Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  Gragg shook his head. “I felt it better if I remained on post here, along with the rest of the protective force. There is nothing to say that the Markanians would not return in an endeavor to complete their grisly work. Tsana needed to be protected.”

  “Indeed, she did. But you loved the imperials as much as any other good Aeron.”

  “I . . . did, Warmaster.”

  Burkitt looked at him askance, a sympathetic expression working its way across his face. “Including, particularly, the eldest daughter. What was her name—?”

  “Jylla,” Gragg said tonelessly.

  “I thought it was my . . . imagination that you seemed to be spending a preponderance of time with—”

  “The imagination was indeed the province of our relationship, Warmaster, I assure you. There was nothing further than that, there could never . . . be . . .” His voice trailed off.

  He patted Gragg affectionately on the back. “Yet while she lived . . . there was hope, however forlorn it might be.” He said nothing for a moment, allowing Gragg his quiet but noble pain. Finally he observed, “Funerals and mourning are not for the dead, you know. The dead cannot hear us, no matter what all the theologians might say. They are for the living. I suggest you join the march, Gragg. It will help alleviate some of the pain you are feeling just now. Eliminate, no . . . but alleviate. It will set you on the path toward healing.”

  Gragg was listening to this, nodding in acknowledgment . . . and then he stopped and looked at Burkitt with a suspicion that he couldn’t quite disguise. “And . . . if I were to do that . . . you would . . . ?”

  “Remain here. The funeral was most impressive, as I said. The ceremonial torches, the lamentations, the musical crescendos . . . an impressive send-off to a family that was much beloved. There is only so much mourning, though, that even the sturdiest of warriors can endure.” He looked at him curiously, something in Gragg’s tone clearly alerting him to concern on the commander’s part. “Why, Gragg? Is there some difficulty if I—?” Then he stopped talking, and Gragg couldn’t help but wonder if he was simply feigning surprise or was genuinely startled to perceive what was running through Gragg’s mind. “Ah. You fear to leave Tsana with me. You believe I will kill her in your absence.”

  “I thought you were trying to kill her in my presence, Warmaster. Why should my absence be any more daunting to you?”

  “But as I assured you, Gragg . . . that was merely a test of your own loyalty.” He took a step forward, arms folded, and said, “I now trust your loyalty, Gragg. Your loyalty to the laws of our people, and your loyalty to me. If we are to continue serving as warmaster and commander to one another . . . you are going to have to make it clear that you trust me as well. Otherwise, how will either of us know whom to count on in the dark times? Would you have me swear an oath?”

  Gragg’s impulse was to look down and shake his head. Instead, he fought that compulsion toward subservience and, meeting Burkitt’s look, he said, “Aye. I would.”

  “Very well,” said Burkitt, apparently not the least bit perturbed. “I swear an oath, upon my honor and upon the lives and honor of all those I hold dear, that no harm shall come to Tsana if it is within my capability to prevent it. Satisfied, Gragg?”

  In truth, he wasn’t. But he could not think of any way to further challenge the matter without straying well into the realm of insult. So he gave a terse nod, turned, and headed out to join the Mourning March.

  There were soldiers at the door and he could easily have told them to go in and keep an eye on Burkitt, but that would not have accomplished anything in terms of displaying trust. He did say to them, though, “Keep a listen for any Markanian intrusion. Remember that they penetrated the mansion’s inner security once already. A second time is eminently possible.” It was only after he had departed to join the march that he began to kick himself mentally. All unintentionally, he had just given Burkitt the excuse for a cover-up that he might have needed. If Burkitt disposed of Tsana while Gragg was gone, he might turn around and try to find a way to blame it on the Markanians.

  He thought of poor, helpless Tsana lying there. And he thought of Jylla’s broken and bloody body where he’d discovered it in the courtyard. At first he had thought that the Markanians had flung her to her death, but then he’d come to the decision that she had probably chosen to end her life on her own terms, rather than let the invading bastards do whatever they wished with her. After that he thought about the Markanians, and how much he hated them.

  The night had turned, the air stinging in his lungs as he walked. He didn’t acknowledge it; he simply ignored the cold. As he blended in with the marchers, his thoughts continued to tumble against one another. Despite what Burkitt had said, he did not feel the grieving for his departed Jylla diminishing, nor did he experience any less sorrow for the comatose Tsana, not to mention the other slaughtered members of the family. His hatred for the Markanians, on the other hand, swelled. He felt as if blood was rushing to every part of his body, exciting him, galvanizing him, making him see the reality of the world with greater clarity than ever before.

  They must die. The words went through his head, straight and clear and with utter certainty. They must die so that we can live in safety and peace. They must die because of their crimes against us. They must die . . . because the bodies of the Zarn and his family cry out for it. They must die . . . because they are Markanians, and our ancient enemy, and we thought we could coexist in the galaxy with them . . . but obviously we were wrong. And because we were wrong, the Zarn and his family paid for it with their lives, and they must be avenged.

  So angry and black were his thoughts that, by the time he returned to the imperial mansion, he had almost forgotten that he had not expected to see Tsana still alive. Yet when he walked into her chamber, there she was, safe and sound. It took him a moment to realize that her continued existence was a matter of some surprise to him. Burkitt, for his part, was seated several feet away, studying what appeared to be some sort of report, his legs crossed in a casual fashion. He glanced up at Gragg with only the mildest of interest. “Surprised to see her alive, Commander?” he asked.

  “No, Warmaster.”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “Yes, Warmaster.”

  He sighed heavily. “And yet you trusted me sufficiently to hope that I would heed my word. I suppose I shall have to take my triumphs where I can. Have you been dwelling on the Markanians, Commander?”

  “I have, yes,” said Gragg, with an air of someone who was relieved not to have to prevaricate or overanalyze every word he spoke before actually speaking it.

  “And your conclusion?”

  “They must die.”

  “Yessss,” said the thoughtful warmaster. “I have come to much the same conclusion. The question, though, is: How? They are, after all, upon another world. Deposited there during the great exodus thrust upon us by the Thallonians, all those many, many years back. We do not have a space fleet at our disposal.”

  “Neither do they,” Gragg pointed out.

  “Which prompts one to wonder, not for the first time: How did they get here?”

  “I do not know,” Gragg said. Then he considered and continued, in a slightly scholarly and singsong voice, “ However . . . whatever method they chose to arrive here . . .”

  “We can somehow utilize in order to go back after them,” said Burkitt, and Gragg smiled eagerly at the prospect. “That is precisely right, Gragg. We will learn how the Markanians accomplished their assault upon us, and we will turn it back upon them. Then, and only then, will the memories of the Zarn and his family be avenged. Only then will we be able to stand proudly and call ourselves Aeron.”

  Tsana, for her part, continued to lay there in silence, with a little more spittle running down her face.

  4

  EXCALIBUR

  MACKENZIE CALHOUN HAD been determined to wait until everything was “just so” before taking this final step. Now, however, as he looked around the ready r
oom with satisfaction, he decided that the time had come. He scratched absently at his chin, the bristles of his beard wiry beneath his fingers. Such was the nature of his crew that they felt no trepidation about weighing in with opinions on his facial hair, whether solicited or not (and, in this instance, most definitely not). And they were saying uniformly the same thing: lose it.

  Granted, it was not the most elegant growth ever sported in the history of Starfleet. It was patchy in places, and there were also a few bits of gray coming in. The major problem was that there was dead skin in the area of the vicious scar that ran down the right side of his face, and no facial hair was growing in there. So no matter what, the full beard was going to have an uneven look to it. That was one of the things he liked about it. Not only that, but it was somewhat nonregulation just because of its unevenness. He liked that aspect of it even more.

  “After all,” he said out loud to no one, “if Eppy isn’t going to be around to remind me that I’m out-of-bounds, then I’m just going to have to remind myself.”

  This, of course, was enough to depress him a bit. But he pushed his way past it, deciding that dwelling upon it was certainly going to accomplish nothing. Instead he decided to focus on that which pleased him: namely, the final touch.

  He reached into a cabinet and withdrew a package that was carefully wrapped in oilskin. It was an old-fashioned means of protecting the contents, but then again, in many respects, Mackenzie Calhoun—former warlord of the planet Xenex, who, as a teen, had spearheaded a revolution that had overthrown his world’s enslavers—was something of an oldfashioned man. He unwrapped the package until finally it lay, gleaming and perfect, on his desktop.

  There was a chime at his door. “Come,” he called.

  Burgoyne 172, the Hermat chief engineer of the Excalibur, entered. S/he moved and spoke with hir customary relaxed style, one that always seemed to be laughing ever so slightly at those who were disconcerted over the presence of Hermats. S/he looked with interest at the subject of Calhoun’s present attention. “Nice sword, Captain,” s/he observed.

  “Thank you. We go way back.”

  “Planning to use it to shave yourself?”

  Calhoun laughed. “Et tu, Burgoyne?”

  “It was just a question,” Burgoyne protested, the picture of wide-eyed innocence. “I wouldn’t want you to shave.”

  “Oh, really? Why not? Have you got a betting pool going as to how long before I get rid of it?”

  “Well . . . yes,” s/he admitted. Defensively, s/he added, “I have to find some way to make the money back I lost on the pool over when you’d come back from the dead.”

  “Really? Who won that?”

  “Lieutenant Beth, down in engineering. The rest of us, we figured if you’d survived, you’d turn up quickly, discovered in a floating pod. She was the only one willing to bet on you long-term.”

  “How nice. I’ll be sure to send her a fruit basket in appreciation for her loyalty.”

  Calhoun was pleased that it was something they were actually able to joke about. In point of fact, when the previous vessel called Excalibur had been blown to bits, Calhoun himself would have been the last person to put any money down on his own survival. That he had managed to get out of the ship at all was a miracle, the nature of which he had not been fully able to comprehend even after all this time. He had then spent months marooned on a far-off world before managing to obtain a vessel and return to Federation space . . . with a young orphan boy named Moke in tow, having promised the boy’s dying mother that he would take care of him.

  But really . . . how do you fit all those circumstances into a betting pool?

  “Did you come here for the sole purpose of inquiring after my face, Burgy?”

  “Ah. No,” Burgoyne said, as if having momentarily forgotten the reason for hir presence. “I actually came to tell you that Holodeck B is set up for the holomeeting. It’s scheduled to start in just under five minutes.”

  “Good, good. Burgoyne, you have the honor of being present at a singular and usually private ceremony.”

  “Private? Why private, Captain? Does it have a deep personal and spiritual meaning?”

  “No, it’s just that nobody except me is remotely interested.” He took the sword by the hilt and sliced it through the air. From the corner of his eye he saw Burgoyne take a cautious step back. “Problem, Burgoyne?”

  “I would just rather not be bisected, Captain, if it’s all the same to you.”

  Calhoun turned and mounted the sword onto a bracket he’d already attached to the wall just behind his desk. “I’ve had this sword for a great many years, Burgy. Took it off the man who gave me this scar, as a matter of fact.” He studied his image in the gleaming blade.

  “So the reflection in the sword has doubtlessly aged a bit since you first looked in there.”

  “Actually,” said Calhoun with a bit of satisfaction, “ whenever I look in it . . . I see myself exactly as I was. It’s practically the only place I can do that. So . . .” He turned to Burgoyne, gesturing to the chief engineer to sit. Burgoyne looked slightly puzzled, obviously believing that s/he had no further business there. That pleased Calhoun; he liked to keep people off balance. Burgoyne sat, and Calhoun did likewise. “I’m somewhat curious, since you seem to be knowledgeable in all things having to do with pools. What’s the current betting on who my first officer will be?”

  “Smart money’s on Soleta,” Burgoyne said promptly. “She’s the science officer, she’s sharp, she’s logical, she keeps her head in difficult situations. Granted, she’s a lieutenant, but you could bump her up in rank.”

  “Mmm. And the outside money?”

  “Well, the outside money has Comman—uhm, Captain Shelby reconsidering her post as captain of the Trident and instead returning to be your number one. I mean, the two of you are married, after all.”

  “So some people on this crew actually think Shelby would accept a demotion and go back to being my first officer.” He laughed softly at the notion. “They don’t know her very well, I think.”

  “Captain, pardon my asking, but . . . don’t you miss her?”

  Calhoun felt slightly taken aback by the question. “Miss her? Of course I miss her. That’s why it took me so long to put my sword up. Because I don’t do that until I feel that everything is right, and without her here, it didn’t. . . .” He sighed.

  Leaning forward, as if wanting to take advantage of this unusual private moment between hirself and Calhoun, Burgoyne asked, “Tell me, Captain . . . did you marry her just so you could be certain you’d still have an attachment to her? Because you were afraid that, with her off on another ship, she’d forget about you?”

  Calhoun looked up at Burgoyne, and his purple eyes were unreadable, as if he’d just pulled a cloth over them. “You know, Lieutenant Commander . . . I think we’d have to know each other a bit longer, and a bit better, than we do, for me to answer that question . . . or for you to ask it.”

  That was more than enough for Burgoyne to realize that s/he had overstepped hirself. S/he cleared hir throat a bit too loudly and said, “Sorry, Captain. So, umm . . . Holodeck B, any time you’re ready. I’ll just . . .” Without finishing the sentence, s/he rose to leave.

  But Calhoun didn’t match the action. Instead, still seated, he said, “Just out of curiosity: Where did the number-one favorite put her money?”

  “You mean Soleta? About first officer? She didn’t. She said betting is illogical. For what it’s worth, though, Lieutenant Beth told me that Soleta agreed with her.”

  “On what?”

  “Well . . .” Burgoyne’s mouth drew back in a smirk, exposing the tips of hir fangs. “You’re going to laugh.”

  “Try me. I could use a laugh.”

  “Well . . . Soleta said you’d offer it to me.”

  Calhoun promptly laughed, and Burgoyne, visibly relaxing at the amusement from hir captain, joined in. “That’s very funny!” said Calhoun, once he’d recovered himself.

&
nbsp; “I know, I know.”

  Eyes glittering in amused awareness of the impact his next words would have, Calhoun said, “She’s right.”

  The laughter died in Burgoyne’s throat, and s/he gaped at him. “Wh-what?”

  “In a command situation, no one knows this ship and what it’s capable of better than you. And considering this vessel is a Galaxy-class ‘hot rod,’ you’re certainly the right one to press it when matters become dire.”

  “But . . . but . . .” Burgoyne was stammering.

  Calhoun proceeded to tick off reasons on his fingers. “You’re intelligent, you’re capable, and you’re not afraid to ask me crass questions which, on occasion, you will have to ask. Furthermore, you’re intensely loyal. Don’t say that you’re not; I saw how you were with our Doctor Selar, and I’ve heard about how you fought to retain custody of your son, Xyon. You’ve forged a relationship with Selar, practically through sheer willpower alone. That’s what I want to see in my first officer.”

  “But, Captain . . . I doubt very many people on this ship see me as command material.”

  “Perhaps, Burgy. But your rank should attend to the ‘ command’ aspect. I will be issuing a field promotion to ‘ Commander.’As for the ‘material’ part, I leave that entirely in your capable, and occasionally clawed, hands. Now then, I have a holoconference to attend to.” At that point, Calhoun rose from behind his desk. Burgoyne was still standing, looking stunned.

  Calhoun stuck out his hand and Burgoyne, reflexively, shook it. But there was no muscle in Burgoyne’s arm, as if the strength had been drained out of it. “When you appointed Commander Shelby as your second-in-command, did you just ‘inform’ her that that was the way it was going to be, whether she wanted it or not?”

  “No, of course not. She had an option. So do you.”

  Burgoyne looked visibly relieved. “So . . . I have the option of turning it down?”

  “No, she did. You have the option of taking on the post now or later.”