Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  “A doctor.”

  “Not ‘a’ doctor, the doctor,” he corrected, endeavoring to mimic Si Cwan’s voice from moments before, and not doing a half-bad job. “And Tsana is my patient, under my care, and you will not remove her.”

  “Why, Tazelok?” asked Calhoun. “Concerned that my people will help her where yours failed? Valuing your reputation and self-esteem above her best interests?”

  Tazelok bristled in such a way that Calhoun instantly knew he was exactly right in his supposition . . . not that Tazelok would remotely admit to it. “I am her healer. I was personally selected by our Hall.”

  “I don’t care if you were personally selected by an eightyfoot flaming hand from on high,” said Calhoun. “This girl’s been insensate since the attack, so I’m told. Whatever you’re doing for her obviously isn’t helping.”

  “Are you a healer, sir?” he asked stiffly.

  “By profession, no. It’s more like a hobby.”

  “Well, I take my responsibilities very seriously, sir. Very seriously, as do my brethren. If you attempt to bring your medical personnel here to poke and prod this poor child, it will be nothing less than the deepest insult to our Hall. We will not stand for it.”

  “You won’t? What will you do?” asked Calhoun, genuinely curious.

  “Captain, a moment of your time, please,” Burkitt interrupted softly. Calhoun stepped toward him as Si Cwan remained face-to-face with Tazelok. Lowering his voice even more, Burkitt said, “We have a delicate balance here on Aeron. There are a variety of Halls, and we of the Counselars have to respect them all and treat them with due deference. Otherwise we would be enveloped in chaos.”

  “Chaos?” Calhoun couldn’t quite believe what he was hearing. “Burkitt, you are currently sending your people headlong toward a war. You have absolutely no concept of what ‘chaos’ is until you’re thrust into one of those.”

  “Be that as it may, I am asking you to respect our political situation.”

  “And you think maintaining your political situation is more important than the welfare of that young girl?”

  “I have to keep the big picture in mind, Captain. Certainly a man in your position can understand that philosophy.”

  Calhoun considered it a moment, and then slowly nodded. “Yes. Yes, I can. Very well.” He headed back toward Si Cwan and said briskly, “Ambassador . . . we’ve done all we can here.”

  “Have we?” asked Si Cwan. He sounded a bit surprised.

  “Yes, we have. Warmaster Burkitt . . . I will be in touch with Captain Shelby on the Trident. I will explain to her the nature of her . . . error . . . and request that she cease and desist involving herself in your interplanetary squabbles.”

  “You have no idea how much we appreciate that, Captain,” Burkitt said. He looked like he was deflating slightly, so great was his relief.

  “Shelby’s a . . . young captain. Young captains are prone to try and bend or break the rules. Ignore procedure in favor of their own instincts. They can be very, very difficult to control. Very difficult. We at Starfleet depend upon individuals such as yourself to keep us apprised of any wrongdoings on the part of our officers, so we can take proper actions.”

  “I have no desire to cost her her command,” Burkitt said, striking a conciliatory note. “I just want her to keep her distance.”

  “I’ll attend to it. Tell me, Warmaster,” and he rested a friendly hand on Burkitt’s shoulder, “do you feel as if I’ve treated you as a valued customer?”

  “Yes. Yes, I do,” said Burkitt, pleased. He glanced at Gragg in a manner that seemed to say, See? You simply stand firm with these people, and they’ll respect you for it.

  “Well, good. That’s our aim at Starfleet.” He tapped the combadge, the pleasant expression still on his face. “ Calhoun to Excalibur.”

  “Excalibur, Burgoyne here.”

  “Burgoyne . . .” It was at that moment that Calhoun paused less than half a second. In that half second, something in Calhoun’s demeanor—in his voice, something—obviously tipped off Burkitt, for his eyes narrowed in suspicion and he started to take a warning step toward Calhoun. And then Calhoun fired off the next words, “Emergency transport, three to beam out. Energize.”

  Even as he spoke, he grabbed up Tsana in his arms as if she weighed nothing. He backpedaled, cradling Tsana, Cwan leaping to his side. “Guards!” bellowed Burkitt even as he went for his gun.

  Too slow. Calhoun lashed out with his booted foot, snagging the edge of Tsana’s bed with his toe and kicking the bed directly at Tazelok. Tazelok lunged to get out of the way; unfortunately, the lunge was too powerful and Tazelok stumbled into Burkitt, both of them falling. Burkitt started to scramble to his feet, the sounds of running feet were pounding down the hallway, and everything was happening so quickly. That was when the distinctive whine of transporter beams enveloped Calhoun, Si Cwan, and the unconscious Tsana.

  “Calhoun!” bellowed Burkitt in frustration.

  “Just trying not to lose sight of the big picture!” Calhoun called back to him, and the three of them sparkled out of existence in a burst of transporter particles.

  “He . . . he kidnapped her!” stammered Tazelok. And then his confusion turned to ire, and he pointed a quavering finger at Burkitt and snarled, “Do something!”

  Burkitt stared at him with open incredulity for a moment. Then he faced the empty air that had been occupied by three bodies moments before and, mustering all his authority, pointed angrily at the vacant space and said, “Come back here!”

  The air did not seem intimidated by his stridency. He looked back at Tazelok and inquired, “Any other suggestions?”

  Tazelok sighed.

  12

  TRIDENT

  M’RESS SIGHED. Caitia was just as she remembered it. The ground thick and sandy, the air warm, the perpetual gentle breeze that tended to shift direction, but never blew with any real ferocity. And the people—everywhere, her fellow Caitians. It reminded her of the clumsiness of the vast majority of the humans, or pretty much every other species, she met. She had gotten used to it, and no longer dwelled on the fact that when humans walked, they did so with big, wide strides as if to announce to the entire cosmos, “Look at me, here I am, notice me!” This was as opposed to M’Ress and her fellow Caitians, who walked with elegant delicacy, one foot in front of the other, sliding through the world as if they were moving across glass. When Caitians walked, you never heard their footfall. If it weren’t for their acute ability to scent things, and consequently know that someone was behind them, they would very likely be forever startling one another.

  The buildings were low to the ground, which was sensible, since her home village was prone to the occasional earthquake. M’Ress blended in perfectly, and all her old friends were walking past her and greeting her by name. At least, they sort of looked like her old friends. They were as close to her recollections as she could make them, and for all she knew the voices weren’t quite right or the looks were a bit off. But they were the best she could do.

  But the scents . . . dammit, the scents were all wrong. No, not just wrong: missing. Every time someone else would approach her, and look like an old friend and greet her by name, her nostrils would flare, and the utter absence of reality as defined by her olfactory resources would bring her up short.

  And then, just like that, a scent leaped out at her, so distinctive and so abrupt that it was almost like a physical thing. Startled, she looked around, knowing what she was going to see before she saw him.

  “Quick reflexes,” said Lieutenant Commander Gleau. The Elf had gotten startlingly close to her without alerting her to his presence. She found that just a bit disconcerting.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, and then instantly regretted her tone. Her tail twitching, she said, “I mean, not that you shouldn’t be here . . . you’re directly over me in the chain of command, you can be anywhere you want, so you don’t . . . I mean . . .”

  “Calm down, M’Ress
, good heavens,” said Gleau, his gleaming eyes seeming to dance in amusement. “Don’t be so jumpy.” He was looking around. Passing Caitians gave him interested looks, but kept walking. “I was just trying to see how good a job we’d done. I was one of the programmers who helped put this scenario together for you, off your specs.”

  “You . . . you were?”

  “Yes, of course,” he said mildly. “I mean, you’re not exactly accustomed to our holodeck technology, are you? It would have been a bit much to expect you to program something so specific and custom-made with a tech that’s so new to you. And since you’d been assigned to my department, I thought this would be a way of making you feel a bit more at home.”

  M’Ress didn’t know what to say. “That’s . . . that’s so sweet,” she finally managed to get out. She felt a low purr in her chest and promptly stopped it; she didn’t want to give the wrong impression.

  He spread his arms wide, taking in the entirety of the Caitian city. “So how did I do?”

  It’s wrong, it’s all wrong. It’s like watching phantoms, ghosts of the dead walking through the land of the living. It’s a cruel reminder of all that I’ve lost, and it saddens me more than I can find words to express.

  “It’s wonderful,” she said. “It’s like stepping back through time.”

  “Good,” he smiled. “I’m glad.”

  “But . . . I shouldn’t be here,” she said quickly. “I should be back on scanning duty.”

  “M’Ress, you worked through three straight shifts,” he reminded her. “We haven’t yet turned up any signs of something ‘non-Markanian,’ as the captain put it. We can’t be expected to work round the clock.”

  “But—”

  “No ‘buts,’ ” he said firmly, raising a scolding finger. “If you work yourself into a stupor, you could find a non-Markanian bioreading the size of a meteor and still not recognize it for what it is. Sooner or later, you run into the law of diminishing returns. You’re supposed to go back on duty in . . .”

  “Four hours,” she said.

  “Four hours. At the very least, you may want to go back to your quarters and get some bed rest.”

  “Would you like to join me?” blurted out M’Ress, even as, inwardly, she was horrified to hear herself say it. Gods, what will he think of you? He’s your superior officer, and you haven’t worked with him all that long, and . . . gods!

  Gleau laughed softly at that, and for a moment M’Ress felt totally mortified, because not only had she just made a fool of herself, but clearly the thought of interest from her was so ludicrous that he was laughing at it. Then he said, “It’s an interesting notion, but I suspect that if I joined you, we wouldn’t get much rest in the bed.”

  She felt slightly dizzy, and there was a light buzzing in the back of her head, all of which translated into a soft laugh that actually sounded kittenish. Suddenly feeling emboldened, she said, “Well, Mr. Spock used to say that there are always possibilities. . . .”

  He shook his head, looking impressed. “I keep forgetting the caliber of people you’ve worked with. Probably because you certainly don’t show your age.” He paused, and then added, “That was a little joke.”

  M’Ress obediently laughed.

  “In any event,” Gleau said, “some rest for you. Then when you go back on shift, we hit the scanners again, and this time I bet we find something.”

  “I bet you’re right,” M’Ress said, suddenly more cheered than she had been in ages. Amazing how just one person can make you feel as if you actually belonged. Then she looked around. “How do we get out of here ag—oh! Right. Uhm . . . close program!”

  Caitia remained serenely right where it was.

  Gleau chuckled even as he said, “End program.” Caitia promptly blinked out.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  He took her hand and touched her knuckles to his forehead. “It was my pleasure. And, M’Ress . . . I fully understand the adjustments you’re trying to make. Would you like to know something that is antithetical to the Elf philosophy?” Without waiting for her to say “yes,” he continued, “Loneliness. Isolation. To us, it is simply wrong. There are far too many intelligent beings out there ever to excuse the feeling that one is alone. We Elves believe in crowds. The more, the better. So, as long as I am aboard this vessel, never be concerned that you are alone.”

  “Thank you,” she said again, the words feeling so inadequate.

  He smiled, turned, and walked out of the holodeck, now filled only with the typical glowing lines crisscrossing the floors, walls, and ceilings. And M’Ress couldn’t help but notice at that moment that he walked like a Caitian, one foot delicately in front of the other.

  This century is starting to look marginally better, she thought.

  Shelby sat up in bed, bleary-eyed, as the chime buzzed insistently at her door. I used to be able to sleep an entire night, she thought bleakly. Why did I want this job again? She drew the bedclothes around her as she called out, “Yes?”

  The doors hissed open and she blinked against the relative glare of the corridor. Standing framed in the doorway was Mueller, in full uniform, arms folded. “My God, Kat, don’t you ever sleep?” asked Shelby.

  “No,” Mueller said so matter-of-factly that Shelby was hard-pressed to determine whether Mueller was kidding or not. “There’s trouble down on Thallon 18.”

  Shelby was immediately alert. “What sort of trouble?”

  “We’re detecting energy bursts, flashes in the main city . . .”

  “Aeron?”

  “No,” Mueller said. “Discharge readings are wrong. We’re talking local weaponry. There’s some sort of major fighting going on, and as near as we can tell, it’s an internal dispute, being backed up by some heavy-duty firepower.”

  “Give me five minutes,” said Shelby, tossing the bedclothes off.

  “As you wish. But you’ll only require three,” Mueller told her, and she walked away as the doors slid closed behind her.

  “Insufferable know-it-all,” muttered Shelby.

  Three minutes later Shelby strode out onto the bridge. The night shift was still on, but Arex was working doubleduty at tactical. Gleau, whose physiology allowed him to work eighteen-hour shifts (and sometimes more if he felt like it; he seemed impervious to exhaustion) was at the science station, operating the scanners and frowning. Shelby looked at him and couldn’t help but think that a face that stunningly gorgeous should never have so much as the slightest crease, the mildest grimace in it, lest it mar its loveliness with unsightly lines for all times. Then she wondered why the hell her mind was going in that direction and chalked it up to being awoken early. Mueller, seated in the command chair, yielded it to Shelby as soon as the captain arrived. “Status?” she said.

  “The energy discharges seem to have tapered off,” Gleau informed her.

  Mueller said, “We have been endeavoring to raise the Ruling Council, with no success. . . .”

  Suddenly Arex said, “I’m receiving a hail from the Ruling Council of Markania.”

  Mueller’s lips thinned slightly. “Go ahead, make a liar out of me,” she murmured.

  “What time is it down there?”

  “Middle of the night,” Arex told her.

  “Hmmm,” said Shelby thoughtfully, getting an uneasy feeling in the pit of her stomach. “Something tells me whatever’s going on, it’s a bit outside of standard business hours. All right, Lieutenant: Put them on screen.”

  The viewscreen wavered for a moment, and Shelby was not overly surprised when someone other than Furvus, Vinecia, or Clebe appeared on it. It was a slightly younger member of the Markanian race. He still had the “madness of leadership” in his eyes, just as he had earlier.

  “Greetings, Trident,” he said.

  “Greetings, Ebozay,” she replied with a distinct lack of enthusiasm. “My understanding is that this message purported to be from the Ruling Council.”

  “It is. The new Ruling Council.”

  “I see.
And would it be too much to hope that I might speak to one or more of the representatives with whom I’ve already established diplomatic ties?”

  She fully expected the response to be a resounding “no,” but much to her surprise, Ebozay shrugged as if the request was the most natural, and easily accommodated, in the world. “Not too much at all,” he said easily. He looked off to the side. “Furvus . . . the captain desires to speak with you.”

  The pessimist in Shelby thought that they’d wind up bringing in Furvus’s corpse as some sort of twisted game, but no, there he was. He seemed unharmed, although that in and of itself didn’t necessarily mean anything. “Are you all right, Furvus?” she asked.

  “As well as can be expected.” He actually sounded slightly amused. “We’ve had . . . a bit of an incident down here.”

  “Incident?” she echoed tonelessly.

  “Ebozay and his . . . rather sizable number of followers . . . have made it clear that they are dissatisfied with our leadership. The discussion turned a bit . . . violent. But I am pleased to say that all is well at the moment.”

  Shelby felt the hair prickling on the back of her neck. This was so calm, so matter-of-fact, it was like speaking to an automoton. “Define ‘well,’ if you would.”

  “Well, Captain, it has always been my philosophy that one should never overstay one’s welcome. And it has been made quite clear, to myself and my associates, that our presence on the Ruling Council is no longer desirable. My fellow Markanians wish to go in a different direction—”

  “Straight to hell, no doubt,” Mueller said very softly. Shelby ignored it, but privately agreed with the assessment.

  “—and they felt that we were not the ones to guide them that way. So, after a brief consultation with my associates, we elected to step down voluntarily, rather than force a general . . . election.”

  “Election? Or war?” asked Shelby, with no trace of amusement.

  Ebozay, who had been standing to the side of the image on the screen, drifted closer to Furvus and smiled as if he found the entire matter to be hugely entertaining. “What is an election, Captain, but a war fought with words instead of armament?”