Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  There were scattered murmurs of “Yes, sir,” from around the table.

  And something in Burgoyne bristled ever so slightly. “I believe I asked, ‘ Is that clear?’ ”

  This time the “Yes, sir,” was in unison and quite vocal. S/he nodded once, approvingly, but s/he was still annoyed with them and made no effort to hide hir feelings.

  Then the com beeped. “Engineering, Burgoyne here,” s/he said.

  “Commander, we’re almost ready for our communication with the Trident. As second-in-command, you should be there.”

  “On my way, Captain.”

  S/he rose, gave one final annoyed look at the rest of them, said “Unacceptable,” one more time to underscore hir annoyance, and then headed for the conference room . . .

  . . . and managed to hold hir laughter over the tragically named “Ensign Fetus” until s/he got into the privacy of the turbolift.

  “Interesting choice,” was Shelby’s initial reaction.

  She was smiling at him from the viewscreen of the conference lounge. It was all Calhoun could do to resist placing his hand against the screen. It would be unnecessarily oversentimentalized, and it wasn’t as if the curvature and coldness of a screen would do anything to simulate the softness of her skin.

  “I’m pleased that my choice meets with your approval,” Calhoun replied.

  “I didn’t say that,” she demurred. “I mean, honestly, Mac . . . do you really think that Burgoyne is even remotely Starfleet command material, let alone an appropriate first officer of the Excalibur?”

  “One never knows about these things unless one tries,” he said reasonably. “I’m sure that, as scruffy and savage as I was, I hardly looked like Starfleet material twenty-some years ago. And as for the ‘appropriateness’—”

  “I know where you’re going with this,” Shelby interrupted with a small smile. “How appropriate was it for you to put your former fiancée in place as second-in-command? That’s what you were going to say, wasn’t it?”

  “More or less. That’s why I had to marry you, Eppy. It got to the point where there was no use in my even opening my mouth anymore; you knew everything that was going to come out of it before I even said it.”

  “Sure way to get out of a rut.”

  The door to the lounge hissed open and Si Cwan entered. Calhoun never got over how Si Cwan didn’t seem to come into a room so much as fill it with his sheer presence. Tall, red-skinned, with his mustache and beard meticulously trimmed as always, the current Thallonian ambassador and former Thallonian royalty looked to the viewscreen, bowed slightly, and then said, “My apologies. I value punctuality, and did not intend to be late.”

  “You aren’t,” said Calhoun. “Captain Shelby and I started early so that we could take a few minutes to . . . compare notes.”

  “I see,” Si Cwan said neutrally. If he was ascribing some other meaning to “compare notes,” he didn’t indicate it. “And Commander Burgoyne . . . ?”

  “Right behind you.”

  The towering ambassador stepped aside, allowing Burgoyne to pass. Burgoyne nodded hir head slightly to Si Cwan, who returned the gesture. “Since I have not had the opportunity to say as much to you earlier, Commander: Congratulations on your promotion.”

  “No smart comments regarding it?” Burgoyne asked with mild curiosity.

  Si Cwan raised a ridge where, on others, an eyebrow would have been. “ ‘Smart comments’?”

  “Well, most others seem to have volumes of opinion on the subject regarding my suitability.”

  “Commander, you seem to forget that Captain Calhoun, in the time that I’ve known him, had the good sense to allow me to remain upon this vessel after my creative means of boarding her—”

  “The word you’re looking for is ‘stowaway,’ ” Shelby commented from the screen, “and it wasn’t this ship, it was her predecessor.”

  “Be that as it may,” Si Cwan said mildly. “The point remains that he made the remarkably intelligent decision to keep me as part of the crew in an ambassadorial capacity. He has made one wise choice after another since then. Who am I to secondguess his abilities at this date? No, I can say with quiet, and yet firm conviction, that any decision made by our good captain is one that I will wholeheartedly and unreservedly support.”

  Burgoyne stared at Si Cwan for a long moment, obviously aware that s/he was missing something. Calhoun waited patiently, confident that Burgoyne would tumble to it, and in short order Calhoun’s confidence paid off as Burgoyne thumped a hand against hir head. “Of course! You had money down on me in the pool.”

  “Better than that: a side bet with Kebron. A hundred credits, ten to one odds,” Si Cwan said with satisfaction. “Ah, the expression on that rock-hided buffoon’s face was truly priceless.”

  “Kebron never changes expression,” Burgoyne pointed out.

  “I know. But I could tell he was seething inside. His money was on Soleta. Apparently they went to the Academy together, and he allowed sentimentality to sway his better judgment.”

  “This is all very enchanting,” said Shelby sarcastically, “and fortunately enough, I have absolutely nothing else to do aboard the Trident except listen to you people chatter on about whatever enters your heads. However . . .”

  “Point taken, Captain,” said Calhoun with appropriate formality. “All right: Care to bring us up to speed on the distress call you received?”

  She did so, with her customary efficiency. When she finished, Calhoun stroked his beard thoughtfully. Si Cwan was shaking his head, already looking somewhat discouraged. It was not an expression on his face that Calhoun cared to see. “Cwan,” he said, “I can tell already that you have some knowledge on this subject. Care to share it with the rest of us?”

  “Knowledge is power, Captain. And I can only assume you do not keep me aboard this vessel simply for my dazzling personality.”

  “Go with the assumption,” said Calhoun. “So . . . Thallon 18 . . . ?”

  “The problem is not Thallon 18 . . . or at least, that is not where the problem began,” Si Cwan told them. He leaned back in his chair and, as was his habit at such times, casually rubbed the circular tattoo in the middle of his forehead as if he were stimulating the memories directly from his brain. “A hundred years ago, there were two races on a single world—a world called Sinqay—and the two races had been enemies for century upon century. They absolutely could not coexist, no matter what anyone did. Do not think we did not try. As much as many of you wish to characterize the Thallonian empire as dictatorial, such was not the case. There were any number of times that our involvement simply focused on not only trying to keep the peace, but encouraging other races to keep that peace with one another.”

  “You were saints,” Shelby said with exaggerated conviction, “and no one in the Thallonian empire ever did anything in less than a perfect and philanthropic manner.”

  “That is true,” said Si Cwan, utterly ignoring the irony. Shelby rolled her eyes. He ignored that as well. “In the case of Sinqay, however, well . . .” He shook his head. “It was almost as if the two races either had a death wish, or were just utterly infantile, for they proved unwilling to share their world. Peace talks would drag on, and then when final accords seemed on the brink, something would happen, the peace process would fall apart, and bam!” He slapped his hands together with such force, it was as if a small thunderclap was unleashed in the room. “Just like that, there would be war again. In time, the warfare became so violent that weapons of mass destruction were unleashed. Tens of thousands were killed, and the two races were on the verge of bombing each other into nonexistence. So,” and he cracked his knuckles in leisurely fashion, as if he was only just warming up, “we Thallonians opted for a drastic solution. We took the warring races and relocated both of them.”

  “’Relocated’?” asked a slightly puzzled Calhoun.

  Si Cwan shrugged as if it were the most commonplace matter in the galaxy. As if the “relocation” was as casual as changing
one’s boots. “It was not a tremendous chore for us, for our technology was so advanced over the two races.”

  “And aren’t we masters of our galaxy,” Shelby said drily.

  Once more, Si Cwan did not rise to the bait. “You are forgetting, Captain,” he said politely, “where we were . . . and where they were . . . in terms of development. Indeed, where we were in comparison to most of the denizens of Thallonian space. Our technology and abilities were far, far beyond anything that almost anyone else had throughout our sector. Only the Redeemers came close to matching us, and even they were loathe to take us on head-to-head.”

  “Yes, you’re all wonderful, that’s why you’re still in charge,” said Calhoun, and he took some mild pleasure in seeing Cwan visibly wince from the verbal barb. There was never any harm in taking the Thallonian down a peg when the situation warranted it. He continued, “If you wouldn’t mind continuing, please.”

  “Well . . . to make a long story short—”

  “Too late,” muttered Burgoyne. Calhoun was breathing a silent prayer of thanks that Kebron wasn’t in attendance.

  “To make a long story short,” Si Cwan repeated even more slowly, casting an imperious glance around the table. “We moved both of them to separate worlds that we had terraformed. We placed one race, the Markanians, on the world designated Thallon 18. On Thallon 21 we placed the other race, the Aerons.”

  “And they couldn’t get at each other?” asked Calhoun.

  “Let me guess: no means of space travel,” said Burgoyne.

  Si Cwan nodded. “Exactly. You see, you may all take space vessels for granted, but these two worlds knew nothing of such things. They had managed to launch the occasional odd satellite or two, but interplanetary travel was simply beyond their technology and know-how. We, of course, were not about to provide them such secrets. Oh, we knew that eventually they would figure it out. Sooner or later, they would develop technology enabling them to move from one planet to another at faster-than-impulse speed. However, it was our hope that, in doing so, they might find a more constructive way to live their lives than bicker over ancient hostilities.”

  “And that hasn’t happened,” Calhoun correctly surmised.

  With a heavy sigh, Si Cwan shook his head. “ Unfortunately, we underestimated the depth of hostility they felt for one another. Every so often, we would send in observers to interact with them, feel them out in terms of how they regarded their former enemies. In this case, absence—human truism to the contrary—did not make the heart grow fonder.”

  “Well, there’s another human truism,” said Shelby, “which says you should never go to sleep angry. That’s apparently what happened here. You separated two races, angry over issues that went unresolved. As a consequence, they spent year after year stewing on them without being able to address them.”

  “Considering their means of addressing them had historically been to try and annihilate one another, it’s something of a small loss,” said Si Cwan with a shrug. “Be that as it may—the separation at least prevented them from killing each other.”

  “Yes, well, it would appear that has changed,” said Shelby. “As far as we’ve been able to piece together, what’s happened is as follows: The Gateway technology has enabled the ancient enmity between the two races to move to a new level. According to the residents of Thallon 18—the Markanians—a Gateway was used to launch an attack against the Aerons. Just about the entire ruling family of that world was wiped out, plunging the world into a serious power struggle. It’s the Markanians’ concern that, once the Aerons get matters of rule settled, the first thing they’re going to endeavor to do is retaliate.”

  “That will be difficult,” observed Si Cwan, “considering the Aerons still do not—to the best of my knowledge—have any means of spaceflight.”

  “But the technology of the Gateway is out there, Ambassador,” Burgoyne said. “And it’s a funny thing about technology: Once it’s out, it’s damned near impossible to tuck it back away.”

  That was one thing that Calhoun had to admit about Burgoyne: S/he had a unique mastery of understatment.

  “Meaning that you think the Aerons will find some way to lay their hands on a Gateway and return the favor,” said Shelby.

  Burgoyne nodded. “I don’t see how they wouldn’t.”

  “For what it’s worth, the Markanians agree with you, Commander,” Shelby told hir. “And they want to try and head that off before it happens.”

  “Given the Aeron track record,” said Si Cwan, “it is extremely unlikely that they are simply going to nod their heads and shrug off the attack that was made upon them. If they find any means of retaliating, they are going to take it, and they are not tremendously likely to listen to anyone telling them otherwise.”

  That was not something that Calhoun was particularly enthused about hearing. He leveled his gaze on Si Cwan. “Are you saying,” he asked, putting enough of a challenge into his tone that he hoped Si Cwan would rise to the occasion, “that you would be incapable of convincing them otherwise?”

  He was pleased to see that the effort was not in vain, for Si Cwan bristled every so slightly and replied, “No, I’m not saying that at all. I’m saying it would be difficult. But ‘ impossibility’ and I do not tend to get along.”

  “Your modesty continues to dazzle even me,” said Shelby.

  Cwan inclined his head slightly, as if accepting a compliment.

  Calhoun, for his part, felt some miniscule degree of triumph, but there was still a long way to go in this matter. “All right,” he said slowly, “here’s what I suggest. Captain Shelby . . . since you were contacted by Thallon 18, I’d recommend that you head there, so that you can establish for yourself the severity of the situation. At the same time, the Excalibur will go to Thallon 21—”

  “Captain, as I recall,” Shelby reminded him, “that is not exactly the assignment that was given you by Starfleet in regards to this Gateway problem.”

  He’d had a feeling that Shelby was going to bring that up, and he certainly hadn’t been disappointed. Curse this inability I have to be wrong, he thought glumly as, out loud, he agreed, “No, it’s not. However, the Excalibur comes loaded with some fairly handy extras, including some long-range autoprobes. We’ll fire them to the deep space coordinates we’re supposed to investigate and gather preliminary information as to these Gateway ‘energy signatures’ they want us to look into.”

  “I doubt they’re going to be satisfied with a mechanized exploration, Captain. My assumption is that they wanted your input.”

  He knew that Shelby wasn’t going to let this go easily. On the other hand, there was some measure of “safety” for him in knowing that there wasn’t a whole hell of a lot she was going to be able to do about it. “You’re undoubtedly right, Captain,” he agreed, “but it’s my belief that, since we can’t be in two places simultaneously—at least, not without bringing the starship Relativity down on our heads—our time would be better spent trying to head off a planetary conflict.” He saw Shelby purse her lips, a sure sign that she knew he was right, and then pushed for resolution to the problem. “Besides, considering a Gateway seems to be involved in that conflict, this strikes me as a more solid lead than investigating energy signatures.”

  Shelby inclined her head slightly. “Whatever you say, Captain.”

  That was easier than I dared hope. “My, my—married life has mellowed you, Captain Shelby,” said Calhoun with a smile.

  “Not at all. It’s simply liberating, not having your decisions be my problem anymore. He’s all yours, Burgoyne.”

  “Thanks a lot,” said Burgoyne.

  “Stay in touch, Captain,” Calhoun told her.

  “You, too, Captain. Trident out.” Her image blinked off the screen.

  Calhoun drummed his fingers on the table for a moment, then glanced at Burgoyne. “I didn’t hear you disagreeing with my decisions regarding Thallon 21.”

  Burgoyne was quiet for a long moment . . . so long that Cal
houn began to wonder if he should have left well enough alone, rather than knocking the fact that Burgoyne had offered no protest. But then Burgoyne said, with a shrug, “That’s probably because I agreed with your decision. Our priority has to be the preservation of life. The extension of a pointless feud is hardly of benefit to anyone.”

  “Oh. Well . . . good,” Calhoun said with an approving nod. “A first officer who agrees with me. I could get used to it.”

  With eyes half-lidded, Burgoyne said, “Well, don’t.”

  At that, Si Cwan emitted a low, rumbling noise that passed for laughter. “Captain, I believe you’ve just been warned,” said Si Cwan.

  “You know, Ambassador . . . I believe I have.”

  8

  AERON

  SMYT WAS AWAKENED by the screaming, as he knew he would be. The screaming, the rumbling, and the overall sense that a final and complete doom had come not only for the residents of Aeron, but the very planet itself. The cell in which he had been residing had not been especially dank, or even all that unpleasant. Nevertheless, despite the adequate furnishings, it remained a cell. It was in an underground bunker, with no windows and only recycled air to breathe. The furniture, while functional, was nothing more than that. A chair, a small table, another chair (which he had drawn across from the first one and propped his feet upon). Otherwise it was relatively barren, and there wasn’t much for Smyt to do to occupy himself.

  That was all right with Smyt, however. He had a very clear idea that time was on his side. So he would simply sit in the middle of the cell, cross-legged, eyes closed, allowing his intellect to drift in and out of awareness. He would take his mind far, far away, where no cells could reach it, where no imprisonment could hold it. It helped him to remember that these were simple planet-bound creatures, scrabbling about without the slightest idea how to achieve any of the goals to which they aspired. While he . . . he and his people . . . they were so much more.