EXCALIBUR

I.

“I CANNOT DETERMINE a cause of death.”

In the sickbay of the Excalibur,Mackenzie Calhoun stared with incredulity, first at Dr. Selar and then at the unmoving, charred body of Mark McHenry, laid out on a diagnostic table, and then back to Selar. “What the hell do you mean, you can’t determine it?” demanded Calhoun. “Look at the man! He’s got a burn mark through his chest the size of a cannonball!”

Selar frowned. “The size of a what?”

Calhoun was about to reply, and then thought better of it, particularly since he saw that others in the sickbay were reacting with surprise to his raised voice. They looked bedraggled, shell-shocked. Sickbay was crammed to overflowing with the injured; everyone from every shift, and everyone who had ever wielded any sort of medical instrument in their life, had been pulled in to deal with the damage the ship had sustained in the battle with the Beings. People were battered, burned, moaning and waiting for painkillers to kick in. They were lying there waiting for skin grafts to take, or sleeping and in stasis, waiting for their bodies to stabilize so further work could be done on them. And everyone, everyone who was conscious was looking at him, and he felt as if there were accusatory stares ... or hopeful? Or desperate? Looking to him for salvation or explanation or something, anything. What the hell do they want from me? What am I supposed to be? Made of stone?Then he drew in a deep breath, steadied himself, found a calm center, and focused once more on Selar. As frustrating as Vulcans could be at times, he had to admit that their capacity for maintaining calm in the face of difficulty was something he occasionally envied. “I’m simply asking,” he said, “how it could be unclear what caused Mr. McHenry’s ... demise.”

“Because I am not entirely certain that he is dead.”

Once again Calhoun found himself staring at Selar in total confusion. “I would have thought,” he said, “that the lack of life signs in his readings would have been sufficient to establish that.”

“Ordinarily, yes. But Mr. McHenry is ... less than ordinary. And more.”

He rubbed the bridge of his nose, feeling the onset of a thumping headache. “That much, I’ll agree with. So lay it out for me, Doctor. What are you saying?”

“There’s no deterioration of his cells,” she said, circling the bed on which McHenry was stretched out. “No cellular degeneration. Oh, there’s been catastrophic damage to his body, there is no disputing that. But ...” She paused and then looked up at Calhoun. “You will think I am joking.”

“Trust me, the odds of my thinking that are minuscule at best.”

She nodded and then said, “From all accounts, some sort of massive surge of energy leaped out of the conn station and lanced through Mr. McHenry. Morgan Primus ...”

“Also known as Morgan Lefler ... Robin Letter’s mother.”

“I know who she is, Captain,” said Selar with raised eyebrow. “Morgan Lefler endeavored to intercept the energy surge, and was killed instantly. I could not say for certain, however, that McHenry was killed as well. I do not know whether the blast of energy drove his life from his body ... or if his life was pulled from his body before the blast struck.”

Calhoun shook his head in confusion. “Isn’t that just semantics?”

“I do not know,” she said, and pushed a strand of stray hair from her face. She was actually starting to look as if the pressure of the situation was weighing upon her. “I simply ... feel as if I am missing something.”

“What are you missing?”

“If I knew the answer to that, Captain, then I would no longer be missing it,” she replied matter-of-factly, and with the air of someone who did not suffer fools gladly. “All I know is that something is not right with McHenry’s body. It is as if ...”

“As if time has frozen around it somehow?”

She considered that, looking as if she wanted to dismiss the notion out of hand owing to its inherent absurdity, but at the same time finding a measure of explanation there. “Somewhat ... yes. The effect is not dissimilar from a medical cellular stasis field. But such things cannot be generated by nature.”

“Doctor,” Calhoun said tiredly, “we are part of nature. You and I and everyone on this ship. Nature made us. We are capable of generating it. Therefore, nature can generate it. It’s just that, until now, it’s been done with mechanical aids. But if something can be done with mechanical aids, then it stands to reason that the possibility exists it could be done without them as well.”

Selar considered that. “Interesting, Captain. There are times where you would make a passable Vulcan.”

“Thank you.”

“There are some who would not consider that a compliment.”

“I choose to take it in the spirit it was meant. So ... what do we do with Mr. McHenry?”

“I will be moving him to a separate, private observation room,” Selar said, studying him thoughtfully. “Nothing is to be gained by having him continue to remain here. It is disconcerting to the other patients.” She eyed him. “Captain, you may want to consider some rest for yourself.”

“I’m fine,” he said dismissively. “What are you doing?”

She was holding up a medical tricorder and aiming it in his direction. “In addition to my observations of your having sustained multiple contusions and lacerations, you have also a broken rib, a hairline fracture of the clavicle, and a mild concussion ...”

“I’m Xenexian, Doctor,” said Calhoun. “I can take a lot more punishment than humans ... or Vulcans, for that matter.”

“I think it would be wise,” she said, “if you did not inflict an excessive amount of punishment upon yourself in order to prove that point.”

“What does that mean?”

“I believe the statement speaks for itself.”

Before he could push it further, his combadge beeped. He tapped it. “Calhoun here.”

“Captain, this is Burgoyne,” came the voice of the Hermat first officer. “You wanted a shipwide status meeting as soon as we had in reports from all decks and departments. If you would—”

“Burgy?” said a puzzled Calhoun, firing a look at Selar. Her face was impassive. “What the hell are you doing on duty? You have a broken leg. You should be up here. Why isn’t s/he up here?” he demanded of Selar.

Before Selar could reply, Burgoyne said, “Selar treated me and I felt it imperative I return to duty.”

Calhoun let out an impatient sigh. “Fine. Department heads in the conference lounge in—”

“The conference lounge was badly hit, sir. Recommend the team room.”

“Fine. Team room in twenty minutes. And after that, Burgy, bed rest for you. That’s an order.”

“Aye, sir. Burgoyne out.”

Calhoun ended the connection and shook his head. “Running around with a broken leg. What is s/he thinking?”

“Have you considered the likelihood, Captain,” Selar pointed out, “that my mate is using you as a role model for how s/he is expected to conduct hirself.”

Calhoun looked at her in surprise. “You know, Doctor ... I could be wrong, but I believe that’s the first time you’ve ever referred to Burgoyne as ‘your’ anything.”

“I still make certain, Captain, that it does not recur,” she said archly.

He turned away, but instead of heading to the team room, he crossed the sickbay and returned to a bed he’d visited when he’d first arrived there.

Moke, his adoptive son, was lying there, staring up into space. Calhoun’s heart went out to the boy, seeing how banged up he was. Apparently he had taken a spill down a Jefferies tube during all the commotion when the ship had been under attack. The boy had been brought into the sickbay convinced that he was never going to walk again, and Calhoun’s heart had been in his throat until it had been discovered that he’d just pinched a nerve in his spine. It hadn’t taken Selar long to set things right, but she was keeping him there a few hours more for observation.