Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  Matters had spiralled out of control far more quickly than anyone would have liked, and there were uncomfortable looks among the others in the department. Another technician, a woman named Brennan who had a sweet face and almost supernaturally patient disposition, said, “I don’t think there’s really anything to—”

  “I’m getting the impression that there is,” said M’Ress, her eyes glistening, unaware that her hackles were rising, “and if any of you had the slightest shred of courtesy . . .”

  “All right, fine,” said Chesterton, getting up from his station. “If you want to know—”

  “Bill, this isn’t—” Brennan started to say, placing a hand on his forearm.

  But Chesterton shook it off. “I’m not speaking for everyone else here, all right, Lieutenant? Just me. But as far as I’m concerned, you’re making it abundantly clear that you don’t want to be here, and you don’t want to be with us.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your tone of voice, your body language, everything makes it clear that you wish you were elsewhere . . . or else when,” he said, his voice low and gravelly. “And you constantly bring up how it was on the Enterprise under Kirk, as if we don’t measure up somehow. Meantime, you’re constantly playing catch-up, trying to remember how equipment works, and trying to cuddle up to Lieutenant Commander Gleau—”

  “You’re crazy!”

  “No, I’m just fed up.” His voice softened, but only slightly. “No one here is denying you got a raw deal, Lieutenant. Everyone understands you wish you were back in your own time. And frankly, I’d be lying if I said that any of us knows how we’d be acting, if we were in your boots . . . well . . . paws,” he amended, looking at her bare feet. “But, bottom line, it’s wearing pretty damned thin. There. Happy? Glad I told you what was on my mind?”

  M’Ress had risen to standing as Chesterton spoke, and all she could see in her mind’s eye was herself lashing out with her claws, slashing across his stomach, and taking grim pleasure in the expression on his face as his innards splashed out onto the floor. There was a satisfaction to the mental image that appealed to her primal Caitian instincts. Just as quickly as it presented itself, however, she forced it away, taking slow, steadying breaths.

  And when she spoke, the voice came from so deep within her that it sounded like a barely controlled roar, with such depth and ferocity that Chesterton paled slightly and took a step back.

  “I’m going on break,” she said, and left before anyone could see the tears of mortification and rage that were starting to work their way down her cheeks.

  Shelby had to admit that she far preferred this holoconferencing technology to simply staring at Mac’s face on a flat screen. She even—although she would never have admitted it—was strongly considering assigning her science team to developing new technology so that the holo incarnations would be able to have actual physical contact. The possibilities seemed fraught with . . . well . . . possibilities.

  In the holoconference room, Shelby and Mueller stood side by side, facing the images of Calhoun and Si Cwan. Si Cwan’s face seemed a bit darker, ruddier than she had recalled, and she wondered if she was simply misremembering, or perhaps it was a natural aspect of Thallonian aging. “So it seems you dodged a bullet,” Shelby told Calhoun.

  Si Cwan looked quizzically at Calhoun, who murmured, “Bullet. Old earth projectile weapon before the development of energy-discharge weapons.”

  “Ah,” said Si Cwan, trying to sound like he understood, and clearly not doing so. Shelby wisely chose not to try and explain further.

  “And, yes, Captain, we apparently did just that, if you’re referring to the situation that was developing between myself, Jellico, and Burkitt,” Calhoun continued. “However, as I’m sure will not surprise you, Burkitt denied Tsana’s assertions. That is going to have to be attended to.”

  “Do you think the girl is telling the truth?” asked Mueller.

  “I think she has no reason to lie. We would have granted her asylum in any event,” Calhoun said. “I think she’s telling the truth, yes. The problem will be convincing the Aerons of it.”

  “Let me guess: They’re saying that you brainwashed her somehow,” said Shelby.

  “Exactly. Fortunately enough, not even Jellico was stupid enough to fall for that. Starfleet is reserving action at this time . . . although Jellico did make it clear that he will step in if he feels the need. His confidence in me is truly heartwarming.”

  “Face facts, Captain . . . you’ve hardly worked overtime to worm your way into his good graces,” said Mueller.

  With a cocky air, Calhoun replied, “I consider that to be one of my best features.”

  “But this still leaves it a case of her word versus his,” Shelby said. “They may do whatever they can to discredit her. Is she contending that Burkitt was responsible for the entire attack?”

  “No. It’s her belief—and ours—that Burkitt was simply being opportunistic. The attack by the Markanians was genuine enough,” said Calhoun. “But Burkitt decided to finish what they had begun so that his path to power would be unobstructed. And he thought that the deaths of the brothers would be blamed upon the Markanians, just as the others were. Except he was unaware that Tsana was hiding under the bed. According to Dr. Selar, that was one of the main reasons the girl was in shock: seeing someone who was trusted as the murderer of her brothers.”

  “As if the murder itself wasn’t enough,” Shelby murmured. “But if this Burkitt is really responsible . . . it may just be possible that he could still escape retribution.”

  “If he is responsible,” Si Cwan said slowly, “it means that he is carrying a certain degree of guilt within him. He can hide his actions from others . . . but he cannot hide them from himself. So what needs to be done is to have him brought to a point . . . where he can hide them no longer.”

  “And you know a way?” Mueller inquired, looking Si Cwan up and down thoughtfully.

  “I have some resources available to me, yes,” Si Cwan said. “I shall make a query or two before speaking of it at greater length, however.”

  Calhoun cleared his throat. “None of this, however, serves to resolve our immediate problem: the Aerons, the Markanians, and these mysterious Gateways. We’ve been unable to find any sign of one on Thallon 21.”

  “Nor we on 18,” said Shelby grimly. “Science Officer Gleau informs me that scans are continuing, but he’s not tremendously optimistic. The problem is, the only thing that’s preventing these races from tearing into each other with the Gateways is our presence. They don’t want to activate the Gateways because, once the energy signature is released, we can pinpoint them, and they obviously don’t want us to do that. But we can’t stay in orbit forever. The moment we’re out of sensor range, they’ll fire up whatever Gateways either world has and go at each other again.”

  “This sort of irrational, single-minded hatred is the reason my people separated them in the first place,” said Si Cwan.

  “And it all seems to stem from this place called Sinqay,” said Calhoun, trying desperately not to let his frustration show. “Their homeworld . . .”

  “Yes . . . yes, they’ve talked to me about it as well,” Shelby said, pacing. “You have to be impressed by the hubris, that two races would consider their homeworld literally sacred.”

  “Not just the homeworld itself,” said Cwan. “One particular area of it, which they refer to as the Holy Site. Both races have ancient writings that declare that the Holy Site is promised to them. It became the major flashpoint of their disputes.”

  “And what is significant about this Holy Site?” asked Mueller.

  “Well, it’s . . . it’s holy,” Cwan told them.

  There were looks exchanged among the others. “That’s it?” said Shelby.

  “Yes.”

  “It’s holy.”

  “Yes.”

  “Otherwise there’s nothing there of any value?” said Shelby, obviously trying to wrap herself aro
und the concept. “No . . . no minerals, no latinum mine, no rare artifacts . . . nothing like that?”

  “Well,” Si Cwan said thoughtfully, “there are temples and such, dedicated to worshipping their varied gods. But the temples have no value outside the fact that they were built to offer prayer to their gods. They fight over the temples, too.”

  “Because they’re holy,” Shelby said once more, clearly trying to make sense of it. “Other than that someone centuries ago declared this particular area to be holy, there’s no intrinsic worth to it.”

  Calhoun replied, sounding faintly amused. “For many people, Captain Shelby . . . the holiness of a place is all the intrinsic worth it needs. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “No,” she said flatly. “I cannot comprehend the mentality that would have millions upon millions of people fighting and dying, all because each of them believes that some sort of unseen being wants them to be in a particular spot. It makes no sense to me.”

  “It makes sense to them,” said Cwan, “and, unfortunately for our purposes, that is all that matters at the moment. The question remains: What is to be done?”

  There was silence for a moment, and then Calhoun said slowly, “If we continue to try and stop the people from fighting with each other, we are attacking only the surface aspect of the problem, rather than the cause. The cause is Sinqay. It may be that we have to address the situation on that level instead.”

  “Mac, are you suggesting we offer to transport both races back to their homeworld? Undo the Thallonian separation?” asked Shelby. “It’s not logistically feasible. We’d have to requisition transport vessels—”

  “Even if it is somehow manageable,” pointed out Si Cwan, “once face-to-face, the fighting will simply start again. It would be pure folly.”

  “That’s not what I’m suggesting,” Calhoun said. “This, however, is . . .”

  And he started laying it all out. . . .

  Arex was heading down a corridor, having an amusing discussion with two attractive young yeomen, both of whom seemed to be hanging on his every word.

  “So there we were, Captain Kirk, Mister Spock, and I, and the captain turns to me, and he says, ‘Arex . . . how do you think we should handle this? So naturally, I—”

  That was when M’Ress stepped from the side corridor, snagging Arex by one of his three arms and pulling him toward a turbolift. “Wha—?” he managed to stammer out.

  Instead of addressing Arex, M’Ress said to the yeomen, “Excuse me . . . matter of some urgency. You understand.”

  She hauled him into the turbolift and, as the doors slid closed, she said, “Deck nine.” The lift started to move.

  “Why Deck nine?” asked the befuddled Arex.

  “No reason whatsoever. It was just so I could say this: Computer, halt turbolift.”

  The turbolift immediately slid gracefully to a stop. Arex was now more confused than ever, staring at M’Ress as if she had grown a third eye or started howling or tossing about convulsively. “What is—?”

  “How are you doing it?” she demanded.

  “Doing what?”

  She was so agitated that at first she couldn’t even get the words out. Her tail whipped around in the lift; Arex was relieved it didn’t have a barb or club at the end, or he’d have been in serious trouble.

  “Fitting in!” She paced back and forth, which, considering the relatively small area of the turbolift, made Arex feel as if she were stalking him . . . except she wasn’t looking at him. It was almost as if she was looking inward. “I see you. I watch you. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were born into this century. Everyone seems to accept you. You’re good at your job. You make friends easily. Me, whenever I walk through this ship, I feel as if I’m having an out-of-body experience. As if I’m here, but not really here. I keep waiting to wake up and discover that it was all a dream.”

  “That’s not going to happen, M’Ress. And going through your life like a sleepwalker isn’t a particularly good way to exist.”

  “Do you think I’m unaware of that!”

  “I don’t know, M’Ress. I don’t know what you’re aware of or not aware of. All I know is what you’re telling me.” He thought a moment. “I hear they have ship’s counselers these days. Perhaps you should—”

  She shook her head. “What’s some counseler going to tell me, Arex? This isn’t a case of homesickness. This isn’t depression. It’s not like I just miss my family or my homeworld. My family is dead, Arex!” and the words burst from her, the emotions all in a torrent. “My friends are dead! My homeworld might as well be populated by strangers! What is a counseler going to tell me, eh? Get used to it? Learn to live with it? I don’t need a counseler, I need a time machine. I need to go back.”

  “You can’t.”

  “I have to go back.”

  “You can’t.” Arex took her firmly by the shoulders, and with his third hand held her chin firmly, forcing her to look at him. “Shiboline, you can’t. There’s no way—”

  “There is a way,” she said. “The Guardian.”

  “What?”

  “The Guardian of Forever. I can . . .” Her thoughts were tumbling over themselves. “I can simply go back to where I left off. Or . . . or I can find myself at an earlier time and just tell myself not to volunteer to go to the planet’s surface. To stay away from the Gateway. That’s all.”

  “That’s all,” repeated Arex, sounding both amused and sad. “Risking the space-time continuum, and you say ‘that’s all’ . . . ”

  “I’m just one Caitian!” she said urgently. “How much possible difference can one person make?”

  “Captain Kirk learned the answer to that. Do you want to risk the lives, the existence of everyone here, just because you’re convinced you can’t make any difference to the order of the galaxy?” Arex said. “The M’Ress I knew would never do that to these people.”

  “The M’Ress you knew died a century ago!” she cried out. “And these people . . . they’re like walking shadows to me! If they vanish, I wouldn’t give it any more thought than I would a dream when it vanishes upon waking!”

  She pulled away from him, throwing her arms around herself as if she was trying to protect herself . . . or perhaps hold herself together. She sank to the floor of the turbolift, despondent, and then jammed the base of her hands into her eyes to keep back the tears.

  Very softly, his voice sounding uncharacteristically deep, Arex said, “You don’t mean that, Shib.”

  She drew in a long breath and then let it out, trembling. “I don’t know, Na Eth. I don’t know what I mean anymore.”

  “Perhaps . . . perhaps you want to consider transferring off ship . . . leaving Starfleet . . .”

  “You mean quit,” she said.

  “Leave of absence . . . just for a while. Perhaps trying to adjust to the new surroundings in a starship was a mistake. Because all it does is remind you of what you don’t have anymore.”

  “And go where, Na Eth?” she asked miserably. “Where would I go? What would I do?”

  “I . . . don’t know.”

  “Neither do I.” She took another long, deep breath, wiping her fur dry of tears, and then said, “You still haven’t told me . . . how do you do it? How do you blend in so easily?”

  “Because to me, nothing’s changed.”

  She laughed curtly. “Nothing’s changed? You’re not serious.”

  “I’m perfectly serious. Sure, technology has progressed, uniform styles have developed . . . but that’s nothing new. Because the more things change, the more they stay the same.”

  “There’s an original notion,” she said dryly.

  “All right, it’s a cliché, but like any cliché, it’s true. Because what stays the same is people, Shib. People don’t change. They still laugh, love, fear, cry . . . whatever. There’s a constancy to that, and I find security in it. But you . . . you can be slow to warm up to people. It’s not that you distrust them automatically, but you don’t t
rust them, either. That’s okay. It’s the way you are . . . the way many Caitians are.”

  “So . . . so what do I do?”

  “There’s no one thing to do.” He scratched her under the chin, and she wanted to tell him to stop because it felt so good when he did that, and she didn’t want to feel good just then. But instead of offering protest, she made a soft, pleasant growling noise. Arex continued, “It’s not as if I can present you with an easy answer and, like a lightning flash, it solves the problem. Just give it time. And make people feel as if you’re glad to see them, instead of resenting having to share a universe with them, or acting as if you’re just visiting.”

  Arex’s combadge suddenly beeped. He grinned, stopped scratching her, and pointed at the badge. “Don’t you love this convenience?” he asked and—as M’Ress smiled in spite of herself—Arex tapped the badge. “Arex here.”

  “Hey, Arex, this is Hash up at ops. Uhm, Arex, is there any particular reason you’ve been sitting in a turbolift for the past ten minutes? You and . . . Lieutenant M’Ress, according to the readouts?”

  “We’re just talking, Lieutenant.”

  “And I’ve got no doubt about that, son. But considerin’ that you’re jammin’ up the lift traffic patterns somethin’ fierce, we all would be terribly obliged if you might get yourselves in gear.”

  “Will do, Lieutenant. Sorry for the delay.” He looked to M’Ress expectantly.

  She sighed, nodded and said, “Computer, resume.” The turbolift promptly slid back into action. “Thanks for taking the time to talk to me, Arex.”

  “I’m always happy to make the time for someone who imprisons me in a turbolift and gives me no choice but to talk to her,” he replied, and he bowed deeply.

  The turbolift came to a halt, the doors slid open and Arex stepped out. “Deck five,” said M’Ress, and she tossed off a half-hearted wave as the turbolift doors closed.

  Arex shook his head, distressed at M’Ress’s plight, started to walk away, and suddenly said, “Wait a minute . . . I don’t have any reason to be on Deck nine.” And with an annoyed grunt, he turned back to the turbolift so he could head somewhere useful.