Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  M’Ress tilted her head in surprise, her ears visibly rising as if something most unexpected had been said. “Caitia . . . isn’t? But . . . but we were when I . . . at the time I left.”

  “That’s true. However, Caitia has undergone a number of changes in leadership. Matters continue to remain fickle on your homeworld, I fear.”

  “Well, that would certainly be typical. So they simply left the UFP . . . ?”

  “Not quite that simply, actually,” said Gulliver. He called up a file on his computer, and M’Ress looked longingly at her homeworld, floating on the monitor screen. His finger ran down a series of dates. “Two years after your accident, they left the Federation . . . but eventually there was a shift in Caitian leadership and politics, and so they requested, and received, permission to rejoin . . . except, as soon as they were in, they . . .”

  He started to laugh.

  M’Ress looked at him in confusion. “What is it?”

  “Well, obviously, when they were in, they wanted out . . . and when they were out, they wanted back in, and out again, and in once more, because that’s what happens with . . .” His voice trailed off as he saw the utterly bemused stare M’Ress was giving him. He cleared his throat, composing himself. “What happens with a . . . volatile world . . . such as, uhm . . . yours.”

  “Oh,” said M’Ress, aware that there was something she was missing, but not wanting to pursue it lest there be jokes about curiosity again.

  “In any event, it’s quite likely they’ll be rejoining at some point in the near future. In the meantime, your status as a Starfleet officer remains ‘grandfatherered,’ as they used to say. And a visit to Caitia can be arranged. . . .”

  But M’Ress shook her head, a sad smile playing across her lips. “I don’t see the point, really. My family, my friends, are all quite, quite dead. My people are not the longest-lived, you see. Unlike, as I recall, the natives of Triex,” and she inclined her head toward Arex.

  “That is true,” Arex said, trying to sound modest. “I have, in fact, been in touch with my parents, eleven brothers, and thirteen sisters.”

  “And—?”

  “They were unaware I was gone.”

  M’Ress and Gulliver gaped at him. “I’m sorry, did you say . . . unaware?” asked a stunned Gulliver. “How could your parents be unaware that you were gone?”

  “Because I have eleven brothers and thirteen sisters,” said Arex reasonably, his head craning forward on his thin neck. “Who between them have, I might add, given my parents eighty-three grandchildren. I suspect they were grateful for one less name to remember. Besides, my people are not quite as conscious of time as yours are. Then again, our lifespan averages several hundred years, so that’s going to happen. We’re not as driven by—”

  “We get the idea, Arex,” M’Ress said irritably. Then she took a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

  “No apologies necessary,” he assured her.

  She nodded once and then returned her attention to Gulliver. “I cannot speak for Arex, but as for me . . . to be honest, I’d rather be returned to active duty as soon as possible, if that’s possible. For if I have to spend excess time dwelling on all that’s happened, and the unfairness of my predicament . . .”

  “You do, in fact, speak for me,” said Arex. “I’ve been undergoing the same retraining program that you’re presently involved with, M’Ress. And I’m assured by Admiral Gulliver here that the program can continue, under medical supervision, while aboard a starship. I would just as soon do that, if that is permissible.”

  “It is the job of this department, Lieutenants, to accommodate time-displaced personnel whenever it’s possible. I think this is certainly one of those instances where we can make it very possible. And, by great good fortune, there’s a starship captain already asking after you.”

  “Is there?” M’Ress glanced at Arex to see his reaction, but he looked just as surprised as she was.

  “Yes. As a matter of fact, she should be in my outer office, presuming she’s punctual . . . and from all that I hear, she is very much that. Vickers,” he called, raising his voice slightly.

  Vickers’s voice promptly came back over the interoffice comm unit. “Sir?”

  “Is our esteemed captain here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Send her in, please.”

  M’Ress and Arex reflexively rose, as courtesy and protocol required. The door to the office hissed open and a smiling woman with curly, strawberry blonde hair and a look of quiet authority entered the room. Promptly Admiral Gulliver rose and said, “Captain Elizabeth Shelby, may I introduce Lieutenants Shiboline M’Ress and Arex Na Eth.”

  The woman introduced as Shelby smiled at each of them. It struck M’Ress as not quite a sincere smile. It wasn’t in sincere. It was just . . . all business, that was it. It was as if this Captain Shelby had allotted a precise number of seconds to the smile and, once those seconds had passed, the smile could be dispensed with. She wasn’t, M’Ress decided, unkind. She was just very focused.

  She nodded at each of them in turn and then said, “Please, sit.” They did so. She remained standing, draping her hands casually behind her back.

  “Captain Shelby has just been put in command of the Trident,” Gulliver said.

  Without blinking an eye, Arex said, “The Trident. Registry NCC-31347. Newly commissioned Galaxy-class vessel.”

  “That’s correct,” Shelby said, looking surprised, but not too surprised. “It would appear Starfleet speed-teaching techniques are all that I’ve heard. A pity they’re not used at the Academy. We could all graduate within six months.”

  “There’s something to be said for savoring the learning process,” said Gulliver.

  Shelby nodded absently as she returned her focus to the time-displaced officers. “I’ve looked over both your files. Impressive. Very impressive.”

  “I’m afraid they’re a bit truncated,” M’Ress said. Without thinking she curled her legs up underneath herself in a somewhat protective manner. “Suggestions of careers that might have been, rather than what were.”

  “Perhaps. But they showed a great deal of promise. And you come highly recommended.”

  “Really. By whom?”

  “By Captain James T. Kirk.”

  Arex and M’Ress exchanged looks. “He’s . . . alive . . . ?”

  “Apparently not. But he had a good deal of foresight, Captain Kirk did. Remember, both of you disappeared under rather curious circumstances. Eventually Captain Kirk learned of your misfortunes, and the esteemed captain thought highly enough of you to prepare extensive and copious recommendations for you in the event that either or both of you should be found. I don’t think he was anticipating the rather unlikely happenstance that you would both turn up here and now, within weeks of each other. Then again,” she shrugged, “perhaps he did. My understanding of him was that he was a rather remarkable man.”

  “He was most definitely that,” M’Ress sighed, with the air of one who held close to her heart an emotion so unrequited that she had never even given full attention to it. Then she blinked thoughtfully. “It . . . is a rather odd circumstance at that, isn’t it? That we should both return around now.”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps . . . not so coincidental,” said Gulliver.

  “Meaning?” asked Arex.

  Gulliver leaned forward once more, looking even more serious than before, and with all the gravity he could muster he said, “I have no idea.”

  “Oh. Well . . . that’s helpful,” said M’Ress.

  “The universe, Lieutenant, is like an intricate painting. Sometimes, if you step back far enough, it makes sense.”

  “And how far back would we have to step in order to make sense of our current situation?” she asked.

  “Well, for starters,” Shelby told them, “you can step aboard the Trident.”

  Arex leaned back and drummed his fingers on one of his legs. It was a nervous habit that M’Ress had always found irritating. Now she fo
und it oddly comforting. It was amazing what a difference a few decades could make. “You’d want us on your ship, even though we were recommended by Captain Kirk?” asked Arex.

  Shelby looked puzzled at that. “Why wouldn’t I?”

  “Let us not mince words, Captain,” Arex said politely. “I have read essays, opinions by Starfleet officers of more recent vintage. A number of them have been highly critical of James Kirk. I’ve seen him referred to as a cowboy, a maverick, a madman, a fabricator of mythic proportions. Why would you be interested in people who served under a man such as that?”

  “Because,” she replied evenly, “I served under a man such as that. It was the best experience of my life, even if I didn’t realize it at the time. His name’s Mackenzie Calhoun; he’s the captain of the Excalibur.”

  “Really?” M’Ress laughed. She found herself liking the woman’s candor. She even liked her scent. Relaxing slightly, she said, “He sounds interesting. I’d like to meet him. Is he single?”

  “Married.”

  “Ah. Well, men like that never stay married. I feel sorry for his wife.”

  “I’ll tell him you said that,” said Shelby, “the next time I’m having conjugal relations with him.”

  M’Ress opened her mouth, then closed it. Arex was clearly trying not to laugh. She wondered if he’d known that this Calhoun was Shelby’s husband. Probably. And the bastard had let her walk right into it.

  “Did I just talk myself out of a posting to your ship?” M’Ress finally managed to say.

  “Not at all. Frankly,” Shelby told her, “I have the oddest feeling you’re going to fit right in.”

  3

  AERON

  WARMASTER BURKITT STOOD over the unmoving form of Tsana, slowly shaking his head. He had been doing nothing but that for quite some time, and Gragg was waiting for Burkitt to say something—anything—but nothing seemed forthcoming. Burkitt simply stayed right where he was, head going back and forth. As far as Gragg was concerned, Burkitt was the kind of man who could only be a warmaster, who could only become some sort of leader. Every aspect of his personality radiated confidence and an unvoiced—but nevertheless palpable—demand that others follow him. Although he was no giant, he nevertheless seemed to tower above others in his deportment and confidence. Indeed, Gragg was physically taller and more imposing than Burkitt, with wide shoulders and a blocky head that seemed to fit seamlessly onto his shoulders without benefit of neck. Nevertheless, if one were looking at Gragg and Burkitt standing together, there would never be any doubt as to who was in charge.

  Gragg, who had been the commander of the soldier forces that had interceded, belatedly, in the slaughter of the imperials, was still having trouble believing in the reality of his world. Only two nights ago, the floors of the mansion had been awash with blood. As if observing the proceedings from a far-off distance, he had mentally “watched himself” as he had picked up the trembling body of the young girl and hurried off with her to a proper medical facility. Such had been Commander Gragg’s confidence in Aeron medicine that he had been certain—naively certain, to be sure—that she would recover in no time. She just needed rest, isolation, and support.

  Well, she had received all three of those things. And the Aeron days, normally cold this time of year, had warmed up appreciably, as if to provide that much more comfort for the people of Aeron in general and Tsana in particular. Tsana, the sole survivor of her imperial family.

  Burkitt and Gragg went quite a ways back. Gragg remembered Burkitt when he, Gragg, had been simply a raw recruit, and Burkitt was the most intimidating, ruthless, and also efficient commander the armed forces of Aeron had ever known. For reasons that eluded Gragg to this day, Burkitt had seen potential in Gragg and chosen to mentor him to a large degree. As a consequence, Gragg had risen through the ranks until he was now holding a rank equivalent to what Burkitt had possessed when they first met. As for Burkitt himself, he was still as intimidating as ever. They had fought together, gotten drunk together . . . Burkitt had even introduced Gragg to the first female he’d ever coupled with. But still, those black, fiery eyes set against the pale skin were enough to make Gragg feel once again like the rawest of recruits whenever they focused on him and there was cold fury burning within them. Fury such as he was displaying now, for instance.

  “Still no change in her condition?” asked Burkitt.

  “None.” Gragg shook his head. “God only knows what horrors have invaded that child’s mind.”

  “Running from horrors doesn’t help. The only way to deal with them is to meet them head-on.”

  There was not the slightest trace of sympathy in his voice. Gragg looked at Burkitt and said, carefully, “Warmaster . . . she is but a child.”

  “And childhood is when the preponderance of learning is achieved,” Burkitt replied, his voice a low rumble that seemed to originate from somewhere around his knees. “If one does not learn emotional toughness when one is of a young age, it is most unlikely one will develop it in old age. And it is a trait Tsana can and must develop. You seem to have forgotten, Commander: She is our only surviving imperial. By tradition and by law, she is to be the next Zarn.” He snorted. “Look at her. Look at the face of leadership for Aeron.”

  A small trickle of spittle was hanging from the edge of her mouth. Her eyes were wide open, but still staring inward.

  “Doesn’t give you much hope for our future, does it?” asked Burkitt.

  Gragg looked forlornly at the helpless child. “And what is the law for a situation such as this?”

  “If an imperial is incapacitated . . . which is certainly the case here . . . then the nine Counselars are to choose a regent from among themselves to rule in the Zarn’s place.”

  “And how is this choosing to be done?”

  “That,” sighed Burkitt, “is the regrettable aspect. There is no single proscribed procedure. The usual result is that the Counselars employ methods that begin with politicking and, more often than not, result in a full-blown, unholy war. Such is the way of things when a Zarn is alive, but incapacitated. Now, if the Zarn is killed . . .”

  There was a significant pause, and Gragg looked at Burkitt curiously. “If the Zarn is killed . . . ?”

  “In that case . . . the Warmaster is given charge.”

  Gragg could not quite believe it. “Why—?”

  “Because,” said Burkitt with grim amusement, “the lawmakers reasoned that an assassinated Zarn meant that we were either at war, or caught up in events that would send us spiraling toward war. The selections by the Counselars are perfectly adequate if old age or illness fells a Zarn . . . but if a Zarn is cut down, it was supposed that war was inevitable. At such a time, the oldest and most experienced military hand on Aeron would naturally step in to guide our people through such . . . unfortunate times.”

  “Meaning you.”

  “Meaning me.”

  His gaze shifted uncomfortably from Burkitt to Tsana and back again. “But the Zarn . . . at least, the new Zarn . . . yet lives. So you are saying by the letter of our laws . . .”

  Slowly the warmaster turned to look at his longtime follower, his eyes glowing but unreadable. “I am merely one of the Counselars, with no more or less influence and power than any other. If, however, Tsana were to die . . . and it would be supposed that the poor distraught child simply gave up her hold on life rather than live with the shocking events she had witnessed . . .”

  “Then you would be the unquestioned power on Aeron.”

  Burkitt nodded.

  For what seemed an eternity, the two old soldiers stood there, staring at the girl who might well have been thought to be dead, were it not for the slight rising and falling of her chest. Then, without saying a word, Burkitt picked up a pillow. He scrunched it lightly between his large fists, as if testing its heft, and then he started to lean forward to press it down over the girl’s face.

  The soft hum of a weapon stopped him. Silently, Burkitt turned to see Gragg standing there, his wea
pon leveled at him. There was the slightest flutter of what appeared to be fear visible in Gragg’s eyes, but if he was indeed daunted, it did not translate to the mildest hesitation in his aim. The gun was unwavering.

  “Put it down, Warmaster,” he said.

  And Burkitt smiled approvingly. “Good. Very good.” He tossed the pillow aside.

  Gragg looked at him askance. He didn’t lower the weapon so much as a micron. “Very good?”

  Burkitt approached him as if coming to a child to congratulate him on achieving a high mark, and rested his hands on Gragg’s shoulders as he would a trusted confidant, rather than someone who had just been aiming a weapon at him. “There will be dark times ahead for Aeron,” Burkitt informed him. “There will be those who will desire to throw the rule of law aside. In that way lies pure chaos, and we will eat ourselves alive and destroy ourselves long before we’ve had the slightest opportunity to see retribution upon our foes. I desired to see whether you had respect for that law.”

  “So . . . this was intended to be some sort of . . . of test . . .”

  “Yes. Just so. What . . . ?” Burkitt actually appeared to have a surprised look. “After all the years we have worked with one another . . . after all that we have achieved . . . do you know me so little, Gragg, that you think me capable of smothering a helpless child in her sickbed?”

  “As you said yourself, Warmaster . . . there are dark times ahead.” He bowed politely. “It is not for me to say whether they have not, in fact, already arrived.”

  Then they heard noises, chanting, in the distance. Gragg went to one of the windows and looked out. What he saw was not entirely unexpected, but, nevertheless, it was somewhat amazing. There were people, as far as the eye could see. They were marching in slow but orderly fashion, waving to one side and then the other, their arms stretched toward heaven in supplication.

  “A Mourning March,” he said, by way of informing Burkitt. “I have never seen one so massive, though.”

  “Nor will you again, let us hope,” said Burkitt. “You attended the funeral?”