Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  “I appreciate the sentiment, however misplaced your caution is.”

  “Caution is never misplaced; just occasionally unnecessary in retrospect.”

  “Well, you will certainly discover that this is one of those times.” He bowed slightly. “I am, indeed, Smyt, and I do appreciate your coming.”

  “And was this godforsaken meeting ground truly necessary?” asked Burkitt testily.

  “There might have been other possible meeting grounds,” admitted Smyt. “But this was what came to mind. Security was of uppermost concern to me.”

  “My headquarters is secure.”

  “As was your imperial mansion, I daresay,” he replied pointedly.

  Burkitt scowled at that. “How do you know of that?”

  “Well,” said Smyt, with a coarse laugh that grated on Burkitt’s ears, “how could I not? Your entire world is in mourning for the loss of its imperials.”

  “But you are not of this world. That much is apparent simply by looking at you.”

  “Yes, yes. Very observant. I am,” and Smyt bowed slightly, “an Iconian.”

  “Really.”

  “You do not appear impressed.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving.”

  “Ah.”

  “In this case, however, they are not.”

  “Ah,” Smyt said again with a smile. “A dazzling riposte. Most, most amusing.”

  “I do not consider any of this amusing,” Burkitt made sure to let him know. “And if you do not come to the point of this nonsense within the next minute, I am going to take my leave of you. And whether I leave you in one piece when I do so is something that I have not yet come close to deciding.”

  “So testy,” Smyt said scoldingly. He appeared to be entirely too jovial, as if all of this was just some great game to him. “Very well. I have something that I think you will consider to be of great interest.”

  “Really.”

  “Yes, really.” He folded his arms, and when he spoke again, he did so with the air of someone who knew the answer he was going to get before he spoke. “How would you like to strike back at those who assassinated your imperials?”

  Burkitt’s eyes narrowed, although he did all he could to keep his face as neutral as possible. “You have my attention,” he said noncommitally. “Keep talking.”

  For the first time, Smyt moved. He stepped to one side, and Burkitt now saw that there was something behind him. It had been hidden by the lengthening shadows of the trees behind Smyt, and Burkitt mentally chided himself for such an amateurish slip. If Smyt had been concealing a weapon there, Burkitt would have been dead where he stood.

  It did not appear to be a weapon, however. It seemed to be a . . .

  . . . well, truthfully, he didn’t know what the hell it was. It seemed to be an array of metal tubes, inextricably intertwined, looking almost like a free-form sculpture. But there were no welding marks on it that Burkitt could discern, and since he’d done such sculpting in his youth as a hobby, he would have been in a position to know. It was almost as if the thing, which came to about waist-high, had . . . grown into its present shape.

  He also noticed that there were some sort of controls upon it. At least that’s what he thought they were. There were several pads, slightly raised on the surface, on one of the upper grips. Burkitt had no clue how they might have controlled the object, or even what the thing’s nature was.

  “Intrigued, aren’t you?” Smyt said, clearly pleased with himself. He patted the oddly shaped thing, almost as if it were a child that he was eminently proud of.

  “You’re in danger of losing my attention,” Burkitt warned him.

  “Aren’t you going to ask me what it is?”

  “This is nonsense,” said Burkitt angrily, his impatience overwhelming him. “Speak plainly or we’ve nothing more to—”

  “It’s a portable Gateway. The only one like it in existence.”

  Burkitt stared at him blankly. “A what?”

  “A Gateway. It enables the user to go to whatever preset coordinates he desires. Basically, it takes one point in space-time,” and he touched his thumb to forefinger, “and another point in space-time,” he did the same with his other hand, “and pulls them toward one another until they’re like this.” He interlinked the thumb and forefinger from his two hands to form what amounted to a bridge between his hands. “And when that union is made, the user can cross over.”

  “So you’re saying . . .”

  “I’m saying,” Smyt told him, “that you can use this device to launch an attack on those who annihilated your beloved imperials. You do not have space-flight capability; but this will solve that. In fact, you’ll be in a superior position to many who do have space vessels. Here, the trip is instantaneous. You’re here . . . then you’re there. Then the controller just brings you back.”

  It was at that moment that everything snapped into focus for Burkitt. “Of course,” he whispered. “It was you.”

  “Me?” Smyt affected a puzzled and innocent look.

  “This was how the Markanians got into the mansion. They used this device. This ‘one-of-a-kind’ device of yours. Which means you sold it to them.”

  “I am stunned, sir!” Smyt said, apparently doing his level best to, indeed, look stunned. “I have come to you in the spirit of sharing—”

  “Of sharing. You mean that you’re going to provide this device to my people out of the goodness of your heart.”

  “Well, now . . . I didn’t quite say that,” he demurred. “This is a unique item, after all. There is such a thing as supply and demand. If there is a demand for this Gateway, should I not be the one who benefits by providing the supply? Especially when that supply is limited to one. But if you’re willing to make it worth my while . . .”

  “You,” Burkitt informed him, “are under arrest.”

  “What?” His eyes widened. “Simply for endeavoring to transact a deal? That doesn’t seem quite fair.” He didn’t sound the least bit perturbed at Burkitt’s announcement, and that alone was enough to infuriate Burkitt all the more.

  “You are under arrest for providing a lethal device to a known enemy of Aeron. . . .”

  Smyt laughed disdainfully at that, leaning against the device and looking very relaxed with the situation. “You have no proof that I provided anything to anyone. And in any event, the device itself is not lethal. It simply transports. I have no control over what people do once they’re transported.”

  More than anything at that moment, Burkitt wanted to see Smyt lose some of that insufferable smugness. “And you will be charged as an accessory to multiple murders. You are going to come with me—”

  And suddenly, just like that, there was what appeared to be a weapon in the Iconian’s hand. He had produced it so quickly that Burkitt had absolutely no idea where he’d even pulled it from. But it was trained upon him, the barrel unwavering, and if Burkitt even tried to draw his own weapon, he’d have no chance to get a shot off before Smyt blasted him.

  “This is truly a shame, Burkitt,” said Smyt, and he actually sounded genuinely apologetic. “I was expecting more from a warmaster such as yourself.”

  “Then far be it from me to disappoint you,” replied Burkitt. “Look above you.”

  Smyt laughed. “Oh, please. Do you seriously think that I would—”

  That was all he managed to say before Gragg and three other soldiers dropped overhead from the trees behind him.

  Smyt yelped, and then he was slammed to the ground, his face shoved into the marshy dirt. He tried to get out a shout of protest, but only succeeded in getting a mouthful of dirt. The soldiers then hauled him to his feet, and he staggered, confused for a moment, trying to sort out what had happened.

  Burkitt strode toward him slowly, taking his time, savoring the moment. When he was quite close to Smyt, he said, “Was this more the kind of thing you were expecting from a warmaster . . . such as myself?”

  “You . . . you had them planted here . . . befor
e I came . . .” Smyt managed to say. He spit out some dirt that had wedged in between his lips.

  “As soon as I received your communication, yes. They hid there for many hours. I would guess that they do not appreciate your having made that assignment necessary. Do you appreciate it, Commander Gragg?”

  “No, sir,” he growled, and he shook Smyt ever so slightly for good measure.

  “See there, I thought not. Commander Gragg here will escort you to a lovely holding facility back in the city. I, in the meantime, will confiscate this . . . device . . . of yours. I’m sure our scientists will be most delighted to have an opportunity to examine it.”

  “Your scientists,” Smyt said, rallying his bravado for a moment, “will kill themselves. You have no idea of how to operate it, and you have no comprehension of the danger.”

  “We learn very quickly.”

  Gathering his scattered reserves of nerve, Smyt told him, “What you will learn, Warmaster, is that you’re not as clever as you think you are.”

  Burkitt ran his fingers along the curves of the device. It seemed warm to the touch. “We were clever enough to apprehend you,” he pointed out.

  “That was not so much your ingenuity as my overconfidence. I shall not make that mistake again. You, however, are making a huge one now.”

  “I suppose we’ll just have to live with it.”

  Smyt looked at him in a way that abruptly made Burkitt’s spine feel cold.

  “No. You won’t,” he assured him.

  7

  EXCALIBUR

  LIEUTENANT CRAIG MITCHELL, second-in-command of engineering, gaped in disbelief at Burgoyne. Mitchell was heavyset, bearded, and his brown hair was its customary unruly mop. “You’re not serious about this, Burgy,” he said. “I am perfectly serious about this, Mitchell,” replied Burgoyne. S/he looked around the table at Ensigns Torelli and Yates, and the recently promoted Lieutenant j.g. Beth. Outside the engineering room conference lounge, the rest of the crew was going about its business, briskly keeping the mighty engines of the Excalibur in working order and devoid of computer viruses and gigantic flaming birds. “As second-in-command, I’ll be spending the majority of my time on the bridge. To all functional intents and purposes, Craig, you’re going to be chief engineer.”

  “Permission to speak freely, sir?”

  Burgoyne looked at him with bemusement. “I’m sorry . . . has there ever been a time when someone considered—even for a moment—not telling me precisely what was on his or her mind?”

  “Permission to—”

  “Yes, yes, go ahead,” Burgoyne said.

  “I don’t know that I’m ready for this.”

  “Trust him, Lieutenant Commander,” Beth urged. “He’s really not ready for it.”

  Mitchell fired a glance at her. “Don’t help me, okay, Beth? I’m reasonably sure I can plead my own inadequacy.”

  “You’re being astoundingly modest, Mitchell,” said Burgoyne. “It’s rather unlike you.”

  “Well, I’m just contemplating what it will be like with you not around here all the time, keeping everything in order. I just . . .” Mitchell cleared his throat and did his best to look needy. “I don’t think I’m up to maintaining this place at the demanding standards you’ve set.”

  Burgoyne sat back in hir chair, eyes narrowing, as if s/he was visually dissecting Mitchell. “Is that a fact?” s/he said slowly, obviously unconvinced.

  “A harsh fact to admit,” Mitchell said sadly, “but one I’m prepared to live with.” There was a uniform nodding of heads from around the table.

  “I see.” Burgoyne tapped hir sharp fingernails on the tabletop for a long moment, and then said, “This would not, by any chance, be some sort of . . . oh, I don’t know . . . resistance to my promotion, would it?”

  Protests immediately came from around the table. “No!”

  “No, sir, not at all!” “Definitely not!” was chorused by all of them.

  “It couldn’t be,” continued Burgoyne, “that you think I’m the wrong choice to be the second-in-command of this ship. That I lack sufficient . . . what would be the best word . . . ?”

  “Maturity?” suggested Mitchell.

  “Experience?” said Beth.

  “Stability?” said Yates.

  “Self-control?” said Torelli.

  Burgoyne couldn’t quite believe what s/he was hearing. “Is that what you think? After all this time working under me? Do you think so little of me as chief engineer that—?”

  “Burgy, we didn’t say that we actually believed any of those things,” Mitchell quickly said. “We were just . . .” He looked to the others for help.

  “Floating possibilities,” suggested Beth.

  Mitchell clapped his beefy hands together in triumph, as if Beth had just explained the mysteries of the universe in under five words. “Floating possibilities! That’s it exactly.”

  Burgoyne leaned back in hir chair, and there was genuine sadness in hir eyes. “I am disheartened. Extremely disheartened. That you’d think so little of me—”

  “We don’t, Lieutenant Commander,” Beth said earnestly. “It’s—”

  “Commander,” Burgy softly corrected. “It’s ‘Commander’ now. I would prefer not to have to remind you.”

  There was considerable uncomfortable shifting of feet under the table. “Commander,” Beth corrected herself, “the truth is, we’d really hate to lose you around here. You’re the best engineer I’ve ever served under. Ever. And it’s just, well . . .”

  “Well . . . what?”

  “You don’t seem the command type,” Mitchell blurted out.

  “And what ‘type’would that be?”

  “Someone who’s less . . . well . . .”

  “You.”

  It had been a strange voice that had interrupted. They looked up to see a Bolian standing in the doorway. His eyes were deep-set on either side of the bifurcation that was unique to Bolians, and his blue face was a bit blubbery, although, curiously, the rest of his body was rather trim.

  “Less me?” said a puzzled Burgoyne. Glancing at the ranking pips, s/he said, “Ensign, if someone is going to insult me, I insist that they at least serve with me for six months, minimum.”

  “No insult was intended, Commander,” he said in a voice that was slightly wispy. “I was simply saying, ‘You,’ which was going to be followed in short order by, ‘would be Commander Burgoyne?’ But then I realized you were in the middle of a discussion, and was loathe to interrupt.”

  “No, it’s quite all right. Your timing is actually rather appreciated.” S/he gave a pointed look at hir subordinates, who abruptly seemed less than anxious to meet hir gaze. “What can I do for you?”

  “I am reporting to you, as instructed,” he said with a slight inclination of his head. “I’d been assigned to ship’s general services, but since you’re relocating to the bridge, I was placed here. I assure you I am quite conversant with all technical aspects of—”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sure you are. Otherwise I doubt you’d have been assigned here,” said Burgoyne, sounding a bit more snappish than s/he would have liked. There was no reason to be short-tempered with the newcomer, after all. “You’ll be reporting to Lieutenant Beth for duty assignments,” and s/he indicated Beth.

  Beth rose from her chair, extended a hand, and said, “Welcome to engineering, Ensign . . . ?”

  “Pheytus,” said the Bolian.

  There was a slight guffaw from Yates, quickly squelched. Beth, her eyes even rounder than usual, said, “Pardon?”

  “Ensign Pheytus.”

  “Pronounced . . .” She clearly couldn’t quite believe it. “Fetus? Ensign Fetus?”

  “Yes, that’s correct,” said Pheytus. His hairless brows puckered in confusion. “Does that present a problem?”

  “No, no . . . not at all,” Beth said quickly, but it was obvious to Burgoyne that she was trying to stifle her amusement.

  Mitchell said, “Welcome to engineering, Ensign Fetus.”r />
  “I’m sure we’ll have plenty of womb for you here,” said Beth.

  That was it for Yates and Torelli; they burst out laughing. Mitchell masterfully kept a straight face, as he always did. As for Beth, her lips were tightly sealed, but her shoulders were shaking in silent mirth. Pheytus could not have looked more bewildered. “Am I . . . missing something here? Am I unwelcome for some reason?”

  “Definitely not,” deadpanned Torelli. “Having you here will be a labor of love, and if you need anything, we’ll be at your cervix.”

  More laughter. Pheytus wasn’t taking offense; he was too puzzled to do so. Burgoyne, however, more sternly than s/he had ever spoken before, said, “All right, that’s more than enough.”

  “If I have given offense in some way—” began Pheytus.

  This time it was Yates who piped in. “You’d be sick about it in the morning?”

  “I said that’s enough!” The thunder, the anger in Burgoyne’s voice was so uncharacteristic that it was enough to startle the others into silence. “Ensign Pheytus, that will be all.” Pheytus bowed again ever so slightly, turned and left, shaking his head a bit as he did so. Burgoyne glared at hir command staff. “And you say I’m immature?”

  “I’m sorry. That could have been handled better,” admitted Mitchell.

  “Oh, do you think so? Really?” Sarcasm was dripping from every syllable. “You people cracking jokes, and you, Mitchell—they answer to you now. By sitting there and smirking, even though you didn’t join in, you tacitly endorsed it.” S/he shook hir head, making no secret of hir annoyance. “I have to say, people, I’m less than impressed by what I’ve seen today. I’ve worked too hard forging one of the best engineering staffs in the fleet. And today I’ve seen you become disconcerted by everything from my promotion to the unintentionally funny name of a new crewmember. That is unacceptable, people. Unacceptable, as in, I won’t accept it.” S/he glared around the table at them, one at a time, and one at a time each of them lowered their gaze rather than return it. Tapping the table with one of hir claws, s/he continued, “I demand, and expect to receive, the very best out of my crew. I strongly suggest you don’t disappoint me a second time. Is that clear?”