Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

“Oh. Well . . . in that case . . . I guess I’ll take it now,” Burgoyne said weakly.

  He patted hir on the shoulder. “Good thinking.”

  Burgoyne was shaking hir head in disbelief as Calhoun headed out. “And here I had money down on Soleta.”

  “That was a shame,” said Calhoun, pausing to turn and address Burgoyne. “The reason she wasn’t betting was because I asked her for what she thought would be the most logical choice, and she said you. We’ll make a formal announcement later. By the way—you have the conn.” And with that, Calhoun swept out of his office.

  Burgoyne stood there a moment longer, trying to take in what had just happened. Then, slowly, as if walking on razor blades, s/he stepped out onto the bridge and looked around. It was just the same as always. There was the crew: Mark McHenry at conn, Robin Lefler at ops, the massive Brikar, Zak Kebron, at tactical. Soleta was at her science station, and she was glancing over at Burgoyne with a raised eyebrow. She probably already knew. Damn her.

  Taking a deep breath, Burgoyne walked over into the lower well of the bridge, stopped at the command chair, and rested hir hand on it. Then s/he swung one leg over and sank into it. Even though the chair was not remotely elevated, s/he felt as if s/he were looking down from on high.

  S/he looked around. Everyone was staring at hir.

  McHenry leaned back and whispered, “Does the captain know you’re sitting in his chair?”

  S/he closed her eyes and tried to figure out who she wanted to throttle more at that moment: McHenry or Calhoun.

  The holodeck looked no different than it usually did. The glowing grids were visible, and there was a faint humming of controlled power. Calhoun stood in the middle of the room, looking at the relative emptiness and wondering whether there hadn’t been some sort of screwup.

  He tapped his combadge. “Calhoun to Burgoyne.”

  “Burgoyne here. Come to your senses already, Captain?”

  Calhoun smiled and shook his head. This was going to be a most interesting partnership. “If you mean in regards to you, no. I’m just wondering: Did you say the holodeck is set?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Is there anything I have to do to activate it? What program do I tell it to run . . . ?”

  “None, sir. Not this time. The computer is rigged directly into the signal that’s being transmitted from Starfleet headquarters on earth. As soon as the connection is made, the holodeck will automatically activate and you’ll be in the middle of the holoconference.”

  “Which is originating from San Francisco.”

  “Yes, sir. The ‘hosts’ are Admiral Ross and Captain Picard.”

  “And we in turn are going to be interfacing with other captains from all points throughout Federation space.”

  “Yes, sir, that’s correct. Several dozen.”

  “Then would you mind explaining to me,” Calhoun asked slowly, “how in the hell—given the unavoidable lag-time involved in a transmission of any distance—this is going to be conducted in anything approaching ‘real time’?”

  There was a pause. “It’s somewhat complicated, sir.”

  “Give it to me in ten words or less.”

  This time Burgoyne didn’t hesitate. “Magic.”

  “Magic?”

  “Yes, sir. Magic.”

  “And that’s supposed to suffice, is it?”

  “I’m certainly hoping it does, sir. You’d need five years at Starfleet Engineering school to understand the technical issues. Plus, you said ten words: This leaves nine left over.”

  Calhoun was suddenly glad that no one else was standing there who might be able to see the look of annoyance on his face. “I can think of two more I’d use if we weren’t on an open frequency. Burgoyne . . .”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Forget I asked.”

  “It’s forgotten, sir.”

  Calhoun shook his head as the communication went out. This entire holoconference thing had come up most unexpectedly. Details had been sketchy at best. He’d heard rumors that the agenda of the meeting had to do with some sort of “gateways,” but beyond that he knew very little. This alone was extremely bothersome to him. Then again, if Shelby were around, she’d probably be asking him if the thing that was bothering him most was that he, the great Mackenzie Calhoun, was going to have to find out what was going on at the same time as a bunch of “lesser” captains. Shelby had this annoying habit of making everything relate to Calhoun’s ego and allegedly overinflated opinion of himself. She had an even more annoying habit of pretty much being right. But Calhoun had the equally annoying habit of never admitting when she was right, so it all evened out.

  Suddenly there was a shimmering of the air around him, and the power hum sounded as if it was being channeled in some direction.

  And then, just like that, he was not alone.

  He was slightly startled by the suddenness of it, but he hid his discomfort with his customary sangfroid. He suddenly found himself surrounded by—just as advertised—several dozen fellow captains, as well as a few commanders and an admiral.

  “Hello, Mac,” said a soft voice next to him.

  He turned and smiled. “Hello, Eppy. This is interesting.”

  He reached toward Shelby, and she instinctively took his hand. Their fingers interlaced . . .

  . . . and passed through. There was no “ghosting” image, no transparency. But the hands moved through each other just as the same, like wind and air. It was as if she were there, but not there, all at the same time.

  “Holos don’t have substance outside their respective decks,” she said with a soft sigh. “The technology’s not quite that sophisticated . . . yet.”

  “Too bad,” he replied. “If it were, we could—”

  “I know where your mind is. We still haven’t had a proper honeymoon—”

  “Ohhh, now, Eppy . . . we had fun on Xenex.”

  “I almost died, Mac. So did you.”

  “But we didn’t. That was the fun part.”

  She rolled her eyes even as she chuckled. “See, that’s the nice thing about being married to you, Mac. The things about you that once infuriated me, I now find amusing.”

  “Particularly when they’re at a distance?” he suggested.

  She grinned at that. “Well, I certainly didn’t say that, but I wouldn’t entirely rule it out. . . .”

  His gaze sought out and found Jean-Luc Picard across the room. Picard was talking to an admiral whom Calhoun didn’t know, but took to be this “Ross” Burgoyne had mentioned. Ross was slightly older than Picard, with dark hair flecked with gray and eyes that seemed to have lost their vigor. His uniform was not entirely flattering to his waistline, but it didn’t seem to concern him.

  As for Picard himself, well, aside from a very slight whitening of his hair (what there was of it), the damned man never seemed to age. Picard inclined his head slightly in greeting, and Calhoun returned the silent gesture. It appeared to Calhoun that Picard had either been present at, or even directly responsible for, every major turning point in Calhoun’s life. It had been Picard who had first talked a young M’k’n’zy of Calhoun into joining the Academy; Picard who had convinced the older, cynical Mackenzie Calhoun that he should return to Starfleet and take on the Excalibur; hell, it had been Picard who had performed the wedding ceremony when he’d married Shelby. It made Calhoun wonder if what they were going to conference on now was going to have the same sort of impact.

  Shelby had turned and was now talking softly to a woman whom she’d addressed as “Garbeck,” and he recognized the name instantly. Garbeck was the first officer who had stepped in as captain of Exeter when Shelby had taken command of the Trident (well, actually, of the Excalibur, but that was something else entirely).

  Beyond Garbeck, Calhoun saw what appeared to be a female Bajoran. What struck him as odd was that she was not wearing a Starfleet uniform, but rather that of what he took to be the Bajoran military. That came as a bit of a surprise. An older man whom Calhoun did
not recognize was next to her, and judging from the way they were interacting with one another—their body language and such—Calhoun suspected they had arrived “together.” The older man was Starfleet, but held the rank of commander.

  “Good afternoon,” Ross began in a deep voice. Many returned the greeting, some nodded; one, a Vulcan, offered his people’s customary salute. “It’s nice to know our relay systems are fine-tuned enough to allow holoconferences like this to occur. It certainly beats trying to find parking orbits for all of you.” He smiled, but the smile faded quickly when the mild joke failed to generate so much as the slightest reaction. Calhoun glanced at Shelby and mouthed, Tough room.

  Apparently realizing that, Ross obviously dismissed any further notions of levity. “I’m placing you all on yellow alert until further notice.” He let that sink in before continuing. When he did, his voice seemed to get even more serious. “As for why we’re doing this, we have a new problem. A few days ago, the Federation Council was approached by a group of beings who identified themselves as the Iconians.”

  The name meant absolutely nothing to Calhoun. He glanced once more at Shelby. She wasn’t looking at him, but instead at Ross, and he could tell instantly from her expression that she knew precisely who these “Iconians” were. At that moment she glanced at him, clearly to see how he was taking the news. Calhoun managed to muster a grave look in his eyes, one that he hoped conveyed sufficient appreciation for the gravity of the situation. Apparently it was enough to convince Shelby that he fully grasped the seriousness of this bit of news, as they exchanged “knowing” nods.

  “Captain Picard,” continued Ross, “would you please detail what we know of the Iconians?”

  Thank you, Calhoun thought.

  “Of course, Admiral.” Picard’s head had been slightly cocked, like an attentive canine, but now he straightened his uniform and looked out amongst the sea of holoimages. “The Iconians were known to exist in this quadrant of space some two hundred millennia ago. Their culture and technology were unparalleled in that time period, but records about them are scant. About a decade ago, Captain Donald Varley of the U.S.S. Yamato determined the location of their homeworld in the Romulan Neutral Zone, but was lost along with his ship when a destructive Iconian computer program inserted itself into the Yamato’ s mainframe. Even after all this time, the technology on the Iconian homeworld remained functional—including the Gateways.

  “These Gateways provide instantaneous transport between two points that could be meters or light-years apart. Two functional Gateways have been found over the last few years: one on the homeworld, which I myself destroyed rather than allow Gateway technology to fall into Romulan hands; and one discovered by the Dominion in the Gamma Quadrant, which was destroyed by a joint Starfleet/ Jem’Hadar team from the U.S.S. Defiant.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Ross interjected. Picard appeared slightly annoyed that Ross had interrupted, but said nothing. Ross went on. “The Iconians who have now come forward have offered us the Gateway technology for a price. The Council is considering the offer, but it’s a bit more complicated than that. First, they are offering the technology to the highest bidder; similar offers have been made to governments throughout the quadrant. Clearly, this could have a devastating impact should any antagonistic or ambitious government obtain the technology exclusively.

  “Second, and most immediate: The Iconians have chosen to demonstrate how useful the Gateways can be by activating the entire network. Gateways have opened up all over the quadrant and beyond. The Iconians have seen fit to withhold how to control them, and they have chosen not to provide us with any form of useful map.”

  As Ross paused, several of the officers began speaking up, tossing out questions, and offering comments of their own. Shelby, it appeared to Calhoun, was lost in thought.

  Ross continued, and the group grew silent. “As the Gateways came on-line, we immediately began studying their output, trying to get a handle on how they work. We became rather alarmed at some of the readings, so turned the study over to the Starfleet Corps of Engineers. We now have a preliminary report.”

  Calhoun saw a newcomer “arrive” on the scene, stepping through unseen doors. He was an older man, with thick gray-white hair and a bristling mustache, and a walk that seemed as if it would have been at home on the swaying deck of a schooner.

  “Captain Scott, thank you for joining us,” said Ross.

  The name immediately clicked for Calhoun. This had to be the legendary Montgomery Scott, whom Burgoyne had spoken of on occasion. Shelby, from her reaction, seemed to know of him as well. A pity the other people who had served under Kirk weren’t there; it would have been old home week for them.

  “It nae a problem,” Scott said. Calhoun had to listen carefully; the man’s accent was going to take some getting used to. “Those Gateways, to be blunt, are behavin’ in ways we never imagined. It seems that when they exhaust their power, they tap into any other power supply that’s available. Like pussywillows here on Earth, that seek water and break into pipes to find it. These Gateways are so beyond our ken tha’ figuring out how they tick and stoppin’ them will be almost impossible.”

  Ross looked even more concerned. “Do you mean, they could tap an entire planet’s resources and drain them dry?”

  Scott took a deep breath. “Aye. Worse, for those worlds using predominately geothermal or hydraulic power, their ecosystem could be compromised. We don’ have all the figures in yet, but one o’ my ships is measuring solar consumption. My fear is some stars might be destabilized by additional power demands. It’s a very nasty bit o’ business,” he concluded.

  “All the more reason for us to mobilize the fleet. Duty packets are going out now with specific sector assignments. We’ll need to maintain the peace. Some of our scientific vessels will be working with the S.C.E. to determine just how severe the problems might become. Captain Solok . . .”

  The Vulcan captain seemed to step forward.

  “I will want you and your crew to begin monitoring all incident reports from Gateway activity. If the Iconians won’t give us a map, I want to make one.”

  “Understood. I should point out that it will not be complete, and therefore not entirely accurate.”

  “Noted,” Ross said. “I’ll take whatever we can get, since it’s better than the nothing we have right now.” He turned to the Bajoran and the commander standing next to her. “Colonel, Commander, our scientists have done some preliminary mapping based on the Gateway power signatures, and we’ve discovered something very interesting out your way. We’re estimating no Gateway activity within ten lightyears in any direction of Bajor.”

  “The wormhole,” the commander said, his eyes narrowing.

  “We think so, yes.”

  “It could be the Prophets protecting this region,” the female Bajoran spoke up.

  “That’s certainly a possibility,” Ross admitted. “Vaughn, given your experience with the Gateways, I want you out there, finding out why there aren’t any Gateways near Bajor. Is it something natural? Is it the doing of the aliens—that is to say, the Prophets?” he amended with a contrite glance at the Bajoran. “What properties are being displayed, and can they be harnessed beyond your sector?”

  “You’re hoping we can turn it into a practical countermeasure.”

  “Exactly.”

  “I was unaware, Admiral, of any encounters with Gateways beyond those by the Enterprise and the Defiant,” said Picard.

  With a look at her first officer, the Bajoran said, “Neither was I.”

  “It was a few years ago,” Vaughn said neutrally.

  Ross gave Picard a reassuring look, although Calhoun—in watching it—felt a little less than reassured. “The relevant portions of Commander Vaughn’s mission will be declassified, in light of the present emergency.”

  Picard nodded. “Good.”

  Ross and the Bajoran colonel started discussing another assignment of DS9’s relating to the evacuation of a world ca
lled Europa Nova, but Calhoun was watching Picard. Picard, in turn, was staring at Vaughn. He had the feeling Picard was suspicious of Vaughn for some reason, but, naturally, he had no idea why.

  Then his attention snapped back to Ross when he heard his own name mentioned. “Captain,” Ross was saying, “you and the Excalibur will go deep in Thallonian space. There’s a concentration of Gateway signatures that bears investigation.”

  “We don’t habitually go shallow in Thallonian space, Admiral. ‘Deep’ is our status quo. Can you give us a bit more of a hint than that?”

  “We’ll forward the coordinates to your science officer.”

  “Thank you. What do the Gateway signatures say, by the way? ‘With all our love, the Iconians’?”

  This drew a few scattered guffaws. “Captain,” said Ross, “I’m obviously referring to energy signatures, not autographs, and this is no laughing matter.”

  Adopting a demeanor almost as serious as Ross’s, Calhoun archly informed him, “You’re only saying that, Admiral, because your joke didn’t get a laugh.”

  “Admiral,” Shelby cut in quickly, firing a glance at Calhoun, “if I may . . .”

  “Please do, Captain,” Ross said pointedly.

  “I have a new crewman on my ship. She came to me through the Temporal Displacement Office, and she described the means through which she got here as a sort of ‘gateway.’ I don’t think she used the term in the ‘official’ capacity you’re using here, but it may well be the same technology.”

  Ross amazingly looked even more grim. “Transporting through time and space? These things may be even more powerful than we had previously imagined. Was she on the Iconian homeworld or in the Gamma Quadrant?”

  “I don’t believe it was either, sir. She’d filed a report with the TDO; obviously it wasn’t passed along to you.”

  “Damned paperwork trail,” commented Picard. “Thanks to modern technology, the left hand can be oblivious of the right hand’s activities with greater efficiency than ever.”

  This drew more chuckles, and Calhoun commented, “Careful, Picard. He hates it when other people get more laughs than he does.”