The Returned, Part I, Page 3

  “Wow. He woke up early.”

  Nuevo swung his phaser around in an arc. “Where the hell are you?!”

  The answer occurred to him a split second too late. He looked up just in time to see a form descending upon him. His attacker had been there the whole time, perched on the upper section of the column about three meters above him.

  He swung the phaser up, but the man was on him. The two of them went down, Nuevo under him, absorbing the majority of the impact. Nuevo gasped, and the phaser squirted out of his fist, clattering away on a thin layer of rubble nearby.

  His right leg was curled up against the gut of his attacker, and he shoved as hard as he could. His attacker fell backward but then rolled to his feet in one continuous somersault.

  They faced each other for a moment. He saw that his attacker was unarmed, or at least wasn’t holding a phaser in his hand.

  “Who are you?” he demanded.

  “No one of consequence,” replied his attacker. “Now I need you to step aside.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” said Nuevo.

  “Then it seems we have a problem.”

  “You have the problem,” Nuevo told him. “You’re not going to be able to accomplish your task. Furthermore, I’ve summoned help. Reinforcements are on the way.”

  “No, they’re not,” said the man. “We both know that. Where would you summon them from? The nearest starbase is two days away, and I don’t plan on standing here for two days. Move.”

  “No.”

  “Please move.”

  “No.”

  “All right, then.”

  He never even saw his attacker come at him. Later he would run the battle through his mind and try to figure out when his assailant had actually approached him. He would be unable to determine when it was. All he knew was that one moment the attacker was a meter away, and then the man was right there, as if jumping through time and space and simply blinking himself next to Nuevo. His attacker’s right fist cracked out and slammed Nuevo in the side of the head.

  Nuevo went down, the world spinning around him. He rolled backward and sprang to his feet again only to see the man’s boot coming straight at his head. The attacker slammed him in the face, and down went Nuevo again.

  He rolled away and staggered to his feet.

  His assailant let out a low whistle. “Impressive. Either you’re quite sturdy or I’m losing my punch.”

  Nuevo said nothing. He wasn’t in the mood to engage in verbal byplay with his assailant. Instead he brought his fists up, ready to defend himself, as the assailant circled him.

  “Marine, I assume?” said the attacker.

  He felt blood trickling from his nose and wiped his forearm across it. He wasn’t sure whether the result was anything other than smeared blood on his face, but he was hardly in a position to worry about it.

  “You’ve done your duty,” the attacker said. He even sounded sympathetic. “There’s no need for me to knock you unconscious. For the last time, step aside.”

  Nuevo finally spoke. “Surrender.”

  “You can surrender if you wish. That’s acceptable, too.”

  The man was within arm’s reach, and Nuevo sprang at him. The lieutenant had an entire series of moves planned; he knew that he was sufficiently close and his attacker would never be able to sidestep him.

  His attacker sidestepped him.

  Impossible! That was the thought that screamed through his mind. How the hell is this guy so fast?

  Nevertheless the man had done so, and Nuevo—rather than slamming his attacker to the ground—sailed right past. As he did so, the attacker spun and swung a fist around, striking Nuevo in the head once again.

  There was an explosion in Nuevo’s head from the force of the blow, and he hit the ground once more. He tried to stand and a foot struck him in the gut, knocking the wind out of him. He rolled onto his back and then his eyes widened.

  His phaser was a foot away from him.

  New energy ripped through him as Nuevo lunged for the phaser. His hand wrapped around the grip, and he swung around and fired blindly.

  The attacker wasn’t there.

  “What the hell?” Suddenly a hand came down from above him and twisted the phaser out of his grasp. He let out a howl of frustration and looked up to see the attacker aiming the phaser at him.

  “Sorry.”

  The phaser blast struck Nuevo, and the last thought that he had before he lapsed into unconsciousness was that he hoped the universe would still be here when he came around.

  ii.

  CALHOUN STARED DOWN at the lieutenant and then, having no idea why he did so, tossed off a salute. It was an ancient gesture that wasn’t part of Starfleet traditions, and yet he felt compelled to acknowledge his worthy foe.

  “You did your duty,” said Calhoun, “and you tried your best. That’s all that anyone can ever ask of you.”

  He picked up his own phaser and then dropped the man’s onto the ground. It was bad enough that he had defeated the man in single combat; he certainly didn’t have to take his weapon from him as well.

  He hated to admit it, but he’d actually been glad to encounter resistance when he’d arrived on the Guardian’s world. He had spent months accomplishing exactly nothing, and so now was pleased to have the challenge of making his way to the Guardian through the armed guards. It had helped him brush up on his combat skills, and it was entirely likely that he was going to need them.

  Slowly he strode toward the Guardian. It was sitting there, inactive. No lights were flickering along its craggy outer rim. No voice was booming from it. It just seemed like a large, dead machine.

  This was it? This was the famed Guardian of Forever that stood as a gateway to time and space?

  He knew that decades ago, the notorious Captain James T. Kirk had stood right where he was standing, confronting the relic for the first time without having the slightest idea of the thing’s capabilities. What had gone through Kirk’s mind at the time? Did he have any idea what he was facing? How could he have? The Guardian was unique in all creation.

  “Hello?” he said cautiously.

  Nothing.

  “Hello!” He shouted it this time.

  The Guardian replied, and its words caught Calhoun completely off guard.

  “So. You have come.”

  Calhoun blinked in confusion. “I’m sorry . . . I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “I know all creatures. All time. All places. I am the Guardian of Forever, and such is among my abilities.”

  “That’s . . . very impressive,” said Calhoun slowly. Then he gathered himself. “So if you know who I am . . . then you know what I want to do.”

  “You wish to restore your people, the Xenexians, to life.”

  “That is correct.”

  “And what of the rest of your people?”

  “I don’t understand. My people are all dead.”

  “Your wife. Your crew. Your life. Are you uncaring of what happens to them?”

  This was not remotely the way Calhoun had anticipated this conversation would go. He’d been positive of what he had to do; yet now the Guardian was talking to him about matters that he didn’t understand. “This isn’t about them. Nothing will happen to them.”

  “You do not know that.”

  “Yes, I do. My entire plan is to stop the D’myurj from killing my people. That’s all. It’s not going to impact anyone else.”

  “You do not know that.”

  Calhoun was starting to get impatient. “You’re right. I guess you’re right. But it’s a risk I’m willing to take. So the only question I have is, are you going to help me? Yes or no?”

  “I can help you if you wish. That is my nature, Mackenzie Calhoun. It is what I was created for. I can send you to whatever point you desire, and then it wi
ll be up to you to accomplish whatever you think you can.”

  For a long moment, Calhoun said nothing. “You don’t think I should,” he said finally.

  “It is not for me to think about such things. The decision must be yours, not mine.”

  “Yes, it is,” said Calhoun. “And you can sit there and be the Guardian and know everything that was and maybe have insight into what’s going to be. But all I know is that I can’t stand the thought of being the last Xenexian.”

  “You have a son.”

  “Who hates me.” He waved it off. “It doesn’t matter. What matters is that you’re not really alive. You’re a machine. You can’t know what I’m going through. You can’t understand what I’m feeling. I was responsible for the death of my people. My shortsightedness, my inability to realize what the D’myurj would do, caused every single Xenexian to be murdered. I have to do something about it. Something. Anything. And you know what? I don’t care if I’m risking reality as I know it. I don’t care if the entirety of space and time is teetering on the edge. I need you to run my history back, and I need to jump in and make sure that my people are saved. That’s what I need you to do. Can you?”

  The Guardian didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

  Until that moment, only lights along the outer edge of the Guardian had been flickering. They had begun the moment it started speaking. Now, though, the entire device flared to life. The Guardian’s core flared to life as well, and images were cascading across it. Calhoun stared at it and didn’t understand what he was seeing. “What is this?”

  “It is the history of Xenex. That is the planet you wish to help, so that is the timeline I am showing you.”

  Calhoun’s eyes widened in amazement. He realized he was standing there staring at moments in Xenex’s history that had become, in the retellings, the stuff of legends. The more he watched, the guiltier he felt. Because of his actions, all his proud race had accomplished ended. He needed to find a point in time that he could jump through to and . . .

  Although . . .

  Perhaps he was thinking too small. Within moments, he would see the point in his life where his father had died, thanks to his world’s conquerors. What if . . .

  What if he saved his father?

  He could do that. He could jump back to that point in time, save his father. He wouldn’t say who he was, but that wouldn’t matter. He had stood by helplessly as the Danteri had beaten his father to death in the public square. Now he could rescue him. Then he could organize a revolt and defeat the Danteri years before he had done so as a child.

  With his father’s aid, he could build up the Xenexians’ military might to the point where no one—not even the D’myurj—would be capable of destroying them.

  Granted, it would seem odd when young M’k’n’zy grew up into a spitting image of him, but he could certainly find a way around that.

  And he could change his own future. Never join Starfleet. Remain with his people. And then . . .

  Everyone would die.

  His ingenuity had saved the Excalibur any number of times. Without him in command, would the crew be able to survive the numerous occasions when their lives were on the line?

  Elizabeth, dead. Burgoyne, dead. All of them, dead.

  But maybe they’d survive.

  But maybe they wouldn’t.

  Calhoun was frozen, uncertain of what to do. Perhaps he shouldn’t save his father. Perhaps he should wait until closer to the D’myurj unleashing their horrors upon the Xenexians. He could summon the Excalibur sooner . . .

  Except he was already on the ship. How would he explain where he was, who he was? Could he cross his own timeline?

  His mouth drew into a tight snarl. Grozit, what was wrong with him? Why was he second-guessing everything he wanted to do? This was nothing less than insane. He had to . . .

  He needed to . . .

  Time was spinning past. He stood there helplessly as he watched his father beaten to death. He watched his younger self’s agony; it was like having a spear shoved into his heart. Time sped forward. It seemed to be moving faster and faster, and his legs trembled as he prepared to throw himself into the Xenexian time stream, no longer caring where precisely he landed, but simply determined to drop into it somewhere so that he could intervene, make a difference, save their lives . . .

  A hand clamped onto his shoulder.

  He spun, certain that it was the lieutenant who had somehow come to long before he was supposed to. He cocked his fist, ready to let fly.

  His fist remained cocked as he stared in utter astonishment.

  “Hello, Mac,” said Mark McHenry.

  Calhoun’s mouth dropped, his jaw slack, as he stared at the former conn officer of the Excalibur. McHenry had gone missing . . . what . . . two years earlier? Yet here he was now, looking no older than when he had disappeared, supposedly to wander the universe watching out for interdimensional threats. His face was as youthful as ever, and his shock of brown hair was hanging partly in his face. He brushed it out of his eyes offhandedly.

  “Mark?” Calhoun’s voice was barely above a whisper.

  “Yup. So . . . you planning to jump into the Guardian, huh?”

  Calhoun nodded.

  “Yeah. You don’t want to do that.”

  Calhoun glanced from McHenry to the timeline that was still speeding past. “I don’t?”

  “No. Because if you do that, everything dies. The ship. Bravo Station. You have no idea, Mac, what kind of space-time continuum hell your intervention would unleash.”

  “And you do?” said Calhoun in a tone bordering on sarcastic.

  “Yes,” McHenry said immediately. “Yes, I do.”

  “Because your ancestor was a Greek god.”

  “Because of a number of reasons,” said McHenry, “although admittedly that’s a good part of it, yeah.”

  Suddenly Calhoun shoved McHenry’s hand away from him, and he sprinted straight toward the Guardian. Xenex’s history was speeding past, and it had almost arrived at the point where they were going to be obliterated.

  He expected that McHenry would intervene. Simply reappear in front of him or perhaps transport him to somewhere else on the planet’s surface. But no, nothing. McHenry was remaining right where he was, and there was nothing to stop Calhoun from hurling himself into Xenex’s past and . . .

  Killing everybody.

  He ran right to the brink of the Guardian. One more step, that was all it was going to take.

  He froze.

  Standing on the edge of forever, Mackenzie Calhoun couldn’t force himself to take the final step. Instead he stood there, unmoving, watching as the D’myurj confronted the Xenexians.

  He stood there frozen, unable to budge, as he watched the D’myurj vessels rain fire and death down upon his people. He wanted to react, but he had no emotions left. They had been burned from his body during the time he had spent on Xenex searching in futility for the survivors that he had been sure existed.

  Slowly Calhoun sank to his knees, watching wide-eyed as images swept before his eyes. No. There were no survivors. The D’myurj were far too thorough. His fantasies that somehow some of the Xenexians had found somewhere to hide from detection, including Starfleet sensors, were blown to hell. The D’myurj systematically destroyed everyone. There was nowhere to hide from them.

  He watched the end of the Xenexians, and the last image that he saw was himself on his homeworld, discovering the destruction that the D’myurj had rained down upon it.

  The images ceased. The Guardian was silent for a time.

  “Shall I begin again?” it finally asked.

  Calhoun hung his head. He had nothing to say. He wanted to cry, but his tears had been long used up.

  He heard footsteps nearby and glanced over to see McHenry standing there. Part of Calhoun had initially thought that perhaps he wa
s imagining Mark’s presence the whole time. But no, he seemed quite real enough. “You made the right decision,” said McHenry.

  “What the hell are you doing here, McHenry?” said Calhoun, feeling mentally exhausted. “Why aren’t you walking the universe, looking for trouble?”

  “You were preparing to change that universe. I decided you needed my attention.”

  “But you didn’t stop me.”

  “You had to stop yourself. You’re the hero. What kind of hero would you be if you needed me to physically prevent you from doing something stupid?”

  “I’m the hero?” It was all Calhoun could do not to laugh. Instead he chucked a thumb in the direction of the fallen marine. “Why don’t you ask that gentleman if I’m a hero? See what he says.”

  “He’ll say you’re a man in pain who nevertheless didn’t lose any of your humanity. Obviously. Because he and all his men are alive. Believe me, there are plenty of men in your position who would not have hesitated to turn this into a kill-or-be-killed endeavor.”

  Calhoun grunted at that. “So where does this leave me?” he asked. “We have no leads on the D’myurj at all. They seem to have gone silent in the intervening time, but I’m sure they’re still planning to do whatever the hell it is they’re going to do. The D’myurj who was impersonating Nechayev was destroyed. We have no idea where the real Nechayev is. Soleta was in mind-meld with the fake at the point when it died, and it put her into a coma. She’s currently lying on Bravo Station, still unconscious and, as near as we can tell, with no hope of waking up. So what would you suggest, Mark? I mean . . . you’re the godlike being here. You tell me. If I’m not going to save my people, if I’m going to deal with the situation at hand, then what the hell should I do?”

  McHenry stuck out his lower lip thoughtfully. “Well, I’m really in no position to tell you what the D’myurj are up to. And I can’t bring you to Nechayev. Soleta, however . . . that I can do something about.”

  Calhoun hadn’t been expecting any sort of useful answer from McHenry and was stunned by his offer. He looked up. “Wait, what? You can help with Soleta? Mark, it’s not as if we’ve been inactive in attempting to reach her. We’ve had expert, top Vulcan mind-melders come in and attempt to reach her. They’ve all come up empty.”