He smiled. "I heard a joke once. What do you call the person who graduates at the bottom of their medical class?" Without waiting for her to respond, he answered, " 'Doctor.' "
She stared at him.
"Do you get what I'm saying?" he asked. "
I believe so. You seek to diminish the title to which I am due, based upon years of study and work, by implying that quality of scholarship may not be reflected in that title."
He rubbed his temple with his fingers and tried to remember why in God's name he'd let Picard talk him into this. "Look, Dr. Selar, it's your sickbay. If you want Maxwell out, he's out. I'm not going to argue. Perhaps you've perceived some potential trouble spots, or perhaps it's simply a personality clash. . . ."
"Vulcans do not 'clash,' " she informed him.
Keeping his voice even and calm, Calhoun said, "All I'm saying is that youare in charge of sickbay. The lineup for everyone working under you came from the Starfleet surgeon general's office. I okayed it based upon their recommendation, and I leave it to you to fine-tune it. Maxwell works under you. Use him, don't use him, blow him out a photon-torpedo tube for all I care. But I'll tell you right now, any changes in personnel have to be followed up with a formal report. I cannot put sufficient emphasis on this: I care very much about reports and following procedure. And you damned well better be ready to give concrete explanations for Maxwell's termination, because I think you should know that 'I felt like it' doesn't fly with Starfleet Central."
"I see."
"Now, if you want my recommendation—and the joy of being captain is that you get my recommendation whether you want it or not—I suggest you sit down and speak with Maxwell about those areas in which you find him lacking. See if you can come to some sort of accord. That would be something that I'd very much like to see."
"Are you offering your services as mediator, Captain, in order to facilitate matters?"
"Good God, no. I'd sooner stick my head in a warp coil. To be blunt, it sounds to me as if you're reacting out of some sort of core irrationality . . . which would be, to say the least, disturbing, considering who you are. Now, do your damn job and I'll do mine, and we'll both be happy. Or at least I'll be happy and you'll be," he gestured vaguely, "you'll be whatever Vulcans are. Now get the hell out of my office."
She headed for the door, stopping only to say, "You use more profanity than any other Starfleet officer I have encountered."
And with a wry smile, Calhoun replied, "I'm an officer. I'm just not a gentleman."
Burgoyne 172 was working with Ensign Yates, overseeing the recalibrating of the Heisenberg compensators in Transporter Room D when the signal beeped on hish comm badge. S/he rose quickly, narrowly avoiding bumping hish head on the underside of the control.
The Hermat was of medium build, quite slender and small-busted. S/he had a high forehead, pale blond eyebrows, and two-toned pale blond hair that s/he wore in a buzz cut, but that was long in the back. S/he tapped hish comm badge and said, "This is Burgoyne. Go ahead."
"Burgoyne? This is Shelby."
"Commander!" Burgoyne was genuinely pleased. S/he'd always gotten on well with Shelby, having worked with her on the Excaliburduring the captaincy of the late, lamented Captain Korsmo. "How are you? For that matter, where are you?"
"I'm on a shuttle approaching drydock. They were kind enough to route this message through from the bridge. Tell me, Burgy, how long would it take you to get to a transporter room?"
Burgoyne smiled, displaying hish slightly extended canine teeth. "Well, let's see . . . allowing for the size of the ship, the measurement of my stride, the—"
"Burgoyne . . ."
"I'm ina transporter room, Commander, as it so happens."
"Perfect. I was hoping you could beam me aboard."
"That's against regulations." Burgoyne frowned. "Why not just dock in the shuttlebay? I'll inform the captain to meet you and—"
"That's what I was hoping to avoid."
"Avoid? I'm not following, Commander." "
I wanted to meet with the captain privately before I met with him publicly, if you catch my drift."
"I guess I do. You want to surprise him." "
In a manner of speaking. It'll be on my authority. Any problems with that?"
"None whatsoever, Commander. You're still technically my first officer until we leave port. If it's what you want, that's good enough for me. Just give me a moment to lock on to your signal," and hish long, tapered fingers fairly flew over the transporter controls, "and we'll bring you right on board."
Moments later the transporter beams flared to life, and Shelby appeared on the pad. She stepped down and stuck out a hand, which Burgoyne shook in hish customary extremely firm manner . . . so firm, in fact, that Shelby had to quietly move her fingers around in hopes of restoring circulation. "Good to see you, Commander."