Gateways #6: Cold Wars

by Peter David

  The blood was pounding in Gragg’s temples as he thought of the possibility of having another shot at the Markanian bastards. Perhaps . . . oh, gods, how wonderful would it be . . . perhaps he would be able to get his hands on the ones who had taken Jylla from him. He had been among the first to find her beautiful body splattered on the courtyard, and it had been everything he could do to suppress the howl of vengeance that sought to escape him. The sight of it haunted him still, and the joy that filled him with the thought of exorcising some of those ghosts through the blood of his enemies was almost more than he could bear.

  Other troopers were converging from the opposite direction as Gragg arrived at Burkitt’s quarters. The door was locked from the inside. Gragg didn’t hesitate, blasting it open and charging in. He didn’t just run; he leaped with a shoulder roll, making himself a moving target so that any resistance he encountered from within would have that much more trouble pinning him down.

  He needn’t have concerned himself. He came up, weapon extended, while the other troopers pushed in at the doorway, only to see that the room was empty save for himself and Burkitt. Burkitt was upright in his bed, eyes wide, arms flailing about as if swinging at phantoms that only he could see, and those remarkably womanish howls that Gragg had heard were being torn from none other than the throat of the warmaster.

  “Get away! Get away from me!” His eyes were fixed at some point within his own mind, and he swung desperately, futilely at nothing. “Get away, I told you! Get away! Stop looking at me like that! Stop! Stop—!”

  “Warmaster!” shouted Gragg, grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him violently. Burkitt didn’t respond at first, struggling in Gragg’s grasp. Ordinarily Gragg wouldn’t have stood a chance in combat with him, but Burkitt was hardly at his best as he writhed and struggled. Impatience growing, and feeling a certain degree of humiliation on the warmaster’s behalf, Gragg decided that immediate action was needed. He drew back a hand and cracked it across Burkitt’s face. He didn’t really have to do it with much more force than was required to jolt him from his fear-filled slumber, but Gragg used a bit more strength than was needed. Consequently, he hit Burkitt so hard with his backhanded swing that he knocked the warmaster right out of his bed. Burkitt hit the floor, bedclothes tangled around him. He sat up, still thrashing, looking everywhere at once, and finally managed to focus on Gragg. His chest was heaving violently, as if the air in his lungs was threatening to explode.

  “Wh—what . . . ?” he managed to stammer out. “Where are the—?”

  “The what, Warmaster?” said Gragg. Part of him, the morbidly curious part, wondered whether Burkitt was about to say something incriminating.

  But as if he’d read Gragg’s mind—even in the throes of the dream that had so obviously terrorized him—Burkitt promptly pulled himself together. He looked around, apparently rather chagrined when he saw the puzzled guards standing in the doorway. “Nothing,” he said. “It was nothing. An ill omen, that is all.”

  This caused a mild buzz among the troopers, for omens were serious business to the Aerons, and not to be taken lightly. Gragg has his own suspicions as to just how legitimate these “omens” were, but he was willing to take Burkitt at his word . . . at least for the moment. “What sort of ill omens, Warmaster?” he asked with great concern, and there were anxious looks from the others as well.

  Burkitt studied them thoughtfully for a moment, and it was hard for Gragg to tell what precisely was going through Burkitt’s mind. He might have been endeavoring to find a way to summarize what he was thinking. Or he might have been mentally scrambling to try and fabricate something. It was impossible to know for sure. Finally, though, Burkitt pulled himself up to the edge of the bed, draping the bedclothes around him in a manner that looked vaguely imperial. “I saw the Markanians,” he said grimly. “They were flooding over us, like ravenous insects. While we have been proceeding with caution because of the starship overhead . . . while we have been struggling to determine who truly guides our destiny because of the confusions and calumnies provided by the child Zarn, Tsana . . . I have foreseen the Markanians facing no such tribulations. They are directed and they are focused, and their focus is upon us. We must attack.”

  “Attack?” said Gragg with obvious concern. “Warmaster, to the best of our knowledge, the other starship—the Trident —remains in orbit around the Markanian world. If we launch an attack, there is nothing to stop them from thwarting our assault this time, just as they did the last time. Furthermore, if we utilize the Gateway, the Excalibur will likely be able to locate it.”

  “I have a plan, Gragg. That, too, has come to me.” He now rose, the bedclothes still wrapped around him, and he gestured angrily to the other troopers that they should depart. They did so, and the moment the door shut behind them, Burkitt turned to face Gragg. “I know you have suspicions, Gragg. I do not blame you for this; the Starfleet men have cleverly managed to plant the seeds of doubt. And once those seeds have taken root, they are extremely difficult to pull out. But I,” and he clapped him on the shoulder, “I still trust you, Gragg. I trust you to keep my plan secret until the time is right to strike.”

  “And . . . what would this plan be, Warmaster?” asked Gragg, intrigued in spite of himself.

  Gragg laughed low in his throat. “We are not going to use the Gateway to invade the Markanians.”

  “We’re . . . we’re not?”

  “No, Gragg. We are going to use it . . . to invade the Excalibur.”

  Smyt gaped at Burkitt. “You’re insane,” he said.

  After explaining his plan to Gragg, and being rewarded with growing excitement bordering on hero worship by the young commander, Burkitt had sent Gragg to summon Smyt to him. The Iconian, however, did not look the least bit worshipful. He looked dumbfounded.

  “You’re insane,” he said again. “You cannot be serious.”

  “Oh, I am very serious,” said Burkitt. He was now fully dressed, even though the sun would not rise for some hours. He was too excited by the notion to go back to sleep anyway, pacing his quarters because standing still was simply not an option. “The plan is perfect.”

  “The plan is madness!”

  “It is foolproof.”

  “And you’re just the fool to prove it!”

  Burkitt chuckled slightly. “A worthy jest. See? I can laugh at those, even when they are at my expense, so long as they are truly funny.” His face darkened, and he added significantly, “And infrequent.” He gestured, not for the first time, for Smyt to sit and make himself comfortable, but Smyt remained rigidly standing.

  Nevertheless, Smyt, sensing Burkitt’s mood, bit back an angry reply. Instead he shrouded himself in a cloak of calm and said, oozing patience, “With all respect, Burkitt, I don’t think you’ve thought this through. I mean, if I am understanding you correctly, you want to use the Gateway to send your troops into the Excalibur.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you will take over the Excalibur.”

  “That is correct.”

  “Then you will transform the Excalibur into, essentially, a troop transport ship, sending your army through space to Markania where—if the Trident is still there—you will destroy her, and then rain down destruction upon the Markanians.”

  “You see?” said Burkitt with undeniable cheer. “You understand the plan perfectly.”

  But Smyt was shaking his head, remaining immobile where he was as Burkitt continued to move around the room like a bird exploring a new environment. “Burkitt . . . there are things you do not seem to understand. The Excalibur is a sizable vessel. There will be resistance; they have their own security forces.”

  “Forces that will be caught utterly off guard,” Burkitt said firmly. He finally stopped his endless movement and instead pointed triumphantly to Smyt, as if the Iconian had finally grasped the brilliance of his plan. “You will send us directly to their bridge, where their key operating systems are. Then you will send us into their armory, so we can lock dow
n their weapons. Then you—”

  Smyt gestured helplessly, as if trying to explain the concept of snow to someone who had spent their life in a desert. “You are asking for pinpoint precision with the Gateway! It is not designed to function in that manner! I simply do not know if I can do what you are asking.”

  “I have every confidence in you, Smyt. And do you know why?”

  “No,” said Smyt hollowly, “why?”

  “Because you value your own skin above all others. And believe me . . . your skin is riding on your ability to perform the task I am setting for you.”

  Slowly Smyt took a step back, as if seeing Burkitt for the first time. “I do not respond well to threats, Warmaster,” he said.

  Burkitt laughed as if the very notion that he had been threatening was preposterous. “Threats? Threats? My dear, dear Smyt . . .” he said heartily, “that was not intended to be a threat! No, no, not at all. Not a threat, not in the least little bit.”

  “Well, that is certainly good to—”

  The sword hanging at Burkitt’s side was suddenly pulled from the scabbard. For the most part it was intended to be ceremonial, but that didn’t render the blade any less sharp, and that blade was now at Smyt’s throat. The Iconian gasped as the metal touched just under his chin.

  “Now this . . . this is a threat,” Burkitt informed him, as if explaining the difference between land and sea to a child. “And a very nasty one at that.”

  Smyt licked his lips, stalling for time as he composed himself. “I was . . . unaware of the fervency of your desires in this matter,” he said carefully.

  “Now you know.”

  “Yes, yes, I do. Tell me, Burkitt, if it wouldn’t be too much trouble . . .” He cleared his throat. “Let us say, just for argument’s sake, that you accomplish your goal. That you seize the Excalibur. How do you intend to operate her? Fly her? The functions of a starship are far beyond anything that your people have ever handled. You don’t even have vessels capable of traversing interstellar distances. How do you propose to cover this gap between the ship’s ops and your abilities . . . or lack thereof?”

  “Oh, that will be simple,” said Burkitt. “We will find crewmembers who will do the jobs for us.”

  “And if they refuse, which they most certainly will . . . ?”

  “I expect them to refuse, at first. But not all creatures are made from the same resolve of character . . . not even Starfleet officers. The higher-ranking officers will not comply, to be sure. So we will execute them, one by one, until we get down to crewmen who will do our bidding.”

  “That . . . might work,” Smyt allowed. As he said this, Burkitt smiled and lowered the sword, although Smyt couldn’t help but notice that he didn’t sheathe it. Still proceeding with utmost care, he said, “Then again . . . you might be underestimating them. It might not work.”

  “In that event,” Burkitt shrugged, “we have a dead crew but a functioning ship in orbit. Our scientists can pore over it to their hearts’ content, and our knowledge will jump ahead by decades. It would require an adjustment in our plan, but at least we’ll have a starship for our troubles. You see, Smyt . . . it is a win/win scenario, really.”

  Smyt obviously wanted to rub his throat where the blade had touched, but he kept his hand at his side. “Tell me this, then: If you are so anxious to capture a starship, why not use the Gateway to take the Trident instead? That, after all, is in orbit around the Markanian world already.”

  “It is a valid point, and an option I strongly considered,” said Burkitt, and his face darkened, his eyes glowering with barely suppressed rage. “But Calhoun humiliated me, Smyt. He dared to strike me. He dared to remove Tsana from my care. He has shown nothing but contempt for me, and part of what brought this plan into focus for me was the cheerful mental picture of cleaving Calhoun’s neck from his shoulders. He shall not be among those given the opportunity to cooperate, Smyt.” His voice rumbled like an oncoming thundercloud, and was just as ominous. “His swift execution will instead serve as an example to the others of what will happen to them if they should choose not to cooperate.”

  “You know,” Smyt said appraisingly, “I’m beginning to think that you could pull it off.”

  “Yes. I can.”

  “Very well,” said Smyt. “Let me work on it . . . determine the coordinates. It will not be the easiest matter in the world, because the Excalibur is, after all, a moving target since it’s in orbit. Then again, any planet is in orbit. It’s just a matter of making the adjustments.”

  “Can you be ready by tomorrow afternoon?”

  “I believe I can, yes. Why?”

  “Because,” he said with great amusement, “I am going to take matters one step further. I will organize a rally. I will inform the good captain that I am doing so in order to allow the people to make their voices heard in the matter of the Zarn and her ‘allegiances.’ He will come down here—”

  “He won’t. He’ll suspect a trap.”

  Burkitt smiled grimly. A brief haze, a tiredness, enfolded his brain for a moment, due no doubt to his sleepless night. He shook it off as he said, “I have the measure of him, Smyt. I know his type, for I have seen it every time I’ve gazed at my own reflection. We are very similar, truth to tell. Oh, he will come here . . . escorted, most likely. He’ll have that manmountain with him, no doubt, and between that and his ability to return to his vessel at a moment’s notice, he will think himself safe enough. And Tsana . . . she will want to come. She is like her father, that one, I can see it already. There was that cold fury in her eyes that so reminded me of the late Zarn. She will want to confront me, for my lies—as she perceives them—,” he added quickly, “enrage her. She will want justice. A tragic thing to see, really, in one so young. And I will—”

  He turned, just in time to see the late Zarn shambling out of the shadows. His face looked longer than it usually was, for his jaw was hanging lifelessly, swaying slightly from the rocking motion of his gait. His face was covered with blood, and his eyes had crystalized so that only two shining white orbs remained in the sockets.

  Burkitt let out a scream like a damned soul and lunged backward, and it was only when he hit the ground that he was jolted awake. He looked around frantically, and when his eyes came to rest on Smyt, he saw the utter confusion and open incredulity in the Iconian’s face.

  “What . . . just happened?” demanded Burkitt, trying and failing to pull his shattered dignity together. He was lying flat on his back, his arms and legs splayed, and he didn’t have the faintest idea how it had come to pass.

  “I’m . . . not quite certain. You . . . were talking, and then your head nodded slightly and you fell asleep, but before I could awaken you, you . . . started screaming. Are you . . . quite all right?” asked Smyt, tentatively.

  Burkitt looked to the shadows that obscured the farther reaches of the room. Nothing seemed to be lurking thereabouts, including the angry shade of the Zarn. He cleared his throat and straightened himself up. “I am . . . perfectly fine, yes. Do not be concerned about me. Worry instead about making certain that the Gateway is functioning correctly. Because when I give you the signal during the rally . . . you will open the path to the Excalibur, and our mission of vengeance will proceed.”

  Later, after the disaster, there would be many who would claim that they weren’t the least bit surprised over what had happened. That the strain was obvious, that the guilt was so clear to anyone who bothered to look. In short, no one wanted to admit to the fact that they had been totally stunned by the events in the square outside the Counselars’ Hall. Everyone wanted to be the first to say that they had seen it coming.

  Amazingly, of course, all those pundits and diviners who had had such foresight to see the stunning conclusion of the rally never actually spoke to anyone else beforehand about it. There had been no vocalized predictions of what would come to be referred to simply as “the Breakdown.” It happened with absolutely no one predicting it. One would have thought that would put
the lie to those who maintained they saw it coming. But whenever those who were not pundits would point out this lapse, those who were pundits would simply shrug and say, “It would have been impolitic/ impolite/unwise to voice such hazardous sentiments in advance of the actual occurrence. These are, after all, dangerous times.”

  Which they always are.

  “This is a trap,” cautioned Zak Kebron as he, Calhoun, Tsana, Si Cwan, and Kalinda materialized on the surface of Aeron.

  It was not a pleasant day for a rally. Dark clouds had rolled in, and it felt as if rain was in the offing.

  Privately, Calhoun shared Kebron’s sentiments, but he didn’t need the massive security guard saying it out loud . . . particularly within hearing of Tsana. When Tsana heard Kebron’s dour assessment of the situation, her fierce determination wavered ever so slightly. No one else noticed it save for Calhoun, and he scowled at Kebron. Before he could say anything, though, he took note of the crowd.

  Somehow the word “crowd” seemed inadequate to describe it. It was a solid mass of living beings, packed in so tightly that they could barely move. Their individual words were not discernible; instead the noise they were producing was virtually a solid wall of sound. Their volume had heightened when the hum of the transporter beams had deposited the starship’s away team on the front stairs of the Counselars’ Hall, and when they caught sight of Tsana, a roar went up that clearly intimidated the child. She shrank against the captain’s leg, and it was all Calhoun could do not to pick her up, pat her on the back, and assure her that everything was going to be fine, just fine, and he would make all these awful people simply go away. He had to remind himself that this barely contained mob scene was her people.

  Nor was Calhoun able to get any feeling for whether they were happy to see her or not. It seemed to him there were some cheers, but there were catcalls as well, and accusatory shouts dubbing her a traitor, or worse. He protectively hauled her within the Counselars’ Hall, and for no reason that Calhoun could determine, no one from the crowd attempted to follow them in. “They’re well-trained,” he muttered, but no one heard him.