Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  “I am Vinecia,” said the Markanian on the right-hand side of the table, and, indicating her associate, “and this is Clebe.” It was only when the Markanian had spoken, with a voice lighter and far more delicate than that of Furvus, that Shelby came to the conclusion that Vinecia was in fact female. “We wish to thank you most profoundly for coming.”

  “Yes, I suspected you would,” said Shelby. She looked around for a place to sit and found none. Instead, the Council members rose and came around from behind the table, standing in an orderly formation. Wonderful. Apparently the Markanians believed in conducting affairs of state on their feet. It seemed to make a certain degree of sense in a perversely logical way. It was easy for people to argue about matters when they could do so while positioned on their backsides. But if one had to stand the whole time, there was that much more incentive to try and address matters in a succinct and straightforward manner, if for no other reason than to get off one’s feet.

  “So . . . you spoke of a Gateway,” Shelby said.

  The three of them nodded, almost in unison. “However,” the one called Vinecia said, “for you to understand the significance of the Gateway problem, you must know a little about our world’s circumstances.”

  “I think I know a bit about—”

  She didn’t even get the entire sentence out; as if she hadn’t spoken, Vinecia turned to her right and prompted, “Clebe?”

  Clebe was apparently quite accustomed to public speaking, for he promptly launched into a narrative that sounded rehearsed. “For many hundreds of years, we shared a paradisical world called Sinqay with another race known as the Aerons. Due to Thallonian interventions, we were removed from our homeworld and placed on another planet, as were the Aerons.”

  “Yes, I know th—” she began to interrupt.

  Clebe continued as if she hadn’t opened her mouth. “The Great Separation occurred one hundred years ago. During that time, our race became sorely divided against itself. There were, and are, those of us who look back upon those warlike times with great chagrin. We see it as the wasted opportunity and resources of a people too immature, as a race, to fully appreciate the futility of war and the cost and pointlessness of extended mutual destruction.”

  “Good for you,” said Shelby, and Arex nodded approvingly.

  “However,” continued Clebe, “there are others—youngers of us—who feel that our race has lost its way. It is believed that the destruction of the Aerons was a holy mission put upon us by the gods, and that, in failing to complete the mission, we will bring the wrath of the gods down upon ourselves. For we are the Selected Ones of the gods, and to stop at anything less than total annihilation of our enemies is to be less than sanctified in the eyes of the gods.”

  “I hardly see where your gods would only give approval if another race was wiped out.”

  “Your own gods never issue such dictates?” inquired Furvus.

  Before Shelby could answer, Arex piped up, “Actually, in the earth scripture known as the ‘Old Testament,” there are numerous instances where the God of that particular tome demands that entire peoples be obliterated, and even wipes out cities and the whole of humanity when He’s so inclined.”

  “Arex, you’re not helping,” Shelby said a bit testily.

  Arex simply bobbed his head slightly and said, “Apologies, Captain.” But he sounded more faintly amused than anything. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Arex had, after all, served under Kirk. So he was certainly not going to be daunted by disapproval from any modern Starfleet captain.

  “The point,” said Clebe, “is that the people of our world are sorely divided on the issue. There are those who very much are in agreement with the philosophies of Ebozay, and believe that—”

  “Wait,” Shelby raised a hand, halting the torrent of exposition. “Ebozay? Who would Ebozay be?”

  “The leader of the opposition,” Vinecia said patiently. “For several years now, he has stirred up feelings of unrest. We tolerated it for two reasons: One, because the Council has already preached tolerance in any event. And two, for as long as Ebozay and his followers could not actually reach the Aerons, his complaints and warmongering could only go so far and no further. If there is no brew in the kettle, there’s no harm in allowing someone to try and stir it as aggressively as they wish, since they cannot possibly spill it upon themselves and cause injury.”

  “But then this Gateway thing came along.” Shelby moved her weight from one foot to the other, even as she interlaced her fingers directly in front of her. “Where did it come from? Who brought it?”

  The members of the Ruling Council looked at each other nervously, shifting in obvious discomfort. “We do not know,” Furvus admitted finally.

  “You don’t know?” She couldn’t quite believe it. “A device turns up that enables your people to make an attack on another light-years away, and you have no idea where it came from?”

  Furvus shook his head. “Whoever brought it to this world was very canny in his choice of allies.”

  “You say ‘his.’ Could it be a ‘her’?” inquired Shelby.

  “It could be an asexual creature spat up from the primordial ooze, Captain, and we’d still have no idea,” said Vinecia. She sounded a bit testy. “All we know is that we, the Ruling Council, were not approached.”

  “Nor should that be surprising,” admitted Furvus. “Ebozay has staked out the philosophical territory of a bellicose attitude toward the Aerons. He and his followers believe the Aerons to be guilty of war crimes.”

  “And are they?” Arex asked.

  “Technically,” replied Clebe. “Then again, that is the way of war, is it not? Each side accuses the other of crimes. This much, though, is indisputable: Whatever ‘crimes’ were committed occurred at least a century ago, by beings on both sides who are long dead. Advocating an assault on those living today on behalf of ‘crimes’ committed by those who died yesterday is certainly a pointless waste of time and resources. Nevertheless, this is part of what Ebozay’s position hinges upon. He contends that the souls of those who fell to these ‘crimes’ a century ago will never rest until some sort of restitution is made. A life for a life, lives for lives.”

  “I believe I speak with reasonable authority, if not utter certainty,” Shelby said sarcastically, “in saying that the dead absolutely will not give a damn. They have more important issues to concern them—”

  “Such as being dead,” Arex offered.

  “—than obsessing about some sort of balancing of cosmic scales. That strikes me as more the province and interest of the living than the dead.”

  “I would tend to agree,” Furvus said mildly, “but unfortunately, Ebozay and his associates would not agree. He claims the agonies of the departed keep him awake at night.”

  “Oh, God,” moaned Shelby. “And your people fall for this line of malarkey? No offense intended, Honorable Council Members, but are those you govern that stupid?”

  “People want to believe in something, Captain,” said Furvus, sounding quite weary. “They are so desperate to believe in something that often it seems they’ll believe in anything. In this case, that includes whatever it is that Ebozay is feeding them. We have open petitions to the Council twice a week, and at those petitions there are always followers of Ebozay, lobbying us to take a more aggressive stance toward the Aerons. Always we have resisted in the past.”

  “After all,” Vinecia said, sounding quite reasonable, “what purpose is there to declaring war on a world we cannot reach, and getting everyone worked up about it as well? Except that decision is being taken out of our hands.”

  “So you’re saying,” said Shelby, leaning against the table (unsure of whether it was a breach of protocol and not especially caring at that moment), “that it was Ebozay and his followers who embarked upon the assault?”

  The three Council Members bobbed their heads in unison. “We believe that is exactly what happened.”

  “How do you know it was a Gat
eway?”

  “Oh, we have some among Ebozay’s followers who are still loyal to us,” Clebe said with a measure of visible pride. “They described the technology to us, told us what the inventor called it—”

  “Inventor?” Her eyes narrowed. “You said you didn’t know who brought it here.”

  “We don’t know for certain,” Furvus said primly. “We haven’t actually met this ‘inventor.’ We did not wish to give you secondhand information.”

  Shelby moaned inwardly. “Tell me everything, rumors or not. This inventor . . . is he a native of your world?”

  “No,” said Clebe. “Thin, yellow-skinned—”

  “An Iconian,” she said immediately.

  The Council Members looked at one another in puzzlement, and Arex said in a low voice to Shelby, “I am unfamiliar with this race, Captain. Do they pose a security threat?”

  “Only to the entirety of the Federation.”

  “Ah,” was all Arex could think of to say in response to that.

  “He arrived here some time ago and immediately gained the confidence of Ebozay and his followers,” Furvus said. “And why not? Ebozay likely saw him as something of a godsend. He has been seeking to acquire power all this time, and along came someone who might very well be able to provide him with it. One cannot build a political power base on impossibilities and flights of fancy. As long as the desire for vengeance against the Aerons was nothing more than a vague need, Ebozay’s influence and abilities were limited. But now that he is actually capable of giving his followers that which they most desire, his powers grow exponentially.”

  “Where is this ‘inventor’ now?” demanded Shelby. “I think I’d like to speak with him.” To herself she added, Oh, yes, definitely . . . I’ll be wanting to talk with him. These arrogant blackmailers, who are threatening the security of the entire Federation . . . I’d like to have a long, personal talk with them and try to emphasize the folly that they’re embarking upon. And if common sense fails, perhaps I can emphasize it with a brick. She was more than aware at that point that she was starting to sound like Calhoun, but something within her simply didn’t care, and even took pride in that. But she was sorely disappointed by the next words she heard.

  “We do not know, I’m afraid,” said Furvus.

  She didn’t let her disappointment show, however. Her face impassive, after a moment’s consideration she said, “I’ll want to meet with this Ebozay. Him and his followers. I think it’s necessary to explain to them that these Gateways present a far greater threat than they realize.”

  “Yes, yes, that would be excellent,” Vinecia said immediately, and there were bobbing heads from her associates, clearly in agreement with her. “If there is any way that you could get Ebozay to listen to reason—”

  “However,” Shelby added, “I cannot interfere in your internal politics. If there’s a shift in the philosophical direction of your people, I’m not in a position to enforce the status quo. I can’t make your people want to keep you in office. It seems to me that—”

  At that moment, there were explosions directly outside, followed by screams and sounds of confusion.

  “Captain, stay here!” Arex said immediately, moving swiftly in the direction of the disturbance. But Shelby was not about to accept orders barked at her by anyone, even if it was a crewmember who was charged with keeping her safe. As fast as Arex was, Shelby motored past him at a flat-out run. “Captain!” Arex called once more, but she was already approaching the corridor with the war mosaics, which in turn opened out to the main courtyard.

  She skidded to a halt, almost slipping on the rain-soaked flagging, and what she saw stunned her.

  Armored men, everywhere. The armor itself was gray and looked fairly sturdy, enough to resist all but the most concentrated blasts. But it was also obviously lightweight, for the soldiers were moving extremely quickly, whipping around energy-pulse weapons and opening fire on anyone and everyone they could find.

  The Markanians were panicking, and she couldn’t blame them. Women and children were screaming, with no endeavor being made on the part of the attackers to discriminate between them. The armored men shouted no war cries. Instead they moved with brisk, ruthless efficiency, and there were more—

  —pouring out of thin air.

  Shelby couldn’t believe it, but there it was, right in front of her. The air was shimmering as if it had been sliced in two, and more soldiers were emerging from what could only be described as a rift in reality. There was a low hum of power accompanying it; she could feel the vibrations right through her boots.

  The quick movement to her immediate right caught the corner of her eye. Later, Shelby would have no idea what sort of instinct caused her to drop to the floor, but that was precisely what she did. She hit the ground, flattening—and that was the only thing that saved her life as an energy bolt from a weapon passed right through where she’d just been standing. One of the gray-armored men was standing no more than five feet away, having come up around and to the side, and the fact that Shelby had evaded the blast was nothing short of miraculous.

  It was not, however, going to be enough, as her assailant swung his weapon down and prepared to blow a hole in her the size of her fist.

  And then, just like that, the armored man was in the air. Arex’s three arms were suspending him with no sign of strain at all, and the Triexian’s multiple hands processed the attacker with the efficiency of a meat grinder. The assailant did not know where to look first as one hand held him immobile, a second yanked his weapon from his hands, and a third ripped his helmet from his head.

  It took Shelby only an instant to recognize the species that the torn-away helmet revealed. After all, she had just been staring at them on the mosaics that decorated the inner wall. It was an Aeron, and he did not look any too happy.

  He tried to twist around in Arex’s grasp, but it did no good. Arex, his thick lips drawn back into a very unpleasant smile, whirled the Aeron around, pinwheeling him with facility and then smashing his head directly into the floor. The Aeron let out a groan and slipped into unconsciousness.

  Even as the action occupied no more than a couple of seconds, Shelby was already tapping her combadge and saying with extreme urgency, “Shelby to Trident!”

  “This is Mueller,” came the immediate response, and from the sound of her tone, it was obvious that the ship’s first officer had been about to send a communiqué to her captain, and that Shelby had only narrowly beaten her to it. “Captain, we’re detecting energy pulses—”

  “We’re under attack, thanks to hundreds of years of resentment and a Gateway,” said Shelby. Phaser fire practically screamed in her ear; attackers were starting to notice Shelby’s presence and, not only that, but the building that housed the Ruling Council. They were focusing their attention on it now, and only Arex’s pinpoint blasting from his phaser was keeping them back. Their armor was obviously capable of protecting them from Markanian armament, but they clearly weren’t up for withstanding phaser blasts. With one well-placed shot after another, Arex—who was standing behind a column for added protection—was keeping them at bay. But he was not going to be able to do so forever, that much was clear. “Kat, I want a five-second burst from the ship’s phaser banks, wide beam, heavy stun, in a one-hundred-meter radius, except for the building I’m standing in. Fire at will!”

  “Five seconds, aye, Captain.”

  “ Captain!” It was Arex’s high-pitched voice shouting a warning. Shelby had been standing behind another of the columns, which provided some momentary shielding, but now another attacker was coming up right behind her, moving in from the side. He was not, however, wielding an energy weapon of any kind. Instead he was swinging a sword at her. Shelby threw herself backwards, bending at the waist as if she were ducking under a limbo bar. The air hissed above her as the blade cut across, slamming into the column and taking a sizable chunk out of it. The split-second dodge was just enough time for Arex to take aim and fire, and the intensity of the
phaser blast knocked Shelby’s attacker literally heels over head. He hit the ground and lay still, the blade clattering out of his hand.

  Then from overhead came a shriek of energy that caused all battle in the main courtyard to freeze for a moment as everyone—attackers and targets alike—paused and tried to determine from where the sound was originating. Abruptly the sky, the very air itself, flashed with sustained amber brilliance. Shelby reflexively shielded her eyes from it, even though she was not at risk. Precisely as she had requested, the blinding light held for five seconds, and when it faded, no one was left standing. One or two of the armored men were on their knees, swaying, trying to command their stunned bodies to rise to the occasion, but they did not succeed. Instead they pitched forward and lay still, about as threatening as a field of dust bunnies. The only sound left in the air was the humming of powerful energies—the open Gateway, hanging in the air, source of all their problems.

  Shelby felt a cold, burning rage within her. She would have scolded Mackenzie Calhoun severely if he had done what she was about to do. But Calhoun wasn’t here and she was, and she was nursing enough anger in her bosom to justify—to her mind—her next words. “Arex,” she ordered, and she pointed a quivering finger at the open Gateway. “Shoot that damned thing.”

  Arex did not hesitate. Instantly he took aim and fired upon the Gateway. The phaser blast went straight in, vanishing into the rift, and Shelby took grim amusement at the notion that—on the other side of the Gateway—someone might very well be getting a faceful of phaser stun at that moment. At the very least, she told herself, it would be a nice warning to prevent the people on the other end from sending through reinforcements.

  The tactic could not have worked better, for within seconds after Arex shot at the Gateway, the hum of energy abruptly ceased, and the Gateway vanished. Now there was no sound save for faint and distant moaning from those fallen in the courtyard, and the steady beat of the rain coming down—even harder, it seemed.