Blind Man's Bluff - By Peter David Page 0,6

become better known as Mackenzie Calhoun.

Now his two worlds had collided. Calhoun was using all the knowledge, all the cunning and savvy that he had learned under fire in his youth, combined with all the tactics and wisdom he had accrued over the years as a Starfleet captain, to aid his people in battling a fearsome enemy that he had encountered during his tenure as captain of the Excalibur.

The Brethren—the fearsome armored race that had slaughtered so many aboard the Excalibur’s sister ship, the Trident; the race that Dr. Selar had died battling—were pursing him and his people across the face of Xenex.

And there was no way of knowing when, or if, help would ever arrive.

Starfleet Headquarters, San Francisco

Sometime Earlier

Admiral Alynna Nechayev remembered nearly every word of the conversation she’d had with Mackenzie Calhoun weeks earlier. They had been filled with consequences to which Calhoun was utterly oblivious.

Calhoun had been dutifully reporting back to her about the events on the remote world of AF1963, which had resulted in the death of Selar and the discovery of mindless bodies being “grown” in a subterranean lair. Most of the bodies, according to Calhoun, his image flickering on the communications screen, had been destroyed in the massive explosion that Selar had touched off… the explosion that had enabled Soleta and the infant Cwansi to escape, even though it was at the cost of Selar’s life.

“Do you have any idea what intentions these D’myurj might have had for them?” she had asked Calhoun. She had labored to keep her voice flat and even and not betray, in the slightest, the concerns that were hammering through her brain.

“I’ve been thinking about that,” Calhoun had said, “and consulting with my people. We have a theory…”

“I’m all ears.”

“Well,” Calhoun had said, leaning in slightly toward the screen, “our initial question, of course, was why they would have all these bodies being grown with what were essentially blank slates for minds. But if you walked into a large warehouse and saw uniforms hanging there with no one in them, you wouldn’t wonder what the purpose of them would be, correct? Wouldn’t wonder what they were designed for?”

“Not especially. I would assume that they were designed to be…” Her voice had trailed off. “Truly? You think they were designed—”

“To be worn. Yes. Something in the genetic makeup of half-breeds enables either the D’myurj or their associates the Brethren to transfer themselves into these bodies, once grown.”

“But, good lord, why?”

“Any number of reasons. Infiltration. Manipulation. Passing themselves off as members of the Federation, in an undetectable disguise. They might be creating wars in the hopes of ‘testing’ us to see if we rise to the occasion. According to anyone who has had contact with them, they keep claiming that they want to advance us. Soleta told me about something that happened some months ago, during the Paradox incident,” he said, referring to a time ship that had gone missing temporarily. “She encountered an alien vessel that appeared to be upgrading the Paradox. Advancing it. Outfitting it with improvements.”

“Are you saying that might have been the D’myurj?”

“It fits the pattern. A race dedicated to evolution of what they see as lower species, no matter what the cost. Individuals purporting to be beneficent when they’re really destructive. Who knows how far it goes back? There was an incident I studied involving a probe—I think it was called Nomad—that was upgraded and advanced when it encountered another, more advanced entity.”

“I know of that incident, yes. We had theorized it was the Borg.”

“But why would the Borg upgrade something else? They just take. They don’t give. That might well have been connected to the D’myurj as well. That means we’re talking at least a century of their getting involved in Federation affairs.”

“It sounds to me, Captain, as if you’re treading on very thin ice here. Pulling together disparate strands and trying to weave together a whole that doesn’t quite work. Still,” and she had drummed her fingers on her desk, “this merits further investigation, at the very least. It would probably be wiser to keep this quiet, at least for the time being.”

“I’m sure you’re right, Admiral.”

“All right. And, Mac… my condolences on the loss of Doctor Selar. A tragic story all around.”

“Thank you, Admiral. Calhoun out.”

The screen had gone blank, leaving her leaning back in her chair, her thoughts racing. Calhoun knows. Something is going to have to be done…

There had been much thinking on her part about that, and some discussions that