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Deep Gate (story)
shevet
Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
in Ten Forward
2387
There was a light glowing at the far end of the instruction hall.
Steret repressed a frown; annoyance, too, was emotion. One of the students had evidently decided to work late; he would speak to them, make sure they understood the importance of keeping regular hour, the necessity to allow proper time for sleep, to rest the brain and maintain peak levels of cognitive ability. It was only logical. The students had the ability to comprehend logic.
He paced across the otherwise deserted hall, picking his way between the hemispherical study cells, heading for the one that remained lit, where everything else was dark.
As he approached, he saw who was in the cell, and realized that a more flexible approach might be required. The overwhelming majority of students at the Vulcan Academy were, obviously enough, Vulcan. But this one - He saw the hairless head, the round, blunted ears, and he brought to mind this particular student's circumstances.
He halted at the rim of the study cell. "Student Shemosh."
Shemosh had evidently not heard him approach; now, the student raised his head and turned dark, liquid eyes on Steret. The Vulcan struggled with a sudden surge of emotion. He had never had romantic feelings for males - had, indeed, repressed all such passions, except during the septennial indignity of the pon farr - but the emotional charge, the naked need for closeness, for comfort, in the Deltan's eyes -
"Instructor Steret," Shemosh said. "I - I am sorry. I didn't know -" He looked around him. "How late is it?"
"Very late. I was about to close the Hall for the night." Steret squatted down at the rim of the cell, looked at Shemosh. The Deltan wore a plain, white, student's robe. The console screen before him showed diagrams and equations - some problem in hyper-dimensional geometry, it seemed, though it was far beyond Steret's own competence. Shemosh was a postgraduate exchange student, already an expert in recondite areas of subspace physics; he was an immense asset to the Academy, to the Federation, to the cause of science as a whole. Too valuable an asset, Steret thought, to be allowed to squander himself. "I understand your difficulties. But you should rest."
"I -" The Deltan's hands clenched into fists, and Steret shuddered as another wave of raw emotion broke against his Vulcan discipline. "I - Oh, you are right. Of course you are right. But I wanted -"
"Your reaction is natural and understandable," said Steret. "You have suffered a tragic loss. An emotional response is inevitable."
"My tragedy?" Shemosh's gaze turned to the screen. "My tragedy is nothing, compared with -"
"The destruction of Romulus is a great loss, certainly," said Steret. "But for most of us, it is a thing too large to be felt, only to be comprehended as an abstraction. A definite, localized, personal loss, on the other hand -"
"Yes," said Shemosh. He turned his face back to Steret, met the Vulcan's gaze with his dark eyes. "Yes, I know, you do understand. I know your discipline only forbids the expression of emotion, Instructor, not the fact of it." He gave a wan, rueful smile. "I know that you are trying to be kind."
"Insofar as my position and my cultural background permit it, you are correct," said Steret.
"Thank you," Shemosh said softly. "It is all that anyone can do," he added.
The Hobus supernova had behaved like nothing in history. The radiation, which should have been only a harmless though brilliant light in Romulus's sky, five hundred years in the future, had taken some short cut through subspace and arrived in a matter of weeks, at an intensity that reduced the entire system to rubble and vapour. Billions had died. And one, individual tragedy among all those billions - the crew of a Deltan trade ship, a close-knit family concern, passing too close to the subspace rift at just the wrong moment. They had been so proud of their brilliant son, when he won his academic scholarships, when he went to study on Earth, then on Vulcan....
"The past cannot be altered," said Steret. "It can only be faced. My cultural background will only permit me to suggest that you face it - logically. To neglect your own health, your physical needs, is not logical."
"You are right," said Shemosh. He sighed, and stood up. He took one hard look at the image on the screen, then turned the console off. "I will - go to my quarters. And try to sleep."
"That is logical. I know it will also prove difficult." Steret stood up, too. "I regret that I cannot offer you greater assistance. Perhaps you should consult with a counsellor from your own culture, or one similarly skilled in the expression of emotion."
"It's a good idea," Shemosh said. His face was thoughtful.
"It is the best that I can offer you. Again, I regret that I can do no more. But the past is the past. There is nothing that any of us can do to change that."
Steret watched, impassively, as Shemosh clambered out of the cell, muttered something under his breath, and made his way across the darkened hall, out into the open air and the hot Vulcan night. Then he closed down the cell, made a final round of inspection, and retired.
But Steret found sleep hard to achieve that night, too. He had heard Shemosh's words as he left, and they puzzled him.
"Nothing any of us can do," the Deltan had said, "except wait, maybe."
Present Day
"Maintaining separation at five kilometres," Lieutenant th'Talish reported.
Captain Leaman grunted. "Not so long since I'd get worried, having a Klink that far up my - never mind," he said. "Time to target?"
"Closing to optimum scan range in seven minutes," Commander T'Tel answered from the main science station.
"All right," Leaman said. "Call the Klinks, let's tell them what not to expect."
He studied the tactical display. The mIn wo' showed up, precisely on station, five kilometres behind the USS Southmoor. Leaman could call up a visual, study the blocky, angular shape of the Naj'Sov science cruiser.... A botch job, he thought. Ugly, from its chisel prow right back to the oversized subspace radome covering most of its rear. A flying scrapheap, compared to the neat lines of his own advanced light cruiser. He shook his head. It had been easier when they were fighting the Klingons, dammit.
"I have the CO of the mIn wo' on screen," said Lieutenant Shaffer on comms.
"Let's have him." The Klingon commander's scarred face appeared on the main viewscreen. "Commander Qarn. Ready for your first test?"
Qarn bared his teeth. Leaman hoped it was a smile. "All systems optimal, Starfleet. But where is your target?"
"Dead ahead. It's just kinda hard to spot." Leaman smiled, himself. "This one's great for calibrating a base line. Just run your scan on the coordinates we've sent you, and you'll get zero."
"Zero on what?" Qarn asked. "Electromagnetics? Lidar ranging? Gravimetrics? Subspace interferometry?"
"Any of them," said Leaman. "All of them. Take a look at Galactic Object 4704, Commander. The biggest spot of absolute nothing in the known galaxy."
The anomaly was hard to spot, sure enough. This close, some stars were occulted by the convoluted black - mass wasn't the right word, Leaman thought; GO4704 had no mass. It emitted no radiation, either - nor did it reflect any, which was the only way to spot it. Matter passed through it, but came out the other side with its temperature reduced to that of cosmic background.... Where the energy went was just one of the puzzles about the object. There were several competing theories, but none had been verified, due to the effective impossibility of getting meaningful information out of the anomaly.
It was there. It was a mystery of space - harmless, unless you were unlucky enough to run into it. And it was, as Leaman had pointed out, a great place to set zero points on your sensor equipment.
"Helm, steer eight five mark zero," he ordered. "We'll get out of your field of view, Commander."
"Such excitement," the Klingon grumbled. "Very well. Let us test your zeroes, Starfleet."
Icons flashed around the mIn wo' on the tactical display. Qarn was running a full sequence on his new ship's active scanners, it appeared. Galactic Object 4704 looked... unimpressed, Leaman thought.
"Gravimetrics zero," Qarn said slowly. "Electromagnetics... zero. Temperature, absolute zero. I had not thought that achievable in nature. Subspace -" He leaned to one side, looking at something out of Leaman's field of view. "I thought you said this thing was all zeroes, Starfleet. I have theta-band subspace radiation here."
"Check the shielding on your sensor coils," said Leaman. "I'll bet you that's nothing but internal noise from your own ship's systems."
"I will take that bet, Starfleet. There is nothing wrong with my systems."
"Sir." T'Tel's eyebrow quirked. "I'm picking something up on our own sensors."
"What? Can't be. Double-check." Leaman activated a repeater screen, studied the feed from the science station.
"Positive for theta-band radiation," said T'Tel. "And I'm picking up some exotics. Readings consistent with anti-tachyon particles, though -"
"GO4704's been dead since it was first detected," said Leaman blankly. "Over a hundred and twenty years of just nothing -"
Qarn laughed, a huge explosive bark of scorn. "Nothing, you say, Starfleet? Look at it!"
"On screen. Visual." Leaman's mouth was suddenly dry.
Qarn's face vanished from the viewer, and in its place -
Galactic Object 4704 was a twisted toroid in shape - a shape which, given its black-on-black colour, had taken a long time to map. But there was no problem determining its shape now, not as it hung in the centre of the screen, tiger-striped with a pulsating rainbow of shifting colours -
The screen went blank. The Southmoor lurched violently, and a shower of sparks erupted from an overloaded console. Leaman's command screens blanked out, then filled themselves with static and gibberish. An automated alarm began to scream.
"What the hell just happened?" Leaman yelled. "Status report!"
"Working," said T'Tel. "We have - Sir, we appear to have inadvertently transected a radiation beam. Damage to several decks -"
"Warp power is out," added th'Talish. "Main deflector is shorted, non-operational. Structural integrity reads seventy-eight per cent. We still have impulse, I'm sealing our hull breaches -"
"Sir, the mIn wo' is hailing," said Shaffer.
"Let's hear them." Stunned, Leaman sank back into his command chair.
Qarn's face, when it reappeared on the screen, was flickering and scarred with static. "Starfleet. How bad is it?"
Leaman swallowed. "Warp power is out. No word on casualties yet -"
"I think you may have been lucky. Someone or something is tickling your galactic object, Starfleet. Tickling it with a radiation beam more than powerful enough to disable your ship. Tickling it hard enough to get a response." The Klingon's face was very serious. "I will tow you clear of the immediate danger zone, and my engineers are ready to assist you in making repairs. After which, I suggest we head back to Starbase 271 and make a report. This has become something more than an exercise in calibrating my sensors."
There was a light glowing at the far end of the instruction hall.
Steret repressed a frown; annoyance, too, was emotion. One of the students had evidently decided to work late; he would speak to them, make sure they understood the importance of keeping regular hour, the necessity to allow proper time for sleep, to rest the brain and maintain peak levels of cognitive ability. It was only logical. The students had the ability to comprehend logic.
He paced across the otherwise deserted hall, picking his way between the hemispherical study cells, heading for the one that remained lit, where everything else was dark.
As he approached, he saw who was in the cell, and realized that a more flexible approach might be required. The overwhelming majority of students at the Vulcan Academy were, obviously enough, Vulcan. But this one - He saw the hairless head, the round, blunted ears, and he brought to mind this particular student's circumstances.
He halted at the rim of the study cell. "Student Shemosh."
Shemosh had evidently not heard him approach; now, the student raised his head and turned dark, liquid eyes on Steret. The Vulcan struggled with a sudden surge of emotion. He had never had romantic feelings for males - had, indeed, repressed all such passions, except during the septennial indignity of the pon farr - but the emotional charge, the naked need for closeness, for comfort, in the Deltan's eyes -
"Instructor Steret," Shemosh said. "I - I am sorry. I didn't know -" He looked around him. "How late is it?"
"Very late. I was about to close the Hall for the night." Steret squatted down at the rim of the cell, looked at Shemosh. The Deltan wore a plain, white, student's robe. The console screen before him showed diagrams and equations - some problem in hyper-dimensional geometry, it seemed, though it was far beyond Steret's own competence. Shemosh was a postgraduate exchange student, already an expert in recondite areas of subspace physics; he was an immense asset to the Academy, to the Federation, to the cause of science as a whole. Too valuable an asset, Steret thought, to be allowed to squander himself. "I understand your difficulties. But you should rest."
"I -" The Deltan's hands clenched into fists, and Steret shuddered as another wave of raw emotion broke against his Vulcan discipline. "I - Oh, you are right. Of course you are right. But I wanted -"
"Your reaction is natural and understandable," said Steret. "You have suffered a tragic loss. An emotional response is inevitable."
"My tragedy?" Shemosh's gaze turned to the screen. "My tragedy is nothing, compared with -"
"The destruction of Romulus is a great loss, certainly," said Steret. "But for most of us, it is a thing too large to be felt, only to be comprehended as an abstraction. A definite, localized, personal loss, on the other hand -"
"Yes," said Shemosh. He turned his face back to Steret, met the Vulcan's gaze with his dark eyes. "Yes, I know, you do understand. I know your discipline only forbids the expression of emotion, Instructor, not the fact of it." He gave a wan, rueful smile. "I know that you are trying to be kind."
"Insofar as my position and my cultural background permit it, you are correct," said Steret.
"Thank you," Shemosh said softly. "It is all that anyone can do," he added.
The Hobus supernova had behaved like nothing in history. The radiation, which should have been only a harmless though brilliant light in Romulus's sky, five hundred years in the future, had taken some short cut through subspace and arrived in a matter of weeks, at an intensity that reduced the entire system to rubble and vapour. Billions had died. And one, individual tragedy among all those billions - the crew of a Deltan trade ship, a close-knit family concern, passing too close to the subspace rift at just the wrong moment. They had been so proud of their brilliant son, when he won his academic scholarships, when he went to study on Earth, then on Vulcan....
"The past cannot be altered," said Steret. "It can only be faced. My cultural background will only permit me to suggest that you face it - logically. To neglect your own health, your physical needs, is not logical."
"You are right," said Shemosh. He sighed, and stood up. He took one hard look at the image on the screen, then turned the console off. "I will - go to my quarters. And try to sleep."
"That is logical. I know it will also prove difficult." Steret stood up, too. "I regret that I cannot offer you greater assistance. Perhaps you should consult with a counsellor from your own culture, or one similarly skilled in the expression of emotion."
"It's a good idea," Shemosh said. His face was thoughtful.
"It is the best that I can offer you. Again, I regret that I can do no more. But the past is the past. There is nothing that any of us can do to change that."
Steret watched, impassively, as Shemosh clambered out of the cell, muttered something under his breath, and made his way across the darkened hall, out into the open air and the hot Vulcan night. Then he closed down the cell, made a final round of inspection, and retired.
But Steret found sleep hard to achieve that night, too. He had heard Shemosh's words as he left, and they puzzled him.
"Nothing any of us can do," the Deltan had said, "except wait, maybe."
Present Day
"Maintaining separation at five kilometres," Lieutenant th'Talish reported.
Captain Leaman grunted. "Not so long since I'd get worried, having a Klink that far up my - never mind," he said. "Time to target?"
"Closing to optimum scan range in seven minutes," Commander T'Tel answered from the main science station.
"All right," Leaman said. "Call the Klinks, let's tell them what not to expect."
He studied the tactical display. The mIn wo' showed up, precisely on station, five kilometres behind the USS Southmoor. Leaman could call up a visual, study the blocky, angular shape of the Naj'Sov science cruiser.... A botch job, he thought. Ugly, from its chisel prow right back to the oversized subspace radome covering most of its rear. A flying scrapheap, compared to the neat lines of his own advanced light cruiser. He shook his head. It had been easier when they were fighting the Klingons, dammit.
"I have the CO of the mIn wo' on screen," said Lieutenant Shaffer on comms.
"Let's have him." The Klingon commander's scarred face appeared on the main viewscreen. "Commander Qarn. Ready for your first test?"
Qarn bared his teeth. Leaman hoped it was a smile. "All systems optimal, Starfleet. But where is your target?"
"Dead ahead. It's just kinda hard to spot." Leaman smiled, himself. "This one's great for calibrating a base line. Just run your scan on the coordinates we've sent you, and you'll get zero."
"Zero on what?" Qarn asked. "Electromagnetics? Lidar ranging? Gravimetrics? Subspace interferometry?"
"Any of them," said Leaman. "All of them. Take a look at Galactic Object 4704, Commander. The biggest spot of absolute nothing in the known galaxy."
The anomaly was hard to spot, sure enough. This close, some stars were occulted by the convoluted black - mass wasn't the right word, Leaman thought; GO4704 had no mass. It emitted no radiation, either - nor did it reflect any, which was the only way to spot it. Matter passed through it, but came out the other side with its temperature reduced to that of cosmic background.... Where the energy went was just one of the puzzles about the object. There were several competing theories, but none had been verified, due to the effective impossibility of getting meaningful information out of the anomaly.
It was there. It was a mystery of space - harmless, unless you were unlucky enough to run into it. And it was, as Leaman had pointed out, a great place to set zero points on your sensor equipment.
"Helm, steer eight five mark zero," he ordered. "We'll get out of your field of view, Commander."
"Such excitement," the Klingon grumbled. "Very well. Let us test your zeroes, Starfleet."
Icons flashed around the mIn wo' on the tactical display. Qarn was running a full sequence on his new ship's active scanners, it appeared. Galactic Object 4704 looked... unimpressed, Leaman thought.
"Gravimetrics zero," Qarn said slowly. "Electromagnetics... zero. Temperature, absolute zero. I had not thought that achievable in nature. Subspace -" He leaned to one side, looking at something out of Leaman's field of view. "I thought you said this thing was all zeroes, Starfleet. I have theta-band subspace radiation here."
"Check the shielding on your sensor coils," said Leaman. "I'll bet you that's nothing but internal noise from your own ship's systems."
"I will take that bet, Starfleet. There is nothing wrong with my systems."
"Sir." T'Tel's eyebrow quirked. "I'm picking something up on our own sensors."
"What? Can't be. Double-check." Leaman activated a repeater screen, studied the feed from the science station.
"Positive for theta-band radiation," said T'Tel. "And I'm picking up some exotics. Readings consistent with anti-tachyon particles, though -"
"GO4704's been dead since it was first detected," said Leaman blankly. "Over a hundred and twenty years of just nothing -"
Qarn laughed, a huge explosive bark of scorn. "Nothing, you say, Starfleet? Look at it!"
"On screen. Visual." Leaman's mouth was suddenly dry.
Qarn's face vanished from the viewer, and in its place -
Galactic Object 4704 was a twisted toroid in shape - a shape which, given its black-on-black colour, had taken a long time to map. But there was no problem determining its shape now, not as it hung in the centre of the screen, tiger-striped with a pulsating rainbow of shifting colours -
The screen went blank. The Southmoor lurched violently, and a shower of sparks erupted from an overloaded console. Leaman's command screens blanked out, then filled themselves with static and gibberish. An automated alarm began to scream.
"What the hell just happened?" Leaman yelled. "Status report!"
"Working," said T'Tel. "We have - Sir, we appear to have inadvertently transected a radiation beam. Damage to several decks -"
"Warp power is out," added th'Talish. "Main deflector is shorted, non-operational. Structural integrity reads seventy-eight per cent. We still have impulse, I'm sealing our hull breaches -"
"Sir, the mIn wo' is hailing," said Shaffer.
"Let's hear them." Stunned, Leaman sank back into his command chair.
Qarn's face, when it reappeared on the screen, was flickering and scarred with static. "Starfleet. How bad is it?"
Leaman swallowed. "Warp power is out. No word on casualties yet -"
"I think you may have been lucky. Someone or something is tickling your galactic object, Starfleet. Tickling it with a radiation beam more than powerful enough to disable your ship. Tickling it hard enough to get a response." The Klingon's face was very serious. "I will tow you clear of the immediate danger zone, and my engineers are ready to assist you in making repairs. After which, I suggest we head back to Starbase 271 and make a report. This has become something more than an exercise in calibrating my sensors."
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The Ferasan's ears fold flat to the sides of her head. Her eyes, emerald-green in the lighter stripe that is the only marking on her blue-black fur, narrow. She opens her mouth wide, displaying her enormous Ferasan fangs to the full, and she throws back her head and screams.
The scream is terrifying - high-pitched, with snarling overtones - and it echoes, ringing through all the vast domed space around us. I see crewmen at distant workstations look up, startled. And I feel my own claws tense in my fingertips -
The Ferasan opens her eyes and chuckles. "M'eioi must forgive Rrueo," she says. "Rrueo just wanted to test the echo."
I relax. A little. "I take your point," I say. "Tuterian design philosophy is... well, different."
"Different indeed." Rrueo looks around, at the enormous hollow sphere about us, at the bridge workstations on free-floating discs linked by narrow walkways. "And Rrueo thought her ship's bridge was inconveniently large - M'eoi's old ship could fit inside this bridge, surely."
"Just about." My last command, the science vessel Timor, wasn't big. But she was tough, tough enough to cope with the Vaadwaur and the Voth - "Size isn't everything. But now the engineers have cleared some of these Tuterian prize vessels for general use, well, Science Division can use them."
"Rrueo does not doubt this. A Denuos-class dreadnought carrier - Rrueo almost feels she should be jealous." She rests one hand on the railing around the command disc, and looks down into the bowels of the ship. "Though Rrueo prefers Ferasan designs, that is certain."
Rrueo and I worked together during a crisis in the Delta Quadrant. We didn't come out of it friends, exactly, but we managed not to kill each other, which is good going for a Caitian and a Ferasan. Now, with the Treaty of Sauria - supposedly - setting up the basis for a rapprochement between the sundered branches of our species, the occasional diplomatic visit is reckoned a good thing. Which is why Rrueo is a guest aboard my new command.
Now she is prowling around the edge of the command disc. She looks a little like me, I suppose, though I am somewhat shorter and slighter in build - and my fur is plain black, without the blue tint - and I don't have those massive fangs. Sometimes, in my darker moods, I think the Ferasans' original designers were right, and she does look like an improved version of the species. But only in my darker moods.
The comms console suddenly pings for attention. I touch the button, and the main screen springs to life. I wince. There are definite scuff marks on it, from where the human engineering team re-jigged the gravity plating and played field hockey on it.... The face forming on the massive screen is that of a matronly Denobulan woman - Admiral Stroffa, the head of Stellar Survey. I come to attention and salute.
"Admiral M'eioi." Stroffa glances to one side. "And General Rrueo, I see. Is our hospitality to your satisfaction, General?"
"Rrueo has no complaints," says the Ferasan. "Should Rrueo absent herself, while you two talk business?"
Stroffa smiles. "No need. The KDF is already aware of the relevant factors, in fact." Her gaze shifts back to me. "A routine survey of Galactic Object 4704 had unexpected consequences. That anomaly seems to have... come to life. It emitted a wide spectrum of exotic radiation, under the stimulus of a powerful energy beam of undetermined origin. This is, to say the least, unusual."
"4704?" I rack my brains. There are thousands - at least 4,704, in fact - of incompletely studied anomalies out there, but some are better known than others. "Isn't that the completely dead zone out towards -"
"Not any more," Stroffa says dryly. "We need a science vessel to make detailed observations. And, since we know so little about that anomaly, and we have no idea who or what has caused it to change, that science vessel had better be prepared for anything. The Madagascar's somewhat extensive capabilities would seem to fit the bill."
"Yes, sir. I'll make immediate preparations for departure."
"Please do. I am transmitting the requisite information on your data subchannel now. General Rrueo, I regret that it may be necessary to cut your visit short -"
"Rrueo will find ways to amuse herself. Thank you, Admiral." Rrueo throws Stroffa a sketchy salute.
"Thank you for your understanding and your cooperation," says Stroffa. "Admiral M'eioi, in light of the undetermined nature of the problem, you may find it worthwhile to request additional support from Tactical Division. Just as a precaution, you understand. I have cleared this through normal channels in advance."
"It's a sound idea, sir. Thank you." I salute again.
"I will await your report with interest. Good luck, Admiral. Stroffa out." The huge screen goes blank. I hope Rrueo hasn't noticed the scuff marks.
Rrueo licks her fangs. "Well. Some people have all the luck, it seems. M'eioi is to investigate a new phenomenon at the frontier of space, while Rrueo cools her heels in the KDF legation. Never mind. Rrueo has a plan already. That rather handsome young ensign who is on duty outside Quinn's office... Rrueo has often wondered if it is true what they say, about unmodified Caitian males...."
"Oh, come on," I protest. "Ensign Rraak? He just wants a quiet life!"
"Then Rrueo suspects he has chosen the wrong profession, and the wrong workplace, and possibly the wrong century to be born into. But do not fear, Rrueo will treat him gently." She gives me an airy wave, and saunters off down the walkway. "Good fortune attend you on your mission. Rrueo hopes your banners will continue to wave bravely."
And, with that, she is gone. Commander Joaj is already at my elbow with a PADD full of requirements: the little engineer squints up at me, and her bristling antennae twitch. "What did she mean?" she asks. "About the banners, sir?"
"Oh." I take the PADD. "She's a telepath, and she has this habit of constructing... metaphors, I think she said... for the feel of people's minds. Apparently, my mind is like an army with banners. So she says."
"I see." Joaj peers at Rrueo's retreating form in the distance. She scratches her head, producing an alarming noise from her bark-like skin. "Flattering, I guess."
"I suppose so." I look at the PADD. "Better get moving. And get me a channel to the bureaucrats. I think a backup from Tac Division might come in handy. Let's see who they've got available."
"It is a relic," I snarl. "An antique."
Lieutenant Niquoeb's keratinous headcrest rattles as he turns his cheerful purple face towards me. "Indeed so, most valiant Captain! How gratified we should be that Starfleet entrusts us with this prestigious exemplar of its historic mission!"
I stare at him. But he is serious. The Jolciots of the planet Magamba have made many inventions and discoveries - flowery language, temperature-invariant metal alloys, outrageous fission-powered warp drives - but they have never discovered irony.
I sit down in the big, boxy command chair, and contemplate the antique's bridge. The USS Amphicyon is an Atlas-class battleship, based on designs from the twenty-third century... it resembles nothing so much as a Constitution-class cruiser that has let itself go and put on weight. I study the tactical repeater screen, on the chair's left armrest. It is almost too small to be readable.
The Atlas-class warships were a dead end, a design blind alley. Starfleet built them, but had no idea what to do with them. Apt, then, that they should give one to me. Starfleet frequently has no idea what to do with its few Klingon officers.
"The assignment orders from ESD are overdue," I mutter. "Comms." Lieutenant Bloxx turns to face me. She is Bolian, reasonably competent. "Any word from Admiral Kavanagh?"
"Nothing yet, sir. I'm listening out."
"Relax, boss, they've not forgotten you." The light, good-humoured voice is also Bolian; it belongs to my alleged executive officer, Commander Glathaw Thala. He is overweight and impossibly cheerful, a researcher with Science Division, appointed to counterbalance my Klingon martial instincts by some cretin at Personnel. He is poring over some tedious detail at the science station, accompanied by my science officer, a human named Kali Lillian. She is small and dark-skinned and timid in disposition. Kali, I am told, is a goddess of destruction in some human pantheon. It is rather like having a pet mouse named Slayer.
"We should already have been cleared for departure." I stand up, pace across the deck. The interior of ESD's docking bay shows on the main screen; the bay doors are open, ships are leaving, ships are arriving. My ship is going nowhere. "Comms. Signal command. Ask for confirmation of our assignment."
"Aye, aye, sir." Bloxx is as mousy-looking as Kali Lillian, in her way, but she can do her job. I must learn to be content with that. I have had to learn to be content with very little, over the years.
"I'm just getting a routine hold-station order, sir," Bloxx reports.
I am studying the weapons consoles. "Pulse phasers. Are those even in period, for this particular antique? - Never mind. We should have heard something by now. Alert the transporter room. I am beaming over to Command."
---
Normal custom is for personnel to go unarmed about ESD, but I am not comfortable with being unarmed. I cannot carry a full range of weapons without attracting undue comment, so I compromise by wearing an old phaser pistol. It is almost as old as the Amphicyon herself, but it is well-maintained, in perfect condition, and its weight at my hip is a comfort as Lieutenant Commander Pascoe sorts through her files.
"I'm a bit at a loss," she says, eventually. She is pale and red-haired and plump, the sort of person who sits behind a desk all day, losing captains' movement orders. Starfleet officers are not permitted to kill bureaucrats. Some KDF captains think Starfleet has it easy; they need to contemplate that fact.
"I've got assignment orders here for all our category K6 command officers," she says, "and your name just isn't on them. Bit of a stumper, really."
"What is category K6?" I ask, with a sinking feeling.
"Well, officers like you. You know, the KDF exchange programme. You're all in category K6."
"But I am not a part of any exchange programme," I say. "I am a Starfleet officer. An Academy graduate. I have never been a member of the KDF."
"Oh?" She looks more puzzled. "But you're - Well. Never mind. I mean, though, in that case, you'd be in one of the A categories, wouldn't you? There's a lot more of those." She purses her lips and types on her console. I try to control my face.
"Captain Surella," she says, after some minutes. "There we are. Category A17. USS Amphicyon, yes?" She frowns. "But I've no assignment orders for you at all. I'm not even sure you're here. Well, officially, that is. Obviously, you're here, it's just -"
"I was assigned to Task Group Origen," I say, "as part of Seventh Tactical Wing, under Admiral Kavanagh. James Kavanagh. Please check that." I remembered to say please. Obedience to duty brings honour to the House, however galling that duty may be.
"Task Group Origen." More typing. "Oh. Admiral Kavanagh reviewed your assignment himself...."
This is not going to be good news. "And?"
"He sent a security downcheck. You see, his task group is operating in a sensitive area, and it's not cleared for K6 category personnel."
"But I am not category K6. I am category A17." And I must control the urge to kill.
"Yes, it is a bit of a mix-up, isn't it? The Admiral must have thought you were K6. And when he downchecked you, you went back into the K6 pile for automated reassignment. Only, of course, you're not a K6, are you? So the system just ignored you, I'm afraid."
"Contact Kavanagh. Inform him of his - misapprehension. I will join his task group at the earliest opportunity -"
"Oh, no, that can't be done. Task Group Origen is out of the system already, and running subspace silent. Besides, the Admiral filled that tac slot with a replacement. No." She blinks at me. "I'm afraid you're out of luck there."
I can feel the expression on my face, and it is not a good one. "My ship is ready for action! I have an entire battleship with a highly trained crew! You cannot just lose me and my ship in the filing system!"
"Oh, you'd be amazed what we can lose." She has no shame. "Now, let's not worry, I'm sure we can turn up something suitable." More typing. Each keypress feels like a blow against my warrior soul. "USS Amphicyon. Atlas-class? My goodness, that's unusual." She frowns. "Experimental Engineering often has uses for unusual ships, but they don't have any big projects on hand right now. I think it's because Admiral Shohl is away on her honeymoon. Did you hear about that? So romantic."
"I would prefer not to wait for an assignment until the Andorians have finished f-" I get a grip on myself before I say something irretrievable. Pascoe looks at me in a meditative sort of way.
"There's always Public Relations Command," she says, eventually.
"What?"
"You know the sort of thing. Showing visiting dignitaries around, giving tours and so on. An unusual sort of ship like yours - I'm sure it would be very popular with the tourists."
"Tourists?"
She must see in my eyes how close she is to death. "Or there's one alternative. Admiral M'eioi is requesting tactical backup on a science survey mission. Admiral Stroffa's cleared it, so, well, the first ship that's available -"
"Will be mine. Please. I am available."
"Well, you seem to meet their mission criteria." She smiles at me. She dares to smile, and I must suffer it. Duty. Always duty. "I'll send a message to Admiral M'eioi, then. Don't worry, I'll make it quite clear you're category A17."
I weigh the pole in my hands, and stare up at the wall.
The wall is just over three metres high. Every ten metres, a pylon protrudes, another metre above the top of the wall. The security force field is generated from the tips of the pylons. There is, therefore, a one metre gap. The wall itself is monitored, of course - it will respond to close contact.
There are no visual monitors, which is lucky. T'Khrem does not want accidental visual records of the things that happen in his private estate.
I weigh the pole in my hands again. Well. Nothing to be gained from further delay -
I start the run-up, my limbs moving with smooth precision and regularity. This will take skill, and strength, and precise calculation. Fortunately, I have all of these.
I ground the pole at exactly the right point, and I leap, my body tensing, the pole flexing as I use its leverage, and I straighten out and release my grip at just the right moment, and I am through the gap. Vegetation flails at me as I crash to the ground and roll, but the slick impact-gel bodysuit cushions the impacts. The pole will collide with the wall, of course - but it is the sort of random impact that might draw no notice, that might be accounted as a random bird strike or some such. And if it is not, no matter. When I let go, I exposed the oxidizer patch to the outside air - and that triggered the cascade reaction from the catalysts embedded in the pole's graphene structure, and by now the pole is nothing but a breath of carbon dioxide, burned away in an instant. A forensic team might eventually, detect a trace of platinum ash from the catalysts....
Nothing to worry about now. I look around. It is twilight, this section of the grounds is not frequented - but a patrolling guard will find me eventually, unless I move now. I lope through the undergrowth, taking a zig-zag course, not towards the main house itself, but to the outbuilding that houses the distributor for the local EPS grid.
It will be guarded, of course. This is good. I need a guard.
The outbuilding is long, low, concealed from view behind an ornamental hedge. There is one guard, a bored-looking Nausicaan, at least seven feet tall and armed with a wicked-looking disruptor rifle. This is good. I watch him from the bushes for a few seconds. He does not spot me, until I move.
It feels good. I am past the stage of identity confusion, of wondering if I am Carayl, the Trill athlete, drawing on the library of Quon's knowledge, or Quon, the symbiote, using the limbs and muscles of Carayl's magnificent young body. I am, now, Carayl Quon, a very strong, very limber young woman who happened, in another lifetime, to study the Earth martial art of taekwondo. As I demonstrate, now, by breaking the Nausicaan's neck with one terrific kick, before he has time even to twitch the muzzle of his gun in my direction.
It will not be long before he is discovered. I grin, behind the blank glass faceplate of my helmet. It will not be long before everything I am doing becomes... noticeable.
I finish the preparations at the outbuilding, and move off, zig-zagging this time towards the main house.
The house is tall and stately, built to the standards of the Klingons of three or four centuries ago - I remember, or one side of me remembers, when it would have been new and daring. It is not so stately that it is not a fortress, though - the ground floor walls are high and sheer, the windows narrow lancets through which light can pass, but not a body. A walkway runs around the upper storeys, though, and guards patrol along it. I smile again, and draw the weighted line from around my waist.
A solitary guard paces his way along the parapet - and I swing the line. Coordination of effort, that is the key. Quon provides the calculations, the precise planning; Carayl supplies the physicality, the grace and dexterity, that turn the plan into action. The weighted line loops around the guard's neck, goes taut as I throw my weight on it - and the guard is down, and I am swarming up the line, clambering over the parapet, in a matter of seconds. I search the guard's corpse, take his security keycard. I do not take his weapon. I need no weapons but myself.
I let myself into the building. Now, I must be ready to improvise - I need to bring my two targets together, and I do not know where one of them is, and I have scant minutes remaining, at best. I make my way along a corridor, past hangings of silk that recount the past honours of T'Khrem's house. I pause at a doorway, peek through -
And I smile once more, because fortune has favoured me.
The room holds T'Khrem's trophies, among them the one I seek, and T'Khrem himself is there, his thick hands caressing a sculpture in Dissulian marble that is worth a not inconsiderable fortune in itself. That, though, is not what I am here for.
I slip into the room and am behind T'Khrem before he can react to the intrusion. He was a mighty warrior in his day, but his day is past. Now, he can only whimper in pain as I strike with scientifically exact blows, breaking jaw, elbows, knees. My instructions are that he should live - and suffer.
I let momentum carry me forward, dragging T'Khrem's bulk with me, to the display case. My hand forces his down on the biometric panel. With my other hand, I trigger the wrist comm which is the only powered item I dared carry. A voice says "Override. Open casing." It is not quite T'Khrem's voice - it is a composite, based on many hours of recordings - but it, and the handprint, are good enough.
The display case is made of transparent aluminium and graphene mesh, with a force-field backup. It would not yield quickly to anything short of high explosives. Now, though, it folds open, and the light of the security field dies away. I drop T'Khrem and pick up the sword. The ceremonial bat'leth of Astigas - I can admire its sparkling tines, its elaborate platinum inlay, without even considering the weight of history, of Klingon tradition, it represents. It is all that remains of a noble line, a whole Klingon nation - its value is near incalculable.
There is a distant commotion outside - sounds, as of someone finding a body. T'Khrem's thick lips are twisted. Despite his pain, he is trying to smile. He thinks I am trapped.
He is still smiling when the lights go out. A fraction of a second later, the sound of an explosion rumbles through the building. I could bring no explosives, no spatial charges - but a Nausicaan guard's disruptor rifle, short-circuited for a force chamber explosion, was quite enough to take out the EPS substation. I hit the wrist comm.
Transporter interdiction failed when the power did. In the red glow of my departure, I can see the smile fade from T'Khrem's face, as I fade away myself.
And I am back in the Beauregard's transporter room, and Rissmo smiles at me from the console, where she has been keeping constant watch, waiting for the power failure. I pull the helmet off my head, shake out my long chestnut-coloured hair. "All done?" the Orion asks.
"As you see." I lift the blade. "And T'Khrem got to watch me take it."
Rissmo's smile grows broader, and she gives me a smouldering look through half-closed eyelids. "Celebrating tonight?" she asks in a sultry voice. She is tall, wide-hipped, bosomy - a notable contrast to Carayl's lithe, athletic frame - but our two bodies have fitted together before in... interesting... ways.
"Maybe. Let's contact our principal, first. And then I'll need a shower." Perspiration is literally pooling inside the impermeable bodysuit. "I stink."
"I'll scrub your back," Rissmo offers. She follows me to the bridge, where Morak is already at work on the comms console. Morak is Klingon, with a powerful build, a craggy, good-humoured face, and unusual light-coloured hair. He, too, offers... interesting possibilities. Some, I have explored; others, I look forward to.
"I have the encrypted channel," he says, as I enter.
I nod. "On screen, then." And I settle myself, and lounge insolently in the command chair. Insolent lounging is one more of the pleasures this body was built for....
The round green face of Suldus appears on the screen. The Syndicate enforcer's eyes glitter in their fleshy setting. I raise the bat'leth. "Mission accomplished."
"And T'Khrem?"
"Alive. And in pain, and humiliated. As you requested."
Suldus purses his lips. "I should ask for details... but I do not think I need to. You have proven reliable to date. A courier pod will arrive to take the artifact. I am transmitting rendezvous coordinates on your data subchannel now." His lips twitch. "The pod will carry the agreed payment."
"Naturally." There is a datapad by the command chair; I pick it up and activate it.
"We should discuss your official entrance into the Syndicate. You have performed well. A sponsorship from Matron Delfin -"
"Perhaps later." I smile at him. The datapad intrigues me. "There are advantages to remaining a free agent, too. I can continue to be useful to the Syndicate... while also picking up some interesting external commissions."
He paced along the gravel path, through the perfectly manicured hedges of the formal garden. Beyond the topiary, spires of crystal rose up, gleaming buildings reflecting iridescent light as they reached up into the clear blue sky.
"Once you have the holodeck," Vansittaert continued, "you need nothing more. You engage with the real world only as much as is strictly necessary to maintain the holographic systems. Everything else... you do in a realm of your own imagination."
"A possible scenario," said Abercrombie. He was small and plump, with yellowish skin, jet-black hair and slanting brown eyes, and he wore an antique business suit in twentieth-century style.
"For persons of limited willpower, perhaps," said Boucher. He was tall, shaven-headed and black-skinned, and wore red and gold formal robes in the style of ancient Ashanti. "But a person of talent and ambition will always desire to make a lasting mark in the real world."
"I concur," said Calvert. He was short and skinny, with red hair and beard, and very pale skin, and he wore the tunic and toga of ancient Rome. "Life in a holographic illusion is ultimately unsatisfying."
"Perhaps so," said Vansittaert. He was tall and thin, the tallest of the four men; he wore a simple grey tunic and trousers, and his long, placid face was pale and hairless. His dark brown hair was cropped very close to his scalp, displaying the angular contours of his skull. "But the holodeck fulfils a deep-felt need. The need for reality to be plastic, to conform to our will. In ancient days, they thought it could be done with magic. We know that all it takes is... sufficient resources."
"Resources in the real world are limited," said Abercrombie.
"Very few people command enough to make reality plastic," Boucher added.
"You, yourself, of course -" Calvert began.
"Well, quite," murmured Vansittaert. "Circumstances have been kind to me, I know.... The recent upheavals in the Federation data net required my companies and concerns to, ahh, step into the breach, as it were."
"Replacing the various installations and software applications corrupted by Kalevar Thrang's viruses," said Abercrombie.
"A formidable undertaking," said Boucher.
"Which your industrial concerns were admirably equipped to handle," said Calvert.
"Yes," said Vansittaert, "I have been more than adequately compensated. So much so that, well, one feels obliged to give a little back. Not in any monetary way, of course. I could distribute my personal fortune around the Federation... could give each one of its teeming billions enough energy credits to buy a new home, or a pleasant holiday... but, well, would that make the Federation as a whole any better off?"
"You have more ambitious plans in mind, clearly," said Abercrombie.
"You desire to make a mark on the real world," said Boucher. "A lasting contribution."
"No doubt a very daring undertaking," said Calvert.
Vansittaert smiled. "I believe so." He glanced at the other three men. "Thank you, gentlemen. I do enjoy these little talks. They help me to focus my mind for the tasks ahead. Goodbye for now, though. End program."
Abercrombie, Boucher and Calvert disappeared. The formal garden faded from view, to be replaced by the bland grid lines of an inactive holodeck. Vansittaert clapped his hands together, and strode to the exit arch.
"Reality should be plastic," he said to himself. Beyond the door, he reflected, was the interior of his personal ship, a vessel modified to his own, exacting, specifications... an instance of reality conforming to his will, deforming into a new shape under the pressure of the immense amounts of money he could bring to bear.
Possess enough resources, and everything is plastic. He could change the world. And surely it would be for the better?
He keyed the comms panel on the arch with his thumbprint. "Prepare the ship for the next stage in the mission," he ordered. "Invite Professor T'Shal and Academician Shemosh to a strategy meeting regarding Project Deep Gate at 0900 hours tomorrow. Confirm that specialist transport has been arranged." Data flashed up on a panel before him, and he nodded. "Adequate, I think." For the first time, his mouth drew itself up into an unsatisfied expression, an ugly, almost petulant, pout. "I suppose we must contact Mr. Premaratne, then. It would never do to have any inconveniences occur."
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Captain Surella turns out to be something of a surprise.
We're holding a briefing in one of the Madagascar's endless hollow spaces - myself and some key officers: Joaj, the impeccably groomed Betazoid Sumal Jetuz, my exec Marya Kothe, and Pearl, the android I - inherited - from the late and unlamented Commodore Dan Fallon. And, naturally, as a courtesy, I invited the commander and exec of our escort vessel. Captain Surella's exec is normal enough, a portly and cheerful Bolian. But, as for Surella -
From the neck down, she looks like any other humanoid tac captain - wearing the practical "excursion" uniform with the high boots and the cargo pockets, and an antique phaser with brushed-steel casing on her right hip. But her face is unmistakeable. The sulky mouth, dark intent eyes and heavy brows would tell me her species, I think, even without the forehead ridges and the mane of dreadlocked hair. Quite definitely a Klingon.
She doesn't say a lot during the briefing. I think it's mostly out of her field - we're talking about the radiation spectra being emitted by our suddenly lively anomaly, about the approaches to take, the experiments to run. The Bolian, Commander Thala, turns out to have some useful ideas - he's a science officer with a background in subspace radio. Surella, though, spends most of her time looking at the star maps and, apparently, brooding.
"So," I say, towards the end, "we'll finalize the specs for the probes by 1700 hours tomorrow, and that'll give us four days to prep and test before we get to 4704. I think that's everything?"
It's at this point that Surella speaks up. "Amphicyon will deploy auxiliaries as a screening element as we approach. I understand the Madagascar carries four Arehbes-class frigates as support elements - it would be useful to know your plans for tactical coordination with my shuttles."
"Tactical coordination?" I look hard at her. "Are you expecting to fight?"
"Expecting, perhaps not. Preparing, yes. Always."
I frown. "I was planning to use the frigates to set up a medium-range monitoring perimeter. We can establish a detection grid, to pick up any more impinging radiation pulses. I hadn't worked out the exact details -"
Surella nods at me. "Tactically sound, sir. We should be forewarned as much as possible. Provided your auxiliaries stay in combat effective range, ready to support their mothership, that will work well -"
I'm baffled. "You really sound like you're expecting trouble, Captain."
"I am charged with your protection, Admiral. Besides -" She taps the star map. "The source of the radiation beam that stimulated the anomaly and disabled the USS Southmoor is here, yes? This pulsar. I have read Captain Leaman's report and Science Division's -" her lip curls "- interesting suggestions as to the cause of the phenomenon."
"Our working hypothesis," Sumal Jetuz says in mild tones, "is that the pulsar's radiation coincided with a transient subspace rift -"
"Redirecting the pulsar's synchrotron radiation through subspace, so that it crossed several light years in the blink of an eye, to strike Galactic Object 4704 and, incidentally, cripple the Southmoor," says Surella. "A very precisely targeted random radiation beam, and one which just happened to awaken the dormant anomaly, besides. How many instances have there been of subspace rifts like this? I can think of only one: the Hobus supernova. Which was not a natural phenomenon."
"It did look like one, boss," says Commander Thala.
"Did it?" Surella snorts. "No one at the time thought it could be intentional, so theoretical models were developed which showed how it might be natural. Now, we know those models were nothing but a nonsensical waste of time. I would prefer it if we did not waste time."
"Time spent gathering information is hardly wasted," I point out.
"No doubt. But, sir, I believe we should proceed on the basis that this phenomenon might have been caused deliberately. Information as to how it happened is necessary, of course. But we might also concern ourselves with questions such as why, and who."
Sumal smiles. "You're hypothesizing an actual enemy at work, sir? That does seem a little - well - paranoid."
Surella frowns at him. "One of us has an inappropriate level of paranoia, Commander. If it is me, the result will be that I will make extra, pointless work for myself, chasing shadows. If it is you, the result may well be that we all die. Pointless exertion is undesirable, I grant you. I submit that death is worse."
"Let's take a break," I say. "There's a hundred and one details to sort out on the science side, anyway, and this team's best suited to that. In the meantime, Captain Surella, let's take a walk."
---
There are plenty of places to walk. Tuterian ship design is bizarre, and they like echoing empty spaces. We wind up on a long walkway above the auxiliary warp coils. I stop, and lean on the railing, looking down at the humming circuitry far below. Surella stands silently beside me, her bearing rigidly correct.
"Are you serious about thinking the radiation beam was deliberate?" I ask her.
"I think we cannot discount that possibility," Surella replies.
"What's the reason behind it, though?" I ask.
"I do not know. That is why we should investigate and find out. Sir."
I turn to face her, leaning my back against the railing. "All right, Captain. Give me your tactical insight. What would you like to do?"
Her sulky mouth compresses, her lips turning to thin lines. Then she says, "My role in this affair is superfluous. You command a Sphere Builder dreadnought, sir, with a flotilla of powerful frigates as auxiliaries. My ship is a superannuated relic, inferior to yours in every respect. In a combat situation, I can picture no scenarios where my assistance could make any practical difference to the outcome."
And that must gall her, I realize. "So... you want to be useful?"
"I have a starship. So do you. Given my own choices, I would use both for separate tasks. You must investigate the anomaly, and you have the tools to do so - and to defend yourself against any conceivable threat. So I would like to take the Amphicyon to investigate the pulsar. To find any traces of the origin of the energy beam."
"To confirm your hypothesis about it being artificially generated," I say.
She nods. "I am not qualified to assess your theta radiation and anti-tachyon spectra," she says, "but if there is, or was, a generating mechanism, I am sure I can find traces. Perhaps enough to identify someone.... Once we know who, we may know why." She shakes her head. "Or I may be entirely wrong, and your officer may be right, and this is all some random freak of nature."
"You acknowledge the possibility, then?" I've seen my share of tac officers who were convinced they were right....
"Of course. But nothing would be lost if I were to make sure. Sir." She gestures with her right hand, a wave that takes in the huge ship around us. "It might give me a purpose. You do not need my ship to defend all this."
A Denuos-class dreadnought can take care of itself, certainly. But I think I want to... to probe, a little, here. "You genuinely want to make yourself useful, then?"
"I... would prefer that. Sir." There is a guarded look in those dark eyes.
I think. "I'm going to make you a counter offer, captain."
She stiffens. "You are my commanding officer, sir. You do not need to offer anything."
"Nonetheless. I want to know how we're going to work together, before I send you off to work somewhere else. Let's go to GO4704 and run the initial scans. If science division solves all the problems, well and good, we can all go home. If we still have questions that need answering... well, I'll feel a lot more confident about detaching your ship, if I know how you tackle things. Sound reasonable?"
Her lips twitch. "Again, sir, you are not obliged to be reasonable. But... yes."
"Good." I give her what I hope she sees as a reassuring smile. "I know it's not how they do things in the KDF. But Starfleet - well, it's different."
The guarded look comes back. "I have no personal experience of KDF procedures, sir. I am a Starfleet officer."
"Oh, right, I remember now. Your personnel file was very insistent about that." But it's... odd. I decide to bite the bullet. "So, how did a Klingon end up in Starfleet anyway?"
She seems to relax a trifle. Maybe she's been wondering when, or if, I'd ask. "My father Magar was an ambassador. He was sent to persuade a minor nation, the people of Linthor III, to join the Empire. The Federation also sent a mission, under the leadership of a Vulcan diplomat. During the negotiations, one of the Linthorian diplomats was killed, murdered. Circumstantial evidence pointed to my father as the culprit. The Vulcan, however, investigated the crime, and was able to identify the real criminal - one of the Linthorian's professional rivals - and to exonerate my father and redeem his honour. In gratitude, my father promised the Vulcan a life for a life." She pauses. "When I came of age, it was decided that my life would be the one to make good on my father's pledge."
"Your family - traded you to Starfleet? In payment for a debt of honour?" She seems to accept this so calmly. "Didn't you have any say? How did you feel about that?"
She raises one thick eyebrow in an almost Vulcan manner. "How did I feel about preserving the honour of my House? Not so conflicted as some think I should have been. Sir."
"But -" I can't think what to say. And something else is puzzling me, too - a minor detail, but still.... "This Vulcan diplomat. Did he have a name?"
"He did. We would honour it, if that were permitted, but he himself asked that it should not be made known." She shakes her head, just a little. "He worked long and hard to save my father from death and disgrace, even though it was not in his interests to do so. His action was highly honourable. But he asked that we should not disclose his name, and we have not, and will not. I am told his exact words were, 'You will have the good taste not to mention this to anyone, won't you?'"
I blink. That wording seems familiar, somehow - some ancient Earth text, a comedy of some sort. "Look," I say, "I know he was a Vulcan, but, even so... does it occur to you that he might have been joking?"
"Of course that might be the case, sir. Does it occur to you that that might not matter?" Her combadge bleeps at her; she frowns, and pulls out a tricorder from a cargo pocket. "My apologies, Admiral. A minor problem aboard the Amphicyon.... there are difficulties with inventory, in a ship of her vintage. I should return and resolve the problem. With your permission -?"
"Oh. Yes. Of course. Go ahead. You know the way back to the transporter room?"
"I believe I can find it." She comes stiffly to attention, and salutes. "Thank you, Admiral M'eioi."
I return the salute. She turns smoothly on her heel, and marches off, along the walkway, the sound of her boots echoing dimly from the distant walls.
I think working with Captain Surella is going to be... interesting.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
And competent. Definitely competent.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
I press the intercom button by the sealed door of the passenger suite. After a moment, the panel beeps at me, and Prematne's voice says, "Enter."
The door slides open, and I'm hit in the face by a medley of smells. Premaratne's hobby is cooking, mostly food from his native Sinhalese culture, and most of his personal luggage consisted of portable cookers, pans, utensils, and a copious supply of ingredients. He peers at me through the spice-scented steam over a bubbling pan, and his green eyes are unreadable as ever.
Premaratne is... not an attractive man. He is squat and heavy, wide-hipped, with a vast belly, stout legs, and gangling muscular arms. His heavy jawline and thick jowls make his head a truncated cone, with thinning black hair slicked down across his scalp. His dark skin is pitted by old acne scars. He moves towards me with a rolling, spread-legged gait, and there is a trace of a smile on his thick lips. In his quarters, he wears a lurid purple tie-dyed sarong. He gestures at the cooker and says, "Mee goreng. Would you like -?" His voice is deep and gravelly and somehow obsequious.
"Not now, thank you," I say.
"You are sure?" He points to something else on a plate. "Pol sambola. It would give you an appetite -"
"I just called to tell you we've come out of warp. We're currently in the approach pattern for the Rikilsa Array. Estimate docking in two hours."
"Ah." He smiles. But not with his eyes. One of them is brighter than the other, but they are both expressionless as chips of glass. "That is most satisfactory, Captain Quon. Two hours. Very good." He waddles back to his cooking. "There will be more delay before we can see the station administrator. Unavoidable. I will require secure communications to arrange that meeting." He seats himself at the room's small table. It's covered with the remains of his last meal. "You should accompany me to that meeting, I think. It will add weight to my request. To have a ship's captain in attendance, it will add gravity to my appearance, I think."
"I'd be glad to do that." Because, that way, I might get to find out a bit more about Premaratne and his mysterious errand. He's been talkative about Sinhalese cooking all through the journey, but depressingly reticent when it comes to what we've actually been hired for.
"Excellent. Thank you, Captain. Well, if you do not intend to partake -?"
I step back through the door. "I'll talk to you after we've docked."
"Satisfactory." And he turns his attention back to his food.
---
Beauregard slices through space in the brilliant light of a distant B-type star, weaving an intricate pathway that has my navigator not so quietly cursing at her station.
"I cannot understand the reason for all these course changes," Vekna says. She is tall, very dark, very Klingon. She doesn't like the approach pattern for the array.
"It's to avoid collision with any of the array elements," I say, calling up the docking procedure on the command repeater.
Vekna snorts. "I can see asteroids and I can dodge them, without all this bobbing and weaving."
"The asteroids are one thing. The wires between them are something else." Vekna shoots a brief, doubtful glance at me. "The Rikilsa Array uses a large number of distributed elements," I explain. "The sensor platforms on the asteroids are only part of it. There are graphene filaments, doped with exotic elements, strung between asteroids in a stable configuration. They're too fine to register on normal navigational sensors. So, we have to be constantly updated on which bits of the - lacework - we need to avoid at any given moment."
Vekna pulls a face. "Complicated."
"It works for them," I say. The Rikilsa Array has been probing the limits of the observable universe for some forty years, now, and its widely distributed antenna elements give it a very wide baseline to work from.
The central station is just about visible, now, an asterisk of metal hanging in deep space. The nearest asteroids are no more than dots, at this magnification. "Comms," I say.
Rissmo looks up. "Standard channels are open," she says. "Our passenger has finished tying up the secure bandwidth. Ready to contact the station any time you like."
"Now is as good a time as any. Let's say hello."
The screen goes blank for a moment, then displays a green Orion face. "Rikilsa Station. USS Beauregard, you are cleared for final approach...." Confusion shows as the details of my bridge, and my crew, register. "You're a Federation starship...?"
"We will be." I smile a lazy smile at him. "When they build these Ouroboros-class raiders, in the future, everyone will be part of one big happy Starfleet."
"That's one of the temporal anomaly ships?" Curiosity wins out over manners. "How'd a mercenary captain get hold of one of those?"
My smile gets broader. "I have connections."
"You'd have to." His voice turns brisk and businesslike. "OK, you are past the inner perimeter now. You have a clear run in to the station from here - you're assigned to docking bay 3-F, the beacon should be on your nav screen now."
I glance at Vekna; she nods. "Then we'll be with you in moments," I say to the traffic controller.
"Yes." He glances at something off to one side. "You're cleared for an appointment with Station Administrator Kharoz, too. Soon as you dock, in fact."
"We won't waste any time," I assure him.
----
Premaratne has changed, into a simple one-piece shipsuit in neutral grey. I stalk behind him as he waddles down the corridors. I am dressed in Klingon-style leathers, a knife at my waist, an Omega Force carbine slung across my back. Premaratne has no weapons showing at all, unless you count the waft of spices that accompanies him everywhere.
Administrator Kharoz is a glacially gorgeous Orion matron. Perhaps in order to have her station's scientific mission taken seriously, she is modestly dressed, for an Orion, in a gown of blue silk. Her office, too, is plain, dominated by a huge display on one wall, showing the intricate dance of the array's components around the station. She watches Premaratne as he takes a seat before her desk. I stand, behind him and to one side. Let her think I am a bodyguard or some such.
"I have received your proposition, Mr -" She frowns.
"I am Mr. B.T.P. Premaratne." His obsequious growl never varies. "I hope that the terms are satisfactory, Administrator Kharoz." He pronounces the Orion name perfectly.
Kharoz's perfect mouth contorts into an ugly shape. "I have serious doubts about this, Mr. Premaratne." No hesitation over the name, this time. "This is well outside the parameters of our normal operations."
"It is within the capacities of your establishment," Premaratne says. "We have made checks, and determined this is so. It is outside your normal mode of operations, true, but -" His bulky shoulders move in a shrug. "Yours is a commercial operation, yes?"
"And we would like to stay a commercial operation," Kharoz snaps back. "If anything were to go wrong with this - this - whatever it it, it could burn out the whole array! We can't stay in business if we have nothing to offer! Even if we did accept your proposal, we can't pre-empt the currently running research programmes we've already been paid for -"
"Compensation could be arranged," says Premaratne. "Money is no object. We can pay the fee suggested, and cover any penalty clauses in your existing contracts. My principals -"
"And that's one more thing that makes me suspicious," says Kharoz. "You're willing to spend anything, it seems. Pay for the array! Pay compensation to our other clients! Even if you have enough money to do all this -" She leans forwards, over the desk, her eyes fixed on Premaratne. "Why would you be willing to spend so much? What is worth this money, this small fortune, to you? What is so important, Mr. Premaratne?"
Premaratne's voice never changes. "I am not authorized to disclose these details, Administrator. My principals merely desire that certain events should take place. They have authorized me to act on their behalf, to ensure that these events do take place, with a minimum of inconvenience to all concerned."
Kharoz leans back. "There will be no inconvenience, Mr. Premaratne. Not to us, at any rate. Your proposal is not acceptable."
"I am authorized to offer additional payment -"
"No. Not at any price." Kharoz presses a button on her desk. "You are trying to drag me into something I don't understand, Mr. Premaratne. And I refuse to be dragged. Your proposal is not acceptable." Behind her, a wall panel slides open, and two burly Orion enforcers step out. "I believe that concludes our business."
Premaratne puts his hands on the armrests of the chair, and heaves his bulk out of it. "You have made your position very clear," he says. "I take it there is no objection if I return to my ship?"
"None at all. Good day, Mr. Premaratne."
Premaratne nods, slowly, sadly. "Come, Captain," he says to me. I follow him as he ambles out of the office.
In the corridor outside, he sighs heavily, and holds up his hand. "Wait here," he says to me, and turns back, towards the office door.
I feel myself tense up. "What are you going to do?" I hiss at him.
"I will make a final appeal to Director Kharoz's scientific curiosity. Wait here," he repeats, and goes back through the door. It shuts behind him.
I wait. From behind the door, I hear - nothing, at first. Orions don't care for casual eavesdroppers, their places of business tend to be heavily soundproofed. But, as I wait, I start to hear... vague sounds. Low, dull sounds, as of... impacts.
The door hisses open again. Premaratne comes through. I try to look past him, into the room, but he grabs my elbow and hustles me quickly away. "We must return to the ship," he says.
"What did you do?"
"Arranged for the minimization of an inconvenience." His grip on my elbow is very strong, his waddling gait deceptively fast. He raises his other hand a moment, and looks at his thick, blunt fingers. The skin over the knuckles appears to be broken. A clear fluid is oozing from the cuts, but there is no blood. "We must return to the ship and depart at once."
This does not sound good. "What have you done?" I demand.
"No talking. Not now." And, indeed, at the speed he's moving, I need my breath.
We reach a turbolift, head out to the docking bays. The Beauregard isn't a big ship, she fits quite comfortably inside bay 3-F. I'm hoping she won't be trapped in bay 3-F. The set of Premaratne's heavy jaw indicates he has no intention of answering any questions. The lift comes to a halt, and he hustles me out, through the double safety doors, into the bay, up the access ramp of the ship. My skin is crawling from anticipation.
We reach the bridge. "Immediate launch," I order. Premaratne doesn't contradict me.
"What about clearance?" Rissmo asks.
"No time." I glance at Premaratne, who nods. "Just get us the hell out of here, and quick."
Rissmo and Vekna both start punching their consoles. I slump into the command chair. Beneath me, the deck quivers as the thrusters spring to life.
"Go to alert status," I order. "Discreetly." I don't want station security any more warned than they are already. What the hell am I mixed up in, here, anyway?
"Traffic control is hailing," Rissmo reports.
"Ignore them. Go."
And Beauregard goes, blasting out of the docking bay on full impulse, proximity alarms squealing as she corkscrews around the station. Premaratne, completely unfazed, is entering something onto a datapad. My attention is on the tactical displays. Which are already showing hostile blips, Orion corvettes converging on our location.
"Vekna. Stand ready to dodge the array components -"
"That will probably not be a factor," says Premaratne. He hands me the datapad. "You should harden your ship's sensors against radiation on these wavebands."
I glance at the pad, and my eyes go wide. "That'll leave us three-quarters blind!" I protest.
"Nevertheless. Do it." His voice admits no argument.
I upload the data to the ship's computer, and try not to bite my lip in worry as the tac display shuts down. We're simply not getting enough information, through the sensor filters, to track those security ships. The only way we'll spot them, now, is when they start shooting at us -
And then the sky lights up. On the main viewer, sizzling lines of light criss-cross space, a dazzling cat's cradle of radiation. I blink. The actinic glare has scored after-images over my retinas.
"Sufficient, I think," says Premaratne. "Reconfigure the sensors for normal operation."
I key in the commands. "What did you do?"
"Eliminated an inconvenience." Is there a faint edge of satisfaction in the low growling voice. "The array has been used in the manner desired by my principals."
The tac display comes back. The Orion corvettes are wandering, randomly, their drives shut down. Whatever just happened, it burned out their sensors - would have burned out ours, if I hadn't taken Premaratne's orders. No chance of pursuit, now, until they make repairs. All we need to do is thread our way back out of the array itself.
Except we don't even need to do that. There is debris on the scanners. Not much, but enough to show what's happened. Carbon residue and traces of exotic elements.
I turn to Premaratne. "You burned out the array?"
"That was always a possibility," he replies with complete equanimity. "Compensation will be arranged. What matters is that my principals' requirements were met - without excessive inconvenience." His mismatched green eyes regard me closely. "The Orion business ventures behind this facility will now prove hostile to you, until they are fully recompensed. We will factor this into your own compensation, Captain Quon. Our mission here is concluded." The flat growling voice brooks no protest, no interruption. "We will now proceed to our next scheduled destination."
We are able to keep up, at least. The Madagascar is hurtling through space at maximum warp, but my fat and superannuated battleship can match her speed. I scowl a little. Yes, I can match the speed of a gigantic, cumbersome alien dreadnought....
"Those things are a weird shape," Glathaw Thala comments.
"It's like, um, maybe someone wanted to make a pen nib," says Kali Lillian, "and they didn't know whether they wanted a ballpoint or a fountain pen, so they compromised and went for both." She glances at me. "Um, antique human writing implements, sir."
"I have heard of the concept," I grunt. "How soon to Galactic Object 4704?"
"Nearly there, boss," says Thala in reassuring tones.
"Madagascar is slowing," says Som Bloxx. "Coming out of warp."
"Then we follow suit." On the viewscreen, flying streaks of light slow, shorten, become the steady diamond points of stars. In the centre, a strange multi-coloured glow marks the position of our anomaly. "Comms. Connect to Madagascar's scan network on scheduled frequencies. Science station, commence sensor sweeps." All according to Admiral M'eioi's requirements. Which I will meet. The Caitian seems more open-minded than many senior Starfleet officers; I will not disappoint her.
Madagascar is closing on the anomaly. Suddenly, there is a portly shape beside her, then another, and another - the Arehbes frigates, popping out of subspace folds as the mothership deploys them. I squint at my tiny tactical repeater. The frigates are moving smoothly into position.
"Deploy our own auxiliaries, boss?" asks Thala.
"No. They would only embarrass us." We reviewed the capabilities of my retrofitted F-class shuttles; they are combat-effective, but lack the specialist sensor suites that would enable them to be useful to M'eioi. Better to keep them in reserve. "Steer three six five mark four, one half impulse." I consider for a moment. "And raise shields."
Amphicyon turns away from the Madagascar. I study the glowing shape on the screen. Once, it was nothing more than blackness; now, it is a complex twisted torus, like the heart of some immense knot, outlined in lurid colours. "It is still active on a range of frequencies. Even now, days after the initial stimulus...."
"Signal from Madagascar, sir," says Som Bloxx.
"On screen."
A black-furred feline face appears. "Captain, you've raised shields. Have you detected anything harmful?" At least she does not waste time.
"A precaution only, sir," I say. "If there is another subspace rift, or an eruption of some kind from the anomaly itself, I would prefer not to be caught in the same position as the Southmoor."
M'eioi nods. "Reasonable. I'm not raising my own shields - they'd block frequencies I want to scan. But your ship doesn't have those sensors in any case, so -" Her mouth moves. After a fraction of a second, I realise it is a smile. "Stand ready to help us out, in case we go the same way as the Southmoor. M'eioi out." And the screen shows only the starfield, and the twisted glowing shape, once more.
"Telemetry feed checks out," Thala reports. "This thing is weird," he adds, with some feeling.
"I thought it always was?" I say.
"Well, yes, boss, but - this is a different kind of weird. It used to be a big black hunk of nothing, now it's... I don't know what it's doing. There are bursts of energy on a whole lot of wavebands, it's almost like some sort of signal, except there's nothing around for it to signal to. It's like it's... talking to itself." He bends down over the scanner, bringing his eyes close to the viewer. "This is going to fuel a few academic papers, depend on it."
"Thrilling," I mutter. "Scan for subspace rifts, also."
"Are you sure it's worth while, boss? There's no reason to think -"
"There was no reason to think the first rift would occur, either. Scan." Starfleet is too lenient with its officers, sometimes. A KDF exec who questioned a captain's orders - I indulge in a brief fantasy about what I could do to Thala, in such a case. Pointless. This ship does not even have an agony booth, though I am sure I could improvise something -
"What the hell?" Thala looks up from the scanner, his eyes round. "I don't know how you did that, boss, but we have a subspace disturbance all right. Range seven K, bearing three two mark seven five."
How did I do it? Sheer luck, I think. "Impulse engines stop. Take us on that heading, slow and careful, thrusters only. And inform the Madagascar." The star field begins to shift, slowly, as we come about onto the new heading. "Oh, and prepare a class II probe for launch."
"Yes, sir." Is that actual respect in my exec's tone? I shall relish it, while it lasts.
"Range diminishes even as we speak, noble captain," says Niquoeb. "What is your desired proximity to this aberrant phenomenon?"
"Go to station keeping at one thousand. Forward shields to maximum."
On the screen, the stars ripple, as though reflected in disturbed water. A wavering line of blue light shines out of nowhere - Cherenkov emissions, from the deceleration of super-lightspeed particles. The line points straight at the anomaly, which flares with sudden multi-coloured lightnings. Thala whistles through his teeth.
"Deploy probe. Target the rift."
A tunnel has opened through subspace, a tunnel vomiting exotic energies from some unknown location. The probe should be able to gather enough data to track those energies, find the origin point - and, if we can do that quickly enough, we may find the cause, this time. I cannot believe that this thing has a natural explanation.
"Probe away." Thala mops his brow. "That radiation beam is working up a whole new set of responses from the anomaly, sir. It's radiating more... signals... on a bunch of different frequencies. The first one woke it up, it looks like, and this one's - prodding it some more, I guess."
"Madagascar is hailing, sir," says Som Bloxx.
I switch the tac repeater to monitor the probe. "On screen."
M'eioi's face reappears. Her question is the same as Thala's: "How'd you know?"
"I did not, sir. I just thought it was something to watch for. Do you have any idea what this beam is - doing?"
"Besides stimulating the anomaly? No, not yet. We're getting some interesting data, though. You launched a probe -"
"Currently traversing the subspace rift. The radiation flux is on the high side, but not enough to overcome the probe's shielding - at least, not yet." I allow myself a satisfied smile as the data flashes up on the tac repeater. "I have the origin point. Sending coordinates along your data subchannel now... I will try to identify it from our stellar cartography files." I fiddle with the armrest controls, silently cursing the designers who did not equip the captain's chair with full-size command consoles. M'eioi looks at something outside my field of view. We both speak at the same time: "Rikilsa Alpha system."
"Jinx," says M'eioi with a feline smile. "That's nothing special, according to my astrophysics database. A standard B-type primary."
"But there is something there. An Orion commercial research facility. With a wide-area sensor array. And if you have a large antenna, you can send as well as receive -"
"You think that rift was deliberately generated?"
"Either something unprecedented has happened to a bright star, or someone has reconfigured a subspace sensor array. Which seems more likely, sir, in your scientific opinion?"
"Fair point," says M'eioi. "All right, what do you want to do?"
"We have the origin of the rift. It would make sense to investigate it." I am switching screens as I speak, calling up navigation data. "Amphicyon could reach the transwarp hub for this sector in four hours - two transitions would take us within range of Rikilsa, we could be there within a day. I am sure we have enough sensor capacity to investigate an Orion science station."
"I don't doubt it," says M'eioi. "All right, Captain. My auxiliaries and I will remain here, while you check out Rikilsa Alpha. Stay in touch. I'll await your results with interest."
"I will not disappoint you, sir."
"I'm sure you won't. That was quick work, Captain. Well done."
I feel obscurely pleased.
---
We crash out of subspace to find Rikilsa Alpha in a ferment. I sit back and study the data on the main screen.
"That is a lot of debris," I comment.
"Also a whole lot of Orion corvettes, boss," says Thala. "We're being hailed."
"On screen."
A female Orion face appears on the viewer, her lips compressed in an angry line, her eyes furious. "Federation vessel. State your business."
"This is Captain Surella aboard the USS Amphicyon. We were surveying an anomaly when it was targeted by a subspace rift originating in this star system. We are here to... find out how it happened, I suppose."
"Find out how it happened? I can tell you how it happened!"
I raise an eyebrow at her. "Please do."
She narrows her eyes, apparently having second thoughts about speaking. Then she takes a deep breath and says, "Someone came visiting, with a proposal for using the array to send a high-power subspace pulse. They spoke to Matron D'eriona, put this proposal to her, and she turned them down. So they killed her and her bodyguards, subverted the main computer, and sent their damn pulse anyway. It was way outside our safety margins! It blew out virtually the whole of our distributed antenna array!"
"I see." Except I do not see, not at all. "Who made this proposal? And why?"
"We don't know. The main computer memory was wiped. They slotted some sort of virus - our records are corrupted. We're reconstructing the sequence of events from witness statements and remote backups." Her glare intensifies. "We do know that they came here aboard a very highly advanced Federation ship. A temporal raider, the USS Beauregard."
I turn to Thala, snap, "Find it in our files."
"The array is wrecked," the Orion continues in furious tones, "and the Matron is dead. We want whoever did this, Captain. We want them badly. And we are not going to let the Federation get in our way."
"Got that file, boss," says Thala. "USS Beauregard, one of a number of future-tech spaceframes reclaimed in a classified incident. Says here it was requisitioned under diplomatic protocol by the Trill Symbiosis Commission, and assigned to one of their people in a private arrangement. Um, I don't think we're high enough up the Intelligence food chain to get all the details -"
"No matter." The Orion captain and I exchange glances. "Someone has friends in high places," I say. "I know I could never get myself assigned a temporal raider. And I doubt I have enough influence to make the Symbiosis Commission give up its data." I frown pensively. "Though perhaps my immediate CO might."
"We've got lines into the Trill organization," the Orion says. Of course she has. The Orions have eyes and ears everywhere.
"Perhaps we can cooperate," I say. "Can you send me data? Whatever you have on the Beauregard and its master. And whatever details you can give me on the subspace pulse. If we know what they did, we might be able to work out why they did it - and, perhaps, what they are likely to do next."
T'Shal watched the tall human stalk around the table until he reached his seat. The chairs were ornate, gilded wood and plush red velvet cushions; Vansittaert's chair had a slightly higher back than the others. The magnate himself was dressed in a plain grey suit, though. Everyone had chosen to wear neutral colours, T'Shal noticed - Vansittaert in grey, Shemosh in his simple white robe, herself and her assistant Tarul in black and white, the human Karabadian in a grey-checked suit and a white shirt - even his so-called assistant, Khokhlova, was wearing a tight-fitting black dress that reached nearly halfway to her knees. It was possible that everyone was reacting subconsciously against the overly decorative aspects of Vansittaert's holo-simulations.
"Let's begin, shall we?" Vansittaert smiled, and placed a PADD very precisely in front of him. "I think we'll find we've reached an exciting point in our researches. Perhaps we could begin with you, T'Shal?"
T'Shal raised one eyebrow. "My associate and I have satisfactorily arrived at proofs of our theorem concerning the triaxial hypothesis and resultant interactions with a Sokek object. I regard this as - gratifying - but I fail to see the reason for excitement."
"You're too modest, Professor," said Vansittaert. "You've successfully demonstrated that a Sokek object will respond to a psionic field. You've managed to set a cornerstone of our work in place." He beamed at her, the smile looking odd on his long face, as if his muscles were unused to that exercise.
"I would counsel caution in that interpretation of my results," said T'Shal. "The mathematics demonstrates that, according to the triaxial hypothesis, conditions in the virtual singularity of the Sokek object will react to the conditions of a superimposed psionic field. It would be overly optimistic to assume, from this, that the Sokek object could become... some sort of magical wishing device. No organic brain could conceivably generate a psi field of the required intensity, besides the obvious other practical difficulty."
"Ah," said Vansittaert, "but that's where Dr. Karabadian proves invaluable. Does it not?"
Karabadian's small eyes almost vanished when a smile crossed his fat face. "Very possibly so," he said, "very possibly. The potentialities are fascinating, truly fascinating. Are they not, my dear?" he added, turning towards Khokhlova.
"Indeed," she said, "fascinating."
"My dear Natalia is fascinated, as you can see," said Karabadian with a chuckle. "These hypothetical objects of Professor T'Shal's offer us a veritable cornucopia of possibilities."
"Properly speaking," said T'Shal, "the hypothetical object is not mine. It was first described mathematically by Academician Sokek, hence the name. His work -"
"Quite, quite," interrupted Karabadian. "Though that name, Sokek object, it is scarcely descriptive, no? The abandoned husk of a zero-mass black hole. An event horizon, with the mere shadow of a possibility of a singularity inside it - ah, but what we might do with such an entity! With no consuming force of gravity to suck information in, we can - in theory - encode whatever we wish on the event horizon. Writing in subspace waveforms on its cast-off skin! A veritably poetic concept."
"The practical point being," said Vansittaert, "that - according to the triaxial hypothesis - one could encode, for example, psi field amplifiers into the event horizon of the Sokek object."
"One could, one could. One could encode many things, were it not for the practical issue," said Karabadian.
"Ah, yes," said Vansittaert, "the practical issue. Shemosh?"
The Deltan's dark eyes gleamed as he looked up. He, too, had a PADD before him; he reached out and slid it towards T'Shal. "The preliminary results are very encouraging," he said. "We have experimental confirmation of a number of your preliminary hypotheses. I think we can now start to call it, definitively, the triaxial theory, rather than a mere hypothesis."
T'Shal brought her mental discipline to the forefront of her mind, caught and suppressed the emotional reaction. "The only way to obtain confirmation of my theoretical predictions," she said evenly, "would be to find and observe a Sokek object. Since these objects were believed to be entirely theoretical constructs, I am surprised that you have discovered one."
"We were... fortunate," said Shemosh with a faint smile. He pushed the PADD a little closer to T'Shal. She hesitated a moment, then picked it up.
"The Sokek object was believed to be entirely abstract," she said, as she read through the data scrolling across the PADD. "An exercise in theory only - assuming that a black hole did not undergo explosive disruption once Hawking radiation reduced its mass to a minimum limit, what properties might such an object have? A class of general solutions was proposed, of which the Sokek object was a member...." She stopped. She handed the PADD to Tarul.
"The Sokek object is compatible with the triaxial hypothesis of the interaction between spacetime, subspace, and psionic fields," said Shemosh. "This being the case, it has to have certain properties, which can be tested for in the list of anomalous objects known to galactic surveyors. We were fortunate enough to locate such an object."
"Indeed," said Vansittaert, "and our initial results look promising, most promising indeed. Congratulations, all of you." He rubbed his hands together.
"Initial results," said T'Shal. "This means that experimentation on the object has already commenced."
"Well, there was nothing to be gained from delay," said Vansittaert. "And look at what we've already achieved! An experimental confirmation of the triaxial hypothesis is a major step forward all by itself, don't you think, Professor T'Shal?"
"Assuming the results bear close inspection," said T'Shal. "I do not mean to cast aspersions on the competence of anyone involved, but proper peer review is necessary before any theories may be regarded as confirmed."
"Of course," said Shemosh. The faint smile never left the Deltan's mouth.
"But we can make progress, I think," said Vansittaert. "Let's forge ahead! By all means, let's follow the correct procedures, but -" the ill-fitting smile reappeared on his face "- I think we want to present our peers with something impressive to review."
#LegalizeAwoo
A normie goes "Oh, what's this?"
An otaku goes "UwU, what's this?"
A furry goes "OwO, what's this?"
A werewolf goes "Awoo, what's this?"
"It's nothing personal, I just don't feel like I've gotten to know a person until I've sniffed their crotch."
"We said 'no' to Mr. Curiosity. We're not home. Curiosity is not welcome, it is not to be invited in. Curiosity...is bad. It gets you in trouble, it gets you killed, and more importantly...it makes you poor!"
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
The device is taking shape. It is on the screen now, three hoops joined by struts to make a skeleton cylinder, one end capped by the bulky shape of a matter/antimatter reactor, the other.... The other end is interesting. I can see the lens-like object that is being carefully fitted into place, but I have no idea what sort of frequencies that lens might refract. This is high-energy subspace physics, and it is outside my experience - and Quon has a lot of experience.
"Acceptable." Premaratne has come up behind me; for such a big man, he moves very quietly. I turn towards him. He nods towards the screen. "There we are. On schedule."
"I wish you'd tell me what for," I say.
Premaratne gives me a loose-lipped smile which exposes his wide-spaced yellow teeth. "I regret that does not accord with my instructions," he says.
"We've spent days assembling this thing." The structural components were simple enough to replicate; even the antimatter reactor is a standard design. The lens, though, was brought to us by an anonymous freighter, and it has to be fitted very carefully indeed. "You can't expect me not to speculate, at least."
"Of course," says Premaratne. For a moment, it looks like he is winking at me, but it might just be a trick of the light, an illusion caused by those mis-matched eyes.
"The lens is high-density exotic metals, bonded in a very precise pattern. It'll refract along subspace frequencies.... It looks almost as if you're planning the same sort of thing you did with the Rikilsa Array. A subspace energy beam. But aimed at what?"
"I cannot comment on any supposition you can make," says Premaratne. Privately, I determine to review the sensor logs, both from this - operation - and the Rikilsa Array. If I can work out where this thing is pointed, at least, I might be able to work out what is going on.
Certainly, there are no clues to be gained around here, anyway. Beauregard is hanging in interstellar space; aside from the device itself, there is not so much as a planetoid within six parsecs of us. We are all alone in the blackness. So why does Premaratne - or, more likely, his employer - want this thing built here, rather than anywhere else?
"Final tests are in." Premaratne has a PADD in his hand. "The lens positioning is exact. Commend your work teams, Captain, on my behalf - they have performed most admirably."
I nod to Rissmo, who's on comms. "Teams prepare for retrieval," she says crisply. On the viewscreen, I can see little spacesuited figures detach themselves from the device. It dwarfs them. Fully assembled, it's longer than the Beauregard herself. Transporter glows stipple the lens with brief light, as the workers beam back aboard.
"Our schedule will be kept," says Premaratne. "This is most gratifying."
"Sir." Morak's voice, and there is urgency in it. "I have inbound sensor contacts."
"On screen. And go to yellow alert status." I stride to the command chair and sit down, opening up the tac displays as I do. Premaratne shoots a brief troubled look at me, then turns his attention back to his PADD.
Four bright points are showing at the extreme edge of sensor range. As I watch, the computer makes its identification. Orion ships. One Corsair-class, three smaller Dacoits. Flickers on the display show that they're already deploying auxiliaries.
"Raise shields. But hail them, as well. Let's see if we can get out of this without shooting."
"If there is violence," says Premaratne, "the integrity of the device must not be jeopardized. I insist on this, Captain, under the terms of our contract."
"Noted. Let's hope the Orions cooperate." I study the tac display more closely. That doesn't look like a peaceful deputation to me. That looks like an attack wing, closing fast, its fighter screen already deployed. Beauregard outclasses any ship in that group, of course, by a considerable margin - but numbers will tell.
"Hailing frequencies open," says Rissmo. "I have the Orion commander."
"On screen."
He is green, bald, handsome in a brutish sort of way. "Raider Beauregard," he says. "You've been identified as the party responsible for the attack on the Rikilsa Array -"
"If I may?" says Premaratne. "Offers of full compensation and indemnification for all losses have been lodged with the appropriate authorities. No one need be the loser from the unfortunate business at Rikilsa. Please, Commander, be reasonable. It is my duty to remove any inconveniences that I may come across in the course of my duties."
"Compensation," the Orion spits. "Not a chance, pirate. You don't smash our facilities and kill our people, and then just buy your way out of it. Stand down and prepare to be boarded. Or make a fight of it, if you like. I'd prefer that."
"You are being gravely unreasonable and causing much difficulty," says Premaratne. "I must ask you once again to reconsider your course of action."
The Orion commander just glares at him, and cuts the channel. "Red alert," I order.
"Highly inconvenient," mutters Premaratne.
"Ahead full impulse, steer one hundred mark three two seven," I order. It should take us clear of Premaratne's precious device - I hope. "They're Orions, not Ferengi," I say. "You can't just buy them off, not if there's pride or honour or revenge at stake."
"Most unreasonable of them." Premaratne's thick fingers are moving rapidly on the PADD's interface. "Try bringing them to relative vector seven three by six zero, if you can. It will be beneficial."
I look at the tac display, orienting myself. If I'm reading him right, Premaratne wants me to bring the Orions on a line just a little bit off from the axis of the device. Maybe he plans to use it as a weapon, maybe he just wants it out of the firing line.... well, I will cooperate, if I can. And if I can persuade the Orions to.
"First fighters are coming into range," Morak reports. "Standard marauding force shuttles."
"Secure stations within the ship, stand ready to repel boarders. And I want this."
Beauregard corkscrews in a tight turn, and defensive drones spill out of her modified cargo bay. The drones are fast, accurate, and pack a substantial punch with their antiproton weapons. The shuttles are moving fast, on evasive patterns, but they're only shuttles, and over-sized for shuttles at that, with their big troop-carrying holds. Antiproton fire slashes scarlet light across the sky; a shuttle dies, then another. The survivors spit acid-green disruptor light back at us. Not enough to make a difference; even the few shots that hit aren't enough to raise a glow from my shields.
But they're not the main problem. The Dacoits are closing in, bracketing us with textbook precision, preparing to harass us from the flanks while the Corsair bores straight in with its main guns -
"Break left, three hundred mark one six." I highlight the nearest Dacoit on the tac display. "Designating Target One. Lock weapons and fire."
And our beam arrays blaze with cyan light, and I permit myself a tight smile. The Orions have done their homework - they have hardened their ships' shields against antiproton weaponry. When I obtained this ship, she had a full set of futuristic antiproton weapons, highly advanced, highly effective, expensive to maintain and impossible to upgrade. I had them replaced by Coalition-grade disruptor beams as soon as I could. Now, the Dacoit's shields shatter in a riot of light as my beams drive through, to ravage the unprotected hull. Spitting wreckage, reaction mass and escaping air, the Dacoit spirals away, its drives crippled, its weapons useless. Out of the fight.
The others respond instantly, though. They have no time to reconfigure their shields, so they decide, instead, to go hard on the offensive. It makes sense - it doesn't matter what I'm armed with, if I'm dead. More fighters are shooting out of the Corsair's launch bays, too, and a sudden blossom of fire in the night announces the destruction of one of my defensive drones. Disruptor beams claw at my shields.
Premaratne is still studying his PADD. I check my position - nowhere near the point he asked for. "Steer three six mark two eight. Reinforce starboard shield. Pulse generator online."
The pulse generator is another addition to the ship, a piece of Sphere Builder technology that sends disruptive antiproton bursts in a cone ahead of my ship. The Orions aren't expecting it, and it's enough to take out the fighters, and send one of the Dacoits veering away with its weapons offline. A temporary respite.
Beauregard shudders. Very temporary, it seems. The Corsair is in range, hitting us hard with quantum torpedoes. The starboard shield is already back down below forty per cent, and there is the characteristic flash-bang of a transient overload on the secondary engineering console. I sneak a look at Premaratne. He has not reacted. Unusual - an explosion on the bridge usually startles civilians. So, perhaps he is not a civilian -
"Commencing operations," Premaratne says. "Do not cross the axis of the device." One blunt finger comes down on the PADD, with finality.
The viewscreen whites out. The tac display fills with static and gibberish - and the damage control readouts fall suddenly silent. I stare at the screen as the light fades and the stars come back.
"What was that?" asks Morak, with something like awe in his voice.
"Subspace rift," I say. My mouth is dry. "Like at Rikilsa, only...."
"Higher energy gradients," says Premaratne, "simply because the device was so much smaller than the Rikilsa Array. The - effect - was therefore concentrated in a smaller volume of space. Still. You are to be congratulated, Captain, for your precise positioning of your craft."
"Checking scans now," says Rissmo. "Nothing on sensors but vapour. Subspace disturbance - " She stops. Her face is ashen pale.
I swallow hard. "Was that an isolytic disruption weapon?"
"That would be very much illegal," says Premaratne, as if blowing four Orion warships to atoms was something perfectly legitimate. "No. There is a subspace disruption effect, as you have noticed, but it is not weaponized, it is merely... an incidental phenomenon. If we had not been attacked, I would have directed you to retire to a safe distance before engaging the device. As things stand -" He looks down at his PADD again. "We were somewhat fortunate, I think. We were positioned in an interference fringe, where the subspace waves cancelled each other out. Only a little closer, or a little further away, and -" He purses his lips. "There would have been difficulties."
"Difficulties." My voice is shaking.
"If the Orions are disposed to be unreasonable, and if they are determined to track your ship, Captain, then I must consider matters." He switches off the PADD and lumbers towards the turbolift. "My function is to remove inconveniences," he says, absently, as if talking to himself. "I must consider."
"We tracked the Beauregard's warp contrail to the site of another subspace disruption, and what seems to have been a violent skirmish." Surella's face, on the main screen, is grimly determined, though I have a sneaking suspicion it always looks like that. "The Trill captain, though, is trying very hard to cover her tracks - sensor jamming, false trails, and so on. We will catch up with them, eventually. Assuming the Orions do not manage it first. Obviously, what would help is some way of getting ahead of her -"
"I see." I smooth my whiskers, thinking. "We did get another radiation pulse, directed through a subspace rift at the anomaly. It fits, I suppose."
"You are the scientist, sir. If you can work out what these pulses are doing, you might also learn how many more there must be - and perhaps where they will come from. If we knew that, we could anticipate our quarry's movements."
"Yes, that makes sense." I think some more. "Each pulse seems to - awaken, I guess is the best word - a new range of radiation frequencies from the anomaly. There are gaps in the spectrum... that doesn't tell us a lot, because the incoming radiation doesn't match up with the output emissions. But the shape of the anomaly might tell us something - the next pulse might have to come from a specific direction...." Possibilities are starting to take shape inside my head. "Yes. I'll get the subspace physics teams to work on this - we might be able to rough out a set of incoming vectors."
"If I can reconcile that with the known flight path of the Beauregard to date," says Surella, "it could be a big help. Thank you, sir." She pauses. "I have a feeling that we need to get to them before an Orion task force does. The Orion Houses who had interests in the Rikilsa Array are... unhappy."
My tail twitches in annoyance. "Better to do something, then, or the Symbiosis Commission will be on our backs - not that they've been any actual help over this Captain Quon -"
"She is a joined Trill," says Surella. "The symbiotes make friends, over their centuries of life. They - network. Captain Quon can probably call in favours over half the quadrant. The problem is, with the Orions in their current mood, she may need to, soon."
"I don't doubt it. All right, Captain. Carry on the search. I'll work up the data we have, and transmit those possible vectors as soon as we've got them. Be aware, the list's going to be pretty provisional...."
"I will gladly take whatever you can give me, sir. Amphicyon out."
And her image disappears, replaced by the shining thing that is GO4704, now. "I'd love to know what that Trill is up to, myself," I remark.
"I have some background data," says Pearl. "It's not easy to come by - the Symbiosis Commission is very tight-lipped - but the Quon symbiote has something of a history as a scientist, itself. The current host, though, seems to be quite recent, and quite different - high ratings for physicality, reflexes, general health. An athlete."
"You didn't get that from official sources," I say.
"No, sir. I've been digging. I think the Quon symbiote's found itself in a young, superbly fit body, and that's... well, gone to its head. Or would, if symbiotes had heads. If you see what I mean, sir."
"Interesting idea. But it still doesn't tell us what she's up to. Can you get any publication history for the Quon symbiote? I'd like to get some idea how its mind works - how its half of the mind works, at least."
"Should be easy enough, sir." The android turns her attention back to her data console.
And I turn mine back to the main status display. We haven't been idle. A swarm of specialised probes is now orbiting GO4704, scanning every frequency, measuring and indexing and classifying - not a single thing can happen in several million cubic kilometres of space without it being recorded and analysed by us. Including any subspace rifts that form - we should, in theory, get enough advance warning to be able to evade any dangerous energy surges, although with a ship the size of the Madagascar, I'm not keen to find out the hard way -
My whiskers twitch again. "Is that something at max sensor range?" I ask.
"Checking now, sir," Sumal Jetuz says promptly from the main science console. He looks at a screen, and frowns. "Sensor contact - confirmed. Looks like... subspace bow shock from a warp field. Confirmed." He turns to me. "That's a ship, sir, coming out of warp on an approach vector for the anomaly."
"Identify them. And transmit a standard navigation-hazard warning." Sightseers? The last thing we want is a shipload of gawkers getting caught in a subspace rift....
"Sir." Marya Kothe is on the tac console. "I'm getting a standard Federation transponder code. Civilian science vessel, SS Andrew Carnegie. Registered to -" She looks surprised. "Private owner, Adrian Vansittaert."
"Vansittaert?" I frown. "I think I've heard that name, somewhere."
"I wouldn't be surprised, sir." Pearl is still working the data library, and of course she can multi-task faster than anything organic. "CEO, founder and owner of VCE Industries - Vansittaert Computing Equipment - one of the largest private concerns in the Federation. They've been very active, lately, helping rebuild the Federation data nets after the various - conflicts. Vansittaert himself is a computer and holographics expert, and a contributor to a number of Federation political groups."
"What sort of political groups?"
"Socially and technologically progressive, including some of the mainstream transhumanist parties. He's an honorary fellow of the Soong Foundation, among other things. I'm getting specs on his personal vessel now -"
"We can get a visual on it, for that matter," says Marya.
"On screen," I order. And then I whistle.
The Andrew Carnegie's forward section is an elliptical saucer, like that of a Galaxy-class, but about twice the size, if I'm reading the scale right. A massive deflector dish is suspended from a pylon below, a smaller secondary deflector is recessed into the leading edge of the saucer. A secondary hull extends behind the saucer, a long solid bloc that bulges out in the middle into what I realize, after a moment, is the complete hull of a Risian cruise liner. At the rear, the secondary hull bulges out again, into a blocky engineering section supporting eight warp nacelles on heavy-duty pylons. The whole thing is something like three kilometres long. "Some private vessel," I comment.
"It might be more than it seems, sir," says Pearl. "The exact specifications aren't publicly available, but Vansittaert has a CCPAW." I shoot her an inquiring look. "Critical Civilian Personnel Armaments Waiver. Introduced during the Klingon war, so people like him could have enough weapons on hand to fight off privateers - he's legally entitled to equip and use military-standard armament. That ship might have more firepower than the average Starfleet dreadnought."
"That's consistent with what I'm reading," says Marya. "No weapons showing active, but shields and deflectors... some way above advanced MACO standard. I don't think they've got much to worry about from subspace rifts, at least." She puts a hand to her earpiece. "We're being hailed."
"On screen."
The long, bony face that appears on the viewer is vaguely familiar, from news broadcasts or something like that - I don't follow the workings of the Federation's private sector, but I think Vansittaert might be big enough that it's impossible not to see his face from time to time. Now, a slightly uncomfortable smile is spreading over the lower part of that face. "Admiral M'eioi. This is Adrian Vansittaert, aboard the research vessel Andrew Carnegie, requesting your assistance with regard to the anomaly known as Galactic Object 4704."
"This is M'eioi, aboard the Madagascar. You're very well informed, sir."
Now he laughs, and that sounds uncomfortable, too. "I do like to know who I'm dealing with, Admiral. And I like to think I have a good working relationship with Science Division."
"Good enough, sir, for me to have to warn you that GO4704's behaviour is unpredictable and potentially dangerous. As Starfleet personnel, we're supposed to take the risks so that civilians like yourself are protected, sir."
"Oh, of course, I see your point, Admiral. But I think you'll find the Carnegie is equal to most situations. And I'm sure you'll see the advantages that our presence affords you. I have some of the most advanced scientific equipment in the Federation aboard this ship, not to mention a contingent of scientists who are just itching to meet you and compare notes. I gather your own background is in high-energy subspace physics?"
"Mostly. Though science officers are required to be generalists, in any case. Might I ask, sir, what brings you and your team to this particular anomaly?"
"That is a long and involved story, Admiral, and I'd appreciate the chance to tell it to you in person. If you and your senior staff would care to be my guests aboard the Carnegie, perhaps in, say, an hour? We can have a full and frank discussion, about what we already know, and all the things that I and my team can do for you." His mouth twitches, the uncomfortable smile growing broader. "You see, Admiral, we think we know what this anomaly is. And we think we can use it to bring a new golden age to the Federation, and to the galaxy as a whole."
Especially when two people 'independently' are having that kind of talk.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
"We have a sensor contact," says Thala. I grunt, and squint at the repeater screen.
"Not our quarry," I say.
"Well, no, boss, but it's kind of interesting." I swivel the seat round to face him. "It's on a line for one of the possible loci Admiral M'eioi's team mapped out -"
"Those possible loci cover half the quadrant," I mutter.
"- and the ID transponder lights up on the persons of interest list," Thala continues. "Captain Denver Serton, and the SS Arcturus Sunfire. Absolutely not a criminal, we can be quite certain of that - even though he's turned up on the sidelines of more crimes and misdemeanours than you could shake a stick at."
"Arcturus Sunfire. I have heard that name." I eye my exec pensively, while he sits at the science station, looking plump and blue and cheerful like every Bolian caricature I have ever seen. "So what are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking that the Beauregard is probably working on some sort of commission," says Thala. "And if I was the person doing the commissioning, and the Beauregard was getting too much attention - from angry Orions, say -"
"Then the Arcturus Sunfire might be a more discreet way to finish whatever job the Beauregard started," I finish for him.
"That's right, boss." He nods happily.
I swivel round again to face front. "Put that trace on the main screen." I will not waste any more time squinting at this wretched repeater. "Let me think...."
"We should, perhaps, intercept this intriguing rapscallion and bring him to book," says Niquoeb.
"He has committed no crime, as yet. And we would gain nothing by questioning him...." I consider the star chart on the screen. "People like this Serton do not prosper by letting information slip. But he cannot hide his current course." Thala is right - the projected line of the Arcturus Sunfire's course takes it straight into the heart of one of M'eioi's possible areas of interest. Of course, that "possible area" encompasses several cubic parsecs of space -
But if Serton continues on his current course - I smile. "Helm. Steer one one six by two seven four. Warp eight."
"That takes us way away from the Sunfire's course." Thala looks puzzled. Good.
"Signal the transwarp gate at sector 171 for a priority transit to -" I glance at the screen, considering "- Delta Anchises III. At warp eight, we should reach them just nicely in time." I settle back in the command chair. "Serton's ship has commercial registration. We can use Starfleet's transwarp gates."
"And get nicely ahead of him," says Thala. "Good thinking, boss." Approval. Well, it is better than condescension.
"This is a slim lead to follow," I remark to the bridge as a whole. "Serton may be engaged in some entirely different enterprise - possibly even a legitimate one. Or he may yet change course. But we have few enough possibilities.... Thank you, Mr. Thala, for bringing this to my attention."
"Glad to help, boss." Perhaps, eventually, I can reach a working relationship with Thala. It should take no more than a few decades.
---
Transwarp gates have revolutionized ordinary interstellar travel, I muse as the hollow hexagon expands on the screen. They are no help with exploration - since, after all, someone must go beyond the frontier by more conventional means and build one first - but the day-to-day business of trade and diplomacy, of travelling between already known locations, is faster now and safer than ever it was.
"Gate confirms our departure coordinates with commendable exactitude, noble captain. We are cleared to proceed at your command."
"Make it so," I snap.
The Amphicyon cruises smoothly into the open mouth of the gateway. Beacon lights flash, warning of the energies gathering inside the massive warp coils. The field grows in intensity, synchronizes with our own drive, flips us neatly through subspace across the intervening light years -
There is a crash that almost throws me out of the command chair, and the lights go out, then come back in emergency red. Amphicyon jolts and bucks, her structure groaning as shockwaves run through it.
"Red alert! Damage report!" I yell. The blare of the alarm adds to the din around me.
"Working on it," gasps Thala, as he holds on tight to the science console. "Surge in the EPS grid - contained - structural integrity at ninety-five per cent -"
"It's some kind of subspace shockwave," Kali Lillian adds. "The arrival gate's been - destabilized -"
The ship is steadying, the lighting returning to normal. "Get me long range scans," I snarl, and hit the comms panel on my armrest. "Medical. Casualty report."
"I think we're riding it out, boss," says Thala. He wipes his forehead. "SI field returning to normal. EPS is stable."
"Sickbay here," a voice says over the intercom. "We have seven injuries reported so far, all minor. Sprains and bruises, sir, from awkward falls, nothing more."
"Subspace shockwave," I say, as I lean back in the chair and try to relax a little. "That cannot be a coincidence. Plot the epicentre."
"You reckon we'll find the Beauregard at the middle of it, boss?" says Thala.
"Or the Arcturus Sunfire. Or both. Get me those scans."
"On it, boss. Want to cancel that red alert?"
"On no account. I want this ship at battle readiness." I shoot him my best forbidding glare.
"I've got subspace radiation and diffraction patterns," says Lillian. "Plotting.... Got it. Looks like it's about two parsecs out from the middle of Admiral M'eioi's possible locus, sir. There's a live warp core signature - hold on." She bends down over the scanner, her eyes intent, her fingers moving with micrometer precision on the controls. "Reading two emission patterns there - very close, almost merging -"
"Do we have warp drive?" I snap.
"At your discretion, noble captain!"
"Maximum warp to that location!"
On the viewer, stars turn into streaks as Amphicyon surges forwards. "Still analyzing," says Lillian. "Huh. Looks like there was quite a blast in subspace - consistent with previous subspace rifts, though there's a different radiation pattern - and, in among it, I've got what looks like Arcturus Sunfire again, and -" She frowns. "They've separated. Arcturus Sunfire has gone to warp."
"And the other?"
"Stationary. I can't confirm its warp signature, sir, until it actually goes into warp, but all the other readings are compatible with an Ouroboros-class temporal raider."
"And how many of those are there wandering around the quadrant?" adds Thala.
I am trying to replay the sequence of events in my head. "The Beauregard set off the subspace rift... then the Arcturus Sunfire warped in, closed to rendezvous briefly, then warped out again. Just time for a fast transfer of something - materials, data, personnel -"
"Should we switch to pursue the Arcturus Sunfire, sir?"
"No. Not yet. It might be better if that ship does not know we know about it. And, so far, they have not done anything illegal, that we know of. Whereas the Beauregard...."
"Intercept range in one minute," says Lillian. "I'm getting their subspace transponder now.... Confirmed. This is the Beauregard, all right."
"Excellent." I allow myself a smile. "If they go to warp, pursue them. Closely. If they do not, so much the better." There is a little bright dot on the repeater screen, with targeting reticles already slotting into place around it. "I want words with the captain of the Beauregard."
I dash out of my quarters as soon as I hear the alarm. It's still sounding as I reach the bridge and vault into the command chair. "Situation report."
"We're being hailed," says Rissmo. "Priority one heave-to and prepare to be boarded. Starfleet encoding."
"Starfleet?" In one way it makes sense - an Orion task force would announce itself with guns, not messages. In another way - what have I done to offend Starfleet? "Put them through. Audio only, let's not give them any more data than we have to." A thought strikes me. "Alert our passenger. He might have answers for them... ones we don't know about."
Rissmo touches a switch, and a harsh female voice sounds over the speakers. "Starship Beauregard. This is Captain Surella aboard the USS Amphicyon. Power down your drives and weapons, and prepare to be boarded."
"What's the problem, Amphicyon?" I ask. "We're a registered private vessel operating in neutral space. The Federation doesn't have jurisdiction -"
"I have questions." Surella, whoever she is, doesn't sound like she's much of a diplomat. Odd. Starfleet captains are supposed to be trained in that sort of thing. "Your vessel has been involved in several incidents that demand explanation. I am authorized to get that explanation, and I will have it."
"You want to talk to our client, I think." I shoot a questioning glance at Rissmo, who responds with a helpless shrug. I fire up the tactical console, trace out the course I want, send it to Morak at the helm console. "Uh, he'll be here presently. We're just trying to locate him now -"
"I repeat, power down your drives and weapons, and prepare to be boarded. I am sure my security teams can locate your client."
"I need to get instructions. Stand by." I close the channel, and turn to Rissmo. "Where the hell is Premaratne, anyway?"
"He's not responding." Rissmo runs her hand through her hair. "Computer says he's not even aboard the ship."
"What?" Did he get out and walk? I don't know what's going on, and I don't like that feeling. "What do we have on the Starfleet ship?" I demand.
"USS Amphicyon," says Morak. "It could be worse news. Atlas-class battleship. Big and powerful, yes, but obsolete. Slow, clumsy."
"We're none of those things." I look over the evasion course again. "Come about on thrusters only, then we'll go to full impulse and cut right under her secondary hull. And then we run. I do not want trouble with Starfleet on top of everything else." Morak bridles at first - running away offends his Klingon propriety - but then, reluctantly, nods assent.
"They're hailing again," says Rissmo.
"Ignore it. Let's go." Morak's hand comes down on the helm control -
The jolt nearly throws me out of my chair. Alarms warble, and sparks shoot from a conduit at the rear of the bridge. "They've locked on a tractor beam," Morak gasps.
"What the hell -?" That is not standard Starfleet doctrine for dealing with a suspicious neutral. Either they already think we're hostile, or this Captain Surella is very aggressive and very quick to react. Either case is bad for us. "Barrel roll! Break that tractor hold!"
Beauregard's hull groans as she spins in the gripping glare of the tractor, and the structural integrity readout drops alarmingly. "We can't get to full impulse while they're -" Morak begins.
"I know. Damn it." I thump my fist on the armrest. "No choice. Come about, get behind them, target their engines only. Cripple them, then get away."
If we can. Amphicyon is moving, coming about as fast as that ungainly antique can manage, bringing her energy weapons broadside to bear on us. But Beauregard is faster than any obsolete battleship. Disruptor beams spear out from our forward arrays, stabbing at the Amphicyon's shields -
The Starfleet ship is haloed in a pulsating glare, but the shields hold. Amphicyon is armoured and shielded to somewhere way above the Aegis standard used for line-of-battle ships. So, of course, are we - but it doesn't help, as the battleship returns fire and the screen fills with blazing orange light.
Beauregard's shields shatter. I hang on to the command chair as the ship rocks and shudders, the lights go out, the gravity wavers sickeningly, the bridge is filled with sparks and flames from exploding consoles. It takes only seconds, but it seems to last forever.
The ship steadies. I cough as the smoke tears at my throat, try to work out my situation from the half-wrecked tactical board. Amphicyon was returning the favour, it seems, targeting our engines. It has worked - the starboard nacelle is down, it will take hours to fix it. Shields are offline, weapon power is drained, structural integrity is down to seven per cent.
"Signal her," I tell Rissmo. "Tell her we surrender."
Rissmo already had the channel open. "Very wise," Surella's voice says. "I will beam over with my command staff and boarding parties. Do not attempt further resistance."
---
Starfleet is not a military organization. It inherits a command structure and a certain amount of culture from the old United Earth military of the same name, but it's primarily concerned with exploration and diplomacy. Armed force is a last resort. Starfleet talks first, shoots later if it shoots at all.
So they tell me. Nobody seems to have told the hard-eyed Klingon woman who comes striding onto my bridge, an antique phaser on one hip and a mek'leth on the other. A Klingon in command of a Starfleet ship. Well, it explains a lot.
"Uh, hi." I try to project uncertainty, nervousness, harmlessness. "I'm, uh, Carayl -"
"Captain Quon." Surella's eyes narrow at me. "If you want to pretend to be a normal Trill, you should wear less revealing clothing. Your bared midriff may be fashionable, but it also clearly shows the implant scar for your symbiote. Besides, I know who you are." She gestures with one hand, the other resting on her phaser. Behind her, her team fans out across the bridge. A slender human female, two Bolians, a squat purple creature with bow legs and long anthropoid arms. All of them are armed, and look depressingly competent.
I straighten up, stand tall to face her. "If you know who I am," I say, "you know I've got friends."
"Oh, yes," says Surella in a bored tone, "your connections through the Symbiosis Commission. I think you will find that a lot of those have come unplugged. They will not be anxious to assist a failed pirate."
"Failed?" I can't keep the indignation from my voice.
"You have been caught," Surella points out. Her combadge chirps at her. "Surella," she says, slapping it.
"Sir," a voice says. "We have a perimeter alert. Orion task group on an intercept course. They're hailing us."
"Patch it through to me here. On screen." Surella sniffs. "If the screen still works."
The screen still works: a green-skinned, cold-eyed, imperiously beautiful face appears on it. "This is Matron Chirielle of the House of Anaat. I am here to deal with the persons responsible for the destruction of the Rikilsa Array."
"Surella, daughter of Magar, of the House of Tragh, officer commanding USS Amphicyon," Surella answers back. "I have taken Captain Quon and her vessel into Starfleet custody. If she has committed offences against Orion interests, apply for her extradition through legal channels."
The Matron's cold eyes flash. "What jurisdiction has the Federation in this matter?"
"Captain Quon is in Starfleet custody. As I have said."
Chirielle frowns. "Check your sensors, Captain. You will find you are outnumbered and outgunned."
"Merely outnumbered." Surella bares her teeth in something no one could mistake for a smile. "And that could change, very quickly. Go through the proper channels, Matron Chirielle. I have no desire to make Sto'vo'kor overcrowded, not today."
Chirielle's luscious lips purse into an ugly shape. "Very well, Captain. I suppose conflict with Starfleet is to be avoided. I will pursue the proper channels." And the screen goes blank.
"I'm not sure she can," I say. "I think Premaratne paid them off, somehow."
Surella turns to me. "Premaratne?"
"My - client."
"Ah. Yes. You wanted to consult with them. Did they have anything of interest to say?" Without waiting for an answer, she strides over to where the human woman and one of the Bolians are working on my computer console. "Do you have any results?" she asks.
The Bolian, a pudgy male, wipes his forehead. "Yeah, and they're kind of interesting, boss. According to the log, there's no passengers listed."
"What?" I can't help myself - I yell at them.
"But, also according to the logs," the Bolian continues with a smile, "no other ship's been within a parsec of the Beauregard before us."
"Ah, I see." This time, the expression on Surella's mouth is a smile, and not one I'm happy to see. "The passenger, this - Premaratne? - filleted the ship's log, blinded the sensors, and departed on the Arcturus Sunfire during its brief rendezvous."
"He did what?" I demand.
"Leaving Captain Quon none the wiser," Surella adds. I really, really do not like the way she is smiling.
"Fits the working hypothesis, boss," says the Bolian. "The Beauregard was too hot to be used after the Rikilsa business, so her client skipped out to another ship."
"He did what?" I repeat.
"Your client abandoned you," says Surella, "to the tender mercies of the Orions. And did so without you even noticing they had left. Perhaps you should consider a different line of work."
"Perhaps you should consider -" I bite back what I was going to say. I take a deep breath. "All right. Premaratne ducked out and left me neck-deep in - well. All right. This is where I tell you everything I know about Premaratne -" I stop.
"Let me guess," says Surella. "You can describe your client's physical appearance, you can give me some notes about their personal habits aboard ship, but all the actual details of your contract with this Premaratne were stored in here." She lays her hand on the computer. "And now all that is gone."
"Maybe not everything, boss," says the Bolian.
"Explain," says Surella.
"Main logs, sensor records and so on, they're all neatly edited. But the medical logs are on a partitioned section. I think I can get some details from the ship's sickbay log."
"Ahh," says Surella. "Properly speaking, of course, medical records are personal and private, and should not be examined by unauthorized persons."
"Properly speaking, boss, yes." The Bolian is smiling.
"Very well. I am giving you a direct order, Mr. Thala. Tell me everything. There is your authorization."
"On it, boss."
"I don't think that'll stand up in court," I mutter.
"Neither will you," says Surella shortly. "Is there anything worth looking at?" she demands of Thala.
"Checking now, boss. Huh. There's someone here who doesn't match the current complement, that's for sure. Human male, age forty-six, height one metre sixty-two, weight three hundred and eighty kilos."
"What?" They both look at me. "That can't be right. Yes, he was fat, but not that fat."
"Let me check some more." He frowns over the data scrolling up the screen. Surella says nothing. She can wait in patience when she has to, it seems.
"This is interesting...." Thala's voice trails off. His fingers move swiftly on the interface, checking and cross-referencing. After several minutes, he raises his head.
"OK, it's not much, boss, but it's suggestive. The guy requested some very specific things from sickbay, and I think I've seen them before. They fit a pattern."
"Suggesting what?" asks Surella.
"Supplements for various minerals and compounds for blood cell development, consistent with substantial bone marrow loss. Like you'd need if you had a good chunk of your skeleton replaced with heavy synthetics. Which would account for that weight."
"It would immobilize him, surely," says Surella. "Unless -"
"Implanted servo augmentation. Gotta be," says Thala. "And he requested a couple of other things - one I know, it's a synthetic lubricant for a cybernetic eye implant. The other came along with a light protoplaser treatment, just enough to fix a scratch - it's a solvent for ballistic polycyclene gel." Surella raises a shaggy eyebrow at him. "I think he's got impact gel protection, probably on his hands. So he can punch, hard, without taking damage himself, except maybe a scratch or two."
I remember how one of Premaratne's eyes was brighter than the other. I remember, too, clear fluid leaking from the broken skin on his knuckles.
"Your client," says Surella, "would seem to be a heavily enhanced combat cyborg. Interesting. No doubt you would have spotted it, eventually." I really do not like that smile at all.
"I think," I say, slowly and heavily, "I'd better tell you everything I know."
"Will we need to sit down?" asks Surella.
I think I actively loathe that smile.
Quon definitely didn't realize how deep she was in.
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There was a circular table, made of wood polished to an impeccable sheen, and easily ten metres across. High-backed chairs stood evenly spaced around it. Vansittaert was in his seat, the one with gilded flowers on the armrests, a faint and unconvincing smile on his long face. Behind him, his three holographic flunkies stood in a row, each one dressed in a heraldic tabard.
T'Shal and Tarul had dressed simply, again. Shemosh was there, in white, and Karabadian was in black and white formal attire, though this time Khoklova had chosen a scarlet cocktail dress. The two new faces, of course, were dressed in black. Starfleet uniform black.
The Caitian, M'eioi, was slender and black-furred, the plainness of her uniform broken only by the metallic gold of her insignia, and the blue stripe of Science Division. She was accompanied by what looked, at first, to be a human female - but a second glance showed metallic eyes in her too-flawless face. A Starfleet android. Engineering Division, to judge by the insignia. Both of them had PADDs in their hands. M'eioi's grass-green eyes were darting in all directions, taking everything in.
"Admiral M'eioi," said Vansittaert. "I'm delighted you could join us. Let me present my chief academic staff for the Deep Gate project. Professor T'Shal of Shi'Latara University -" T'Shal nodded politely at M'eioi, received an equally polite nod in return.
"- and her principal assistant Dr. Tarul, Academician Shemosh of the Deltan Science Institute -" Shemosh smiled and raised a hand in a vague salute.
"- and Professor Emeritus Anatoly Iulianovich Karabadian, of the University of Spitak, and his assistant Miss Khokhlova."
"Delighted to make your acquaintance, Admiral," said Karabadian.
"Likewise, I'm sure," said M'eioi. "I didn't catch your, ah, assistant's area of expertise -?"
"Oh, my dear Natalia is not concerned with academic qualifications," said Karabadian. "She is a descendant, you know, of the great Khokhlova, Olga of that name, she who served as inspiration for the genius Picasso - and, like her ancestress, Natalia is an inspiration. A muse."
"I don't doubt it," said M'eioi. "Well, I'm Admiral M'eioi of Starfleet Science Division, as I'm sure you all know, and this is my assistant, Commander Pearl. And these three, err, gentlemen -?" She pointed towards Vansittaert's holograms.
"Mr. Abercrombie, Mr. Boucher and Mr. Calvert are holographic constructs," said Vansittaert. "They help me in holodeck meetings like this one."
"We function as amanuenses, from time to time," said Abercrombie.
"As representatives, deputies, advisors or general factotums," said Boucher.
"We perform a wide variety of ancillary functions," said Calvert.
"Very useful, no doubt," said M'eioi. Her gaze dropped briefly to the PADD, then turned towards Vansittaert. "You've assembled an interesting inter-disciplinary team here, Mr. Vansittaert."
"Necessary," said Vansittaert, "for our investigation of the Sokek object."
"Yes," said M'eioi, slowly and doubtfully. She looked down at the PADD in her black paw. "Sokek objects are entirely hypothetical... or so we thought. You really have proof that GO4704 is a Sokek object?"
"My experts are very good," said Vansittaert.
"Good enough to activate GO4704?" asked M'eioi. T'Shal stared at her in open puzzlement.
"I'm not sure I understand you, Admiral," said Vansittaert.
"The anomaly has been stimulated," said M'eioi. "By radiation beams targeted through subspace rifts. We've linked this to a specific ship, a privateer with Imperial registration, that's been moving between the origin points of the rifts. One rift resulted in the destruction of an Orion science facility, so, as you can imagine, Starfleet is taking this situation very seriously. As are the Orions, of course."
Vansittaert shifted in his chair, and his lips twitched and formed themselves into an uncomfortable smile. "Again, Admiral, with respect, I'd ask you to elucidate."
"Someone's stimulating the anomaly," said M'eioi. "And now you've turned up, with a team for studying this anomaly and a plan for using it. I don't think anyone can be blamed for -"
"Ah, I understand," Vansittaert interrupted. "You think the two events are connected. Well, of course they are. We have seen the activation of the Sokek object, and that data's confirmed our final hypotheses about it. We're here to see the next phase in action. The stimulation, as you put it, told us we had to be here."
"So who is stimulating the anomaly?" asked M'eioi. "Do you know? We'll have the ship, this Beauregard, in custody soon enough - but I'm wondering if I can get the answer quicker by asking you. Sir."
"If I may." All heads turned towards Shemosh, as the Deltan spoke for the first time. "It is, in fact, possible - likely, even - that the anomaly is not being stimulated, as you put it, Admiral."
"That's... not consistent with our observations, sir," said M'eioi.
"Nonetheless," said Shemosh with a faint smile, "I believe it to be the case. I draw your attention to the technical appendix, section 5-C, Admiral."
M'eioi frowned as she looked up the reference. T'Shal consulted her own PADD, resisted the impulse to quirk an eyebrow. "Antichroniton radiation?" M'eioi asked doubtfully.
"Faint, but undeniably present," said Shemosh. "We always think in terms of cause preceding effect, but the presence of an anti-time field should serve to modify our views."
"Of course!" said Vansittaert. "The fully active object is influencing time in reverse! It's creating the conditions for its own existence!"
"What about the Orion facility?" asked M'eioi. "Or the Beauregard?"
"The anti-time subspace rift might have an innate tropism towards any mechanism that can create it," murmured Shemosh. "Like lightning striking a high point... the Orions may simply have created a lightning rod. As for the Beauregard - who knows? Perhaps it is a simple investigator, like ourselves."
"That is entirely possible." Abercrombie spoke up.
"We have conducted database searches," Boucher added. "The Beauregard's captain, Carayl Quon, is a joined Trill whose symbiote has a substantial academic track record in the pure sciences."
"It is entirely consistent that such a being should be intrigued by an unusual phenomenon and wish to investigate it," said Calvert.
M'eioi's whiskers twitched. T'Shal thought she was on the verge of saying something, then seemed to decide against it.
"Perhaps we should attempt to recruit this Quon, then," said Vansittaert cheerfully. "She might have something to contribute to our enterprise."
"I'm still not clear, sir, what your enterprise actually is," said M'eioi. "You're not here just to study the object - you have some other end in view, as far as I can gather. What is it?"
"Ah, yes." Vansittaert leaned forwards, put his elbows on the conference table, and steepled his hands. His face was very grave. "We plan to open the Deep Gate, Admiral."
"That sounds... very impressive, sir. But what does it actually mean?"
"Professor T'Shal has provided us with a sound theoretical basis. Academician Shemosh has identified an actual site where we can test our theories. And Professor Karabadian is furnishing us with the tools we need. The Sokek object is a singularity within a zero-mass black hole, Admiral. As such, it is... accessible... in ways which are not available for an ordinary singularity. We plan to open the gate. To unlock the interior of the singularity, and bring out the cornucopia of wealth within."
"In theory, just about anything can be pulled out of a singularity," said M'eioi. "We know this. In practice, you'd need to wait several times longer than the lifespan of the universe before anything more complex than random radiation emerged from it, by chance alone. The Roms can manipulate low-mass singularities up to a point - throttling down the rate of Hawking evaporation, so they can use the singularity as a reliable power source - but I think it's pushing things, to call that a cornucopia of wealth."
"Quite so, Admiral, quite so." The uneasy smile reappeared on Vansittaert's face. "If it were a matter of random chance, yes. But Professor Karabadian's work on psionic interfaces will allow us to bypass random chance. We can synchronize the event horizon of the extinct black hole with the psi frequencies of a sentient mind. When that mind conceives of something... the singularity will respond."
T'Shal cleared her throat. "I would advise caution with regard to these hypotheses," she began.
"Ah, yes," said Vansittaert. "Professor T'Shal is always sensibly cautious, when it comes to our flights of fancy. Her viewpoint is a valuable one. But I have no doubt that we will overcome our difficulties. Think about it, Admiral. A truly post-scarcity economy. One in which your every need can be met with a mere thought. This ship -" He waved one long hand in an expansive gesture. "It's impressive, is it not? A mobile science station with every conceivable amenity, every imaginable facility. I imagine you would find a vessel like this very useful, Admiral. It took years to design, cost billions to build. You could have one like it, for no more than a wish."
M'eioi closed her eyes, then opened them again, slowly. "That seems... worrying, in some ways. Who would control this thing?"
"Oh, Admiral." Vansittaert's smile was indulgent, patronizing. "Why would anyone need to control it? The singularity can make duplicates of itself - or, since it can operate at any distance, a simple control unit can be developed, and distributed to everyone. Without exception. A total and permanent end to any form of want or scarcity."
M'eioi made no response. Silence fell around the conference table, lasted long enough to become uncomfortable.
It was broken by the Starfleet android, who up to then had been sitting, silent and still as a statue, by M'eioi's side. "Sir. Signal from the Amphicyon. Captain Surella has intercepted the Beauregard and has Captain Quon in custody."
M'eioi's ears and whiskers twitched. "I'd better deal with that," she said. "Thank you for your time, Mr. Vansittaert. And your data." She held up the PADD in her hand. "I'll study this very carefully, and, well, we'll talk again."
"Gladly, Admiral." There was actually a twinkle in Vansittaert's eye. "Gladly."
It leads to mediocre Dustin Hoffman movies, among other things.
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Surella seems marginally more cheerful - I suppose it's proving herself in battle that does it, although the capture of the Beauregard doesn't sound like much of a battle. But all it's left us with, really, is more questions. About the interesting Mr. Premaratne, and his next moves.
"Patrol squadrons in the area have been alerted to look out for the Arcturus Sunfire," Surella continues. From the image on the viewscreen, it looks like she's on the bridge of the Beauregard... I don't think Starfleet regs will let her claim it as a prize, though. "We have downloaded all surviving records from the Beauregard's logs... I am inclined, frankly, to let Captain Quon and the rest of her band of inept pirates go, at this point."
"Oh?" I look at her quizzically.
"Dupes of this Premaratne, nothing more. And I have already had polite inquiries from the Symbiosis Commission." Surella pulls a face. "These joined Trills have a formidable network, and if we hold on to Quon, we will gain additional trouble and inconvenience, and nothing more. I intend to tow her to Starbase 114 and then release her and her crew."
"Tow her? Is her ship too damaged?"
"I am sure it can be repaired, eventually," says Surella, and shrugs. "I am equally sure that it is not our problem. Captain Quon has played with fire, and been duly burned. Her friends amongst the symbiotes can attend to her problems."
"I suppose that's sensible. I'd rather not have the Symbiosis Commission too mad at us. Not when we have to dig into the background of a multi-billionaire as well."
"Yes, sir. I concur. Mr. Vansittaert's arrival is entirely too opportune. If we can take Premaratne and establish a link between them -"
"We'd be in a position to accuse a billionaire philanthropist of attacking Orion research and commercial interests. I'm not sure that's a comfortable position either, but - well, we need to know." I sigh. "You've got our list of possible locations, see if you can track Arcturus Sunfire and Premaratne at one of them."
"I will try, sir. But, of course, we went to the most probable choice first -"
"I understand. We have more data now, partly from Vansittaert - I'll see if we can narrow the search area down a bit. Even so, I know it's a big job. Still. Carry on, Captain Surella."
"Yes, sir. Amphicyon out."
The screen goes blank. I sigh, and scratch behind my ear with my claw. Things are - not right. There is a pulsing pressure behind my eyes, like the premonition of a thunderstorm, or a headache. I can't shake a feeling that something is wrong, somewhere.
I stand up, pick up a PADD, and make my way out of the ready room and down the corridor to Conference Room One. We've partitioned some of the empty space on the Madagascar, creating something a bit more like a standard Starfleet interior. Marya Kothe, Sumal Jetuz and Pearl are waiting for me when I walk in. Around them, holo-displays and screens glow with the data and the documents provided by Vansittaert.
"All right," I say, without preamble, "is any of this making any sense to anyone?"
"Arguably," says Sumal. "The data seems to be consistent with, ah, Professor Karabadian's triaxial hypothesis."
"Uh-huh." The triaxial hypothesis is a new one on me. Essentially, it proposes that there is no unified theory that will encompass classical quantum gravity, subspace, and the highly unpredictable psionic field. "Karabadian - have you looked into his credentials, then?"
"The University of Spitak is mostly an online creation," says Sumal. "There is an educational establishment at that location - the place was tectonically stabilized in the twenty-second century - but it is little more than an accommodation address. The University itself holds third-class accreditation in psionic studies from the Vulcan Science Academy."
The VSA dishes out provisional third-class accreditation to any institution making a genuine attempt to study psionics, on the grounds that even crackpots can turn up useful data sometimes. "OK," I say, "so Karabadian is, at best, an enthusiastic amateur.... What interests me is that T'Shal is taking the triaxial hypothesis stuff seriously. I've read some of her papers on subspace field integration, and she, at least, is a genuine scientist."
"This would suggest that Karabadian might be on the right track," says Pearl.
"Or that Vansittaert thinks he is, and T'Shal doesn't want to contradict him," I mutter. "This is the problem with billionaires like him... eventually, they surround themselves with people who won't say no to them. Like those creepy holographic yes-men. When someone disagrees with them, they can just fire them and get someone who won't... even if they're honest, people still feel too nervous to contradict them. So they get to believing all their ideas are good ones, that they can do anything.... Sometimes they decide to do the darnedest things, and it's not easy to stop them. What was the name of that corrupt incompetent plutocrat who took over North America one time?"
"Uh, which one, sir?" asks Marya.
"I guess it's not important." I sigh. "The thing is, Vansittaert's science can't be trusted. It's skewed towards getting the results he wants. Not to mention his view of the consequences.... Ordinary replicators are bad enough, sometimes, never mind Vansittaert's magic wishing machines. Remember the Talsevia incident?"
"I don't believe I do, sir," says Pearl.
"Oh. Yes, you wouldn't have had to sit through all the rudimentary 'Introduction to the Prime Directive' stuff at the Academy.... There was a war brewing between Talsevia III and the Strator system, back in the twenty-two-hundreds. The Stratorians had a rigid militaristic totalitarian state, but the Talsevians had replicator technology."
"So the Talsevians managed to produce more weapons?" Pearl asks.
"Hardly. They just sent in a squadron on a low-atmospheric pass, randomly transported twenty thousand self-contained replicator units to the surface of Strator, and sat back and waited for the Stratorian culture to implode. It's the reason Talsevia isn't part of the Federation, even today. Can't trust a culture that'll do something like that." I shake my head. "And Vansittaert's machine would probably do something like that to the Federation. Get anything you want, just by wanting it? Can you imagine how many different ways that might go wrong?"
"I'd rather not, sir," says Pearl. "Though it all seems predicated on Vansittaert's team's work being right, and -" She shakes her head, in a very human gesture. "I'm not trained or programmed for this sort of science, sir. I can't make any consistent sense out of these data sets."
The pressure behind my eyes seems worse, now. "I know. There's a whole lot of extrapolation, mostly from Shemosh, about how a Sokek object will behave under Karabadian's sets of stimuli. And I haven't been able to make any sense of it, either."
"I'm not sure Vansittaert and his team have all the data they need, anyway," says Marya. She touches a console, and an image of the Andrew Carnegie forms in the air. "That ship's been modified. Specifically, this mission pod here." Her fingers brush the console again, and a roughly spherical shape near the stern of the ship begins to pulse with light. "It's almost the same size as the hole in the centre of GO4704, and it's a compatible shape, and I think it's detachable. Like they were planning to drop it into the middle of the anomaly, and see what it's like from the inside."
"Inside a Sokek object," I say, and then, "Wait."
They wait. The pressure in my head is a pain, now, without a doubt, but I concentrate, try to push through it.
"GO4704 is a toroid," I say, eventually.
"Yes, sir?" Sumal sounds doubtful.
"A contorted toroid, but, topologically, a doughnut shape. Once it's smoothed out. But -" I take a deep breath. It worries me, too, that it's hard to think about these things. "Should be obvious. Right under our noses. What's a Sokek object?" Before anyone answers, I plough on. "Hawking hypothesized that a black hole singularity would vanish in a burst of radiation once the evaporative process brought it to zero mass. Sokek explored the hypothesis that the singularity would remain.... But a Sokek object is a black hole, regardless. What shape is a black hole? The gravitational force overrides everything. It's spherical. It can only be spherical." My voice is getting sharper and clearer, now. "And a sphere is distinct, topologically, from a torus. GO4704 can't be a Sokek object, it's the wrong shape."
"But -" Sumal looks blank. "Professor T'Shal must surely have seen this. Mustn't she?"
"But she hasn't. And I nearly didn't. All of this data - all Vansittaert's team's work - it's all got to be wrong. Founded on a wrong assumption. But why didn't they spot it?" I gaze in bewilderment at the screens full of graphs, tables, equations -
"Something is very wrong here."
The detention cell is small, bare, and spartan. Since I'm not technically under arrest, they haven't turned on the security force field. I suppose it constitutes a courtesy.
Amos Kyrd is standing in the doorway now, regarding me with evident disapproval in his rheumy eyes. He is small and stooped and very old, a few strands of white hair combed over his scalp, his Trill markings almost lost in the wrinkles and liver spots. His voice is weak and gravelly. "You really should know better," he says.
"I was set up," I snap at him.
"I know. By this Premaratne fellow.... But you shouldn't have been, Quon, not someone with your experience."
"Oh, have I let the side down? Failed to uphold the honour of symbiotes everywhere?" I pace irritably across the cell.
"You've certainly caused us some trouble," says Kyrd. "Look, we all know what it's like. You take on a new host, you feel young again, invincible, unstoppable.... We all know." He scratches his head. "I'll know it myself, soon enough. Amos and I have had eighty good years, but it's really come to the end of the road.... I have my next chosen. Charming young woman in Starfleet Academy. Amos approves of her, the old goat."
"Well, then, you'll - Wait." A frown crosses my face. "Starfleet?"
"One can't always sit on the sidelines," says Kyrd.
I stare at him. Amos Kyrd is visibly ancient... more importantly, Kyrd, the symbiote, is one of the oldest of us, almost an elder statesman, if we have such a thing. And Kyrd has, for centuries now, been a commentator - a journalist, an observer, a historian. If Kyrd is now taking on a host that will be an active participant in events... what sort of events must it be expecting? It's a sobering thought.
"Returning to our current practical problems," says Kyrd, after a pause, "your situation... well, it could be worse. We've submitted a formal protest over your treatment by Captain Surella of the Amphicyon, which of course has been politely rejected."
"She had no jurisdiction -" I begin.
"Starfleet is allied with the Orions, these days, and you were implicated in the destruction of an Orion asset. Then, too, you were also connected with an incident which damaged a Federation cruiser, and you acted suspiciously when challenged. The only surprise is that Captain Surella acted with as much restraint as she did. Klingons." Kyrd shakes his head. "Anyway, the Amphicyon's crew interrogated your logs and pronounced you blameless in matters concerning the Federation... meaning that your difficulties with the Rikilsa Array's owners are purely an internal Imperial affair. And, of course, Starfleet does not interfere in such."
"Apart from crippling my ship and leaving me helpless when the next wave of Orions comes calling!" I yell at him.
"It's a nuisance, I know," says Kyrd. "We've communicated, discreetly, with the House of Anaat, setting out the true version of events. I think you'll find that their attention is now concentrated on your client, the egregious Mr. Premaratne.... I suppose it hasn't done your reputation for ruthless efficiency any particular good, but it will stop you from being hounded by Orions. Unless you do something to irritate them further, and my advice there is simple - please don't."
I continue my pacing. "What about my ship?"
"Yes. Well. Starfleet are being quite reasonable, all things considered. Your ship is in the orbital drydock, awaiting repair... of course, it's not a Starfleet vessel, and it requires a lot of unusual components, so you might find it takes a few weeks to finish those repairs. In the interim, you and your crew are to be assigned guest housing on Starbase 114. There's no need for you to stay in detention -"
"Weeks?"
"Quon." Kyrd fixes me with a rheumy stare. "Take the hint. Take a break. Slow down. Find your centre, your personal balance point. If you don't recover that -" He shakes his head. "We're all concerned about you."
My fists are balled at my sides, my fingernails digging into my palms. I force myself to take a deep breath, to relax. "Very well."
Of course, he knows I don't mean it. He smiles at me. "Very good," he says. "Let's get you out of here, at any rate. And let me introduce you to...." He turns and gestures to someone.
A female figure appears in the doorway, just behind him. At least, at first glance it is female. The face, though, is almost entirely cybernetic, dead metal eyes peering out of a mask of circuitry. "This is Secoo," says Kyrd. "We thought it best that you should have some additional... assistance, and guidance."
"I am - pleased to make your acquaintance, Captain Quon," says the android in a dead level voice.
"Oh, I see," I say. A mechanical chaperone, courtesy of the Symbiosis Commission. "Thank you all so much."
"Our pleasure," says Kyrd. "Stay safe, Quon." And he walks away.
---
Starbase 114's guest quarters are down near the commercial sector of the space station. I stalk grimly across the concourse, Secoo trotting obediently at my heels. I spot Rissmo and Morak in an open mess area, and head for them. Rissmo looks glum. Morak has an empty bloodwine mug in front of him, and looks semi-conscious at best.
"Who's -?" Rissmo begins, and then, as Secoo's face registers, she amends it to, "What's that?"
"We have acquired the services of a highly sophisticated android," I say sourly. "Thanks to the Symbiosis Commission." Morak raises his head slightly and blinks at me. "Get some alcohol antagonists," I tell Rissmo.
She frowns at me. "What's the point? We don't have a ship."
"So I gather. Sober him up." I drag a chair over to their table, sit down. Secoo comes to stand behind me. "Repairs to the Beauregard will take a long time to complete. I do not propose to spend the time sitting here and getting sodden with bloodwine."
"Unless you can pull a ship out of somewhere," says Rissmo, "that might be our only option." But she goes to a wall replicator and starts to punch in an order.
I turn to glower at Secoo. "You. What are you good for?"
"I am - programmed in multiple functional areas. My specialization is in - starship engineering and operations. Comparable to a - KDF Academy graduate with - Commander rank experience."
"Can you handle communications?"
"I am - qualified in that area."
Rissmo returns, with a packet of pills in her hand. "Datapad and com badge," I snap at her. She frowns, and hands them over. I pass the combadge to Secoo. "Modify that to transmit on subspace band Gamma 192. And bypass the Starbase comms exchange. I want to talk directly to a remote station without any Starfleet eavesdroppers."
"I will require - details of the - remote station."
"Obviously." I enter the details I need on the datapad, hand it to her. Rissmo stares at me. She has two alcohol-antagonist pills cupped in her right hand, and is shaking them around, uncertainly. "How much of my activity are you required to report?" I ask Secoo.
"I am not - required to report," the android says, her fingers moving rapidly over the combadge. "I am required to - act in your best interests." As perceived by the Commission, or Kyrd, no doubt. "I have - completed the required task. You may - communicate without accessing Starbase 114's network. I cannot - guarantee that this frequency will not be - monitored by Starfleet or other - intelligence agencies."
"I will answer for its security." I take the combadge and the datapad back. Rissmo has been watching me carefully; now, she seems to come to a decision. She hands Morak the pills, helps him lift one to his mouth.
The datapad's interface comes alive in my hands. I smile as I study the options. I make a choice, stabbing my finger down decisively.
"What -?" Morak winces as the pill starts to clear the alcohol from his bloodstream.
"The Beauregard is out of action," I say, "so I have acquired another ship. A backdoor to a ship broker in the former Neutral Zone. They have some interesting choices, and I have the funds - or had."
"What did you just buy?" Rissmo asks.
"A Theta-class raider. Not as stylish as the Beauregard, but it will do the job. We will need to charter a shuttle flight to collect it - that should pose no problems."
"What's the job, then?" Rissmo asks. The android says nothing. Her face betrays nothing. No doubt Kyrd left off the humanoid finish, precisely for that reason.
"We will track down Denver Serton and the Arcturus Sunfire, before Captain Surella and her antique battlewagon can get to him," I say. "Once we have him, we will have Mr. Premaratne. I propose to take that gentleman, and kick him up his cybernetically-enhanced backside until Sinhalese cooking comes out of his nose." I grin at Morak and Rissmo, and they grin back. "All those in favour?"
"Fifteen parsecs out," says Thala.
I glare at the image on the viewer, then turn to my exec. "Not your fault. I know you are working with imprecise data, and in an unprecedented situation."
"Yeah, but...." Thala looks genuinely unhappy. "We messed up on this one, boss."
"Then you have plenty of room for improvement." Fifteen parsecs, in fact. But Thala's task is nearly impossible, and I am neither a fool nor a martinet - I will not blame him for what is not his fault.
But still. We are cruising serenely through empty space, and fifteen parsecs away, a subspace rift has just exploded into being, delivering another blast of exotic energies to GO4704. And we could do nothing about it. I squirm restlessly in the command chair.
"What of the Arcturus Sunfire?"
"Lamentably, glorious leader, the reports of this vessel's peregrinations are confused, incomplete, and contradictory," Niquoeb replies. Well, I knew what I was getting into when I gave him the job, I suppose. "If but half of the tentative identifications of this craft are accurate, then it is capable of a velocity far surpassing that of any conventional warp drive -"
"Most likely," Thala interrupts, "Serton's got access to some off-the-record transwarp gates. We know the Ferengi, the Syndicate, and several other groups have gateway tech now. Premaratne probably chose Serton precisely for this sort of access."
I grunt. "Query Starfleet Intelligence, find out what they know about illegal transwarp gates in this sector. Or, rather, find out what they know and are prepared to tell us."
"On it, boss."
"There's, well, something else, sir." Kali Lillian speaks diffidently, but at least she speaks. I spin the chair around to face the science station. "I've been reviewing Captain Quon's account of the rift she saw. The device Premaratne used to trigger the subspace distortion - well, we only have Captain Quon's verbal description, but we know some of the parameters it had to have. The hyper-refractory lensing - um, well, I guess you don't want the technical details, sir, but the point is, there's only a limited number of places that can make things like that."
"Ah." I nod, trying to indicate understanding and approval. "And you have a list of such facilities?"
"Well, at least the known ones, sir. Commercial operations. I suppose Premaratne and his backers might have some secret plant for making the things, but, well, why would they? When you can just buy them? I mean, well, it'd be a big custom job, but -"
"Where is the nearest of these facilities?" I ask.
---
Gamma Occidentis VII is a useless D-class rock, but it produces metals for the orbital foundry in its sky. The foundry is owned by a consortium of Federation business interests; the main body is a conventional enough space station, on a par with a class 2 starbase... but it is surrounded by free-floating industrial units, and even I can see that there is a lot of interesting activity among them. As Amphicyon cruised in to dock, she passed a graphene fabricator, extruding endless skeins of unbreakable thread from its spinnerets, and a solar-powered smelter capable of reducing a small asteroid to molten slag.
I take Lillian with me when I transport aboard the station. She has done well, she deserves to be involved in whatever comes of this. We are greeted by a tall, very poised human male - light-skinned, with dark hair impeccably styled, and a mouth that seems over-full of very, very white teeth.
"Captain Surella? Malcolm Havishaw, liaison officer. How can we help Starfleet?" His voice is cultured, professionally pleasant.
"My science officer, Lieutenant Lillian." He spares her a dismissive glance. "Someone is using subspace rift devices to carry out potentially dangerous experiments. We need to track them down. Their devices require components that can only be made in specialist industrial facilities."
"Such as ours. I see." He treats me to another display of teeth. "Can you tell me anything about the sort of - experiments - we're talking about? It might help us identify a particular class of component."
"Lieutenant Lillian has all the data we have so far gathered." She proffers a PADD; after a moment, he takes it. "Basically, the subspace rifts are stimulating a spatial anomaly into new modes of activity. We do not, as yet, know why."
"But you say it's potentially dangerous?"
"There has already been considerable property damage, and some loss of life, attendant on these disturbances."
"I see." The toothy smile goes away. "Perhaps you'd better come with me, Captain. You can wait in comfort while I check our records in depth."
I follow him out of the transporter room, into a concourse filled with holo-displays, mostly showing heavy engineering works of some sort - meaningless to me. Overhead, transparent panels let in the light of the stars. Havishaw leads us along the concourse, to an area with soft chairs, low tables, a food replicator in the wall. "It will take some time to review our recent orders," he says.
"Hyper-refractory lenses." I do listen to my officers. "How many orders do you receive for such things? What are they used for?"
"Well, now," says Havishaw. "Mostly, we're talking about academic or commercial institutions doing high-energy subspace research. If you're trying to generate and focus subspace fields, you need specialised materials that can handle immense energy levels. I don't think we get many orders for things like that - but there are enough. I'll cross-compare with your data, and see if it matches any particular set of specifications." He seems to weigh the PADD in his hand for a moment, then turns and strides away.
Lillian is looking at a nearby display. "Interesting," she says.
"That thing?" I look around. There is no one else in sight on the concourse. No doubt we are being monitored by security cameras - the staff of the station is small, we detected only some two hundred and fifty life signs while approaching. The industrial processes are, necessarily, heavily automated. Even being within a kilometre of some of them would be enough to kill an unprotected humanoid.
"It's a foamed-metal process," Lillian says. "I didn't know people were even using that any more. It was meant as a mass-saving measure for zero-G construction projects -" I let her chatter on. There is a data terminal on a free-standing pillar next to the holo-display. There are similar terminals throughout the concourse. So why did Havishaw feel the need to withdraw?
I go to the terminal, touch the interface. Security sealed. Curious. Everyone who works here must be cleared to do so, surely? So why take these precautions? There cannot, surely, be many visitors out here. And we are Starfleet, not some commercial rival.... I pull a face. A data-warfare expert would surely be able to unlock this console... but beaming over a hacking team would be - impolite, I fear.
Lillian falls silent. I think she has realized that I am not listening. I glance in her direction. She seems engrossed in some other holo-display, showing some exotic fabricator -
There is a sound, as of something moving along the floor -
It is not much, but I am still Klingon, I know a threat when I hear it. I snarl and spin around, concentrating, hard. The visual discontinuity, the faint distortion in the air, could pass unnoticed, if I were not looking for it -
"Stealth assassins!" I yell, and punch the first one while he still fondly believes himself to be invisible.
The stealth field shorts out under the impact, and a black-clad humanoid form materializes, wrapped around my right fist. There is a knife in its right hand. I reach out, grab the wrist, twist until the arm breaks. Then I deliver a powerful backhand slap to my attacker's head. It is not strictly necessary, at this point. But it is satisfying.
I activate my personal shield and draw my phaser while I am turning to check on Lillian. Fortunately, her rudimentary Starfleet self-defence training seems to have kicked in; she has another black-clad figure in a judo hold, and is choking it into insensibility. Good for her. I switch the phaser to wide beam and spray the concourse with heavy stun. Holograms sparkle and distort - and another assassin comes into view. This one has a gun, a standard phaser. I switch back to narrow beam. We both fire simultaneously. His beam is not strong enough to pierce a shield. Mine is.
The first attacker is scrambling to his feet. I kick him in the head, and he goes down again.
I slap my combadge. "Surella to Amphicyon!"
"Amphicyon here." Som Bloxx's voice. "Sir, is there a problem?"
There is one fewer than I had feared - I was expecting comms jamming. "Go to full evasive! Raise shields! And watch that solar smelter! We are under attack!"
If they attack us, they must deal with the ship, too. The industrial facility is not, technically, armed. Technically. But the solar smelter could pour enough raw heat onto Amphicyon to vaporize her, technically. I can only hope that Thala and Niquoeb and the rest of the team are quick enough to respond -
Flaming golden light stutters across the starscape above us. I spray the concourse with more heavy stun. This time, I hit nothing. There must be more on the way, though.
Lillian has rendered her attacker unconscious, has drawn her own weapon.
My combadge chirps. I slap it.
"Amphicyon to Surella." Thala's voice. "That smelter was already targeting us. We hit it with full phasers, it's down - Boss, what's going on?"
"I am about to find out. Beam down security squads, full armament. Take this station."
I haul my erstwhile attacker to his feet, rip away his black facemask. The bruised and bleeding face of Malcolm Havishaw is revealed. His teeth are much less perfect, now.
"To attack by stealth is one thing," I hiss at him, "to attack by deceit is another. You are without honour. I should destroy you."
He says nothing, only blinks dazed eyes. I sigh.
"I am a Starfleet officer. Fortunately for you. You are under arrest, and this facility is in lockdown pending my investigation." Already, there is the whining of transporters as the security teams beam in.
"You don't understand," Havishaw mumbles, with evident difficulty.
"What do I not understand?"
He blinks at me again. His mind is obviously wandering. "Any of it," he mutters. "When they open the gate... none of this will matter. Nothing will matter. Ever again."
"Professor." Tarul was at the next workstation, surrounded by holo-displays charting the progress of a dozen different experiments. "I am perturbed."
"By what?" T'Shal put the PADD down and turned towards her assistant.
"The queries we have received from the Madagascar. They are complete and comprehensive."
"That is only to be expected. It is correct procedure."
"I am unsure of that, Professor."
T'Shal quirked one eyebrow. Tarul was a useful assistant, a methodical researcher who could concentrate for hours on the most minute data elements... but he rarely spoke out of turn, contradicted, or criticised. "Specify your concerns," she said.
"Admiral M'eioi and her team have requested full details of all our current projects, and the hypothetical and theoretical work from which those projects originated. That is only to be expected, I know. But they have requested primary and secondary references, and details of the accreditation status of the journals and institutions involved."
"Accreditation status? That is unusual, I agree."
"It is as if they do not trust our data. I do not mean that they are testing our conclusions in the normal process of scientific inquiry. The steps they are taking -" Tarul paused. "It is possible that they suspect actual fraud in our research process."
T'Shal actually allowed herself to frown at that. "Academic fraud? For what possible reason?"
"I do not know, Professor. But it seems to me that their approach is - inherently adversarial. It is not a question of assessing and evaluating our findings. Admiral M'eioi and her team act as if they know already that we are incorrect, and are simply trying to prove it."
"But we are not incorrect. At least, so far as I am able to determine. This behaviour is puzzling."
Tarul hesitated. Then he said, "The problem may not lie with our particular set of research endeavours."
"Elucidate."
"Our work is presented to Admiral M'eioi's team in the context of the triaxial hypothesis. This is principally espoused by Professor Karabadian. It is conceivable that the Starfleet team has queries over his academic credentials."
"That is possible." T'Shal paused, considering. "But it seems insufficient. The project's data is presented as a whole. A consistent whole. To reject the triaxial hypothesis as spurious... would mean that our own work has been done on a faulty basis. We would know, if this were the case."
"Yes," said Tarul. "It is, then, possible that Starfleet thinks we do know, and are proceeding regardless."
"That would be a futile and illogical waste of effort." T'Shal stood. "I should consult with my peers concerning this. If they have reached similar conclusions to yours -"
She put her hand to her forehead. "I should consult," she repeated.
Tarul rose to his feet. "Professor? Are you well?"
"I am -" T'Shal blinked. "A sudden headache. Nothing more. Possibly a result of orthostatic hypotension - I may have been sitting for too long in the same position." She straightened her back, walked towards the door. "I will first consult with Academician Shemosh."
---
The Deltan smiled politely. "I understand," he said in soothing tones.
"There has been no formal accusation of misconduct," T'Shal said. "My assistant has formed the impression, though, that the Starfleet team harbours suspicions."
"It's a possibility," said Shemosh. His workspace was small, much smaller than T'Shal's lab, and very clean and tidy - almost spartan in appearance. He had switched off his workstation's display when T'Shal entered; she had no idea what he was currently working on. "Starfleet is not a pure research organization, not by any means. They're required to be alive to all sorts of possibilities."
"I am not a party to academic fraud," said T'Shal. "It would be illogical to be affronted by the suggestion, but I must concede that I find the idea unwelcome. Furthermore, I see no reason why Admiral M'eioi and her team should entertain such suspicions."
"It's not unusual, when you consider that we are privately sponsored by Mr. Vansittaert," said Shemosh. "It is hardly unheard of for privately funded research teams to... deliver what is expected of them, by their paymasters."
"That is illogical in itself. Mr. Vansittaert has made private facilities available which can facilitate our research, meaning that publicly funded resources - such as those of the Vulcan Science Academy, for example - can be devoted to other, no less worthy, ends. It would be illogical to refuse Mr. Vansittaert's assistance, once offered."
"Quite," said Shemosh.
"And it would be illogical on Mr. Vansittaert's part to reject correct findings merely because they do not accord with his preconceptions. True, he is human, and humans are given to illogic at times - but he is a highly successful human, and such success cannot be attained by an ill-disciplined mind."
"True," said Shemosh. "And I'm sure Admiral M'eioi will realize that, eventually. I wouldn't let it distract you, Professor."
"Nonetheless," said T'Shal, "questions have been raised, and must be answered. It is an inconvenience." She put her hand to her brow. "I will have to re-check and re-confirm many of my initial postulates."
Shemosh shook his head. "That's an unnecessary waste of your time, surely," he said. "Starfleet has all your basic data, all your interim research papers. Let them do the re-checks for you. It's their job, after all. Don't let them distract you from the real work that needs to be done."
"Perhaps you are right," said T'Shal. "I will consider the matter in depth." She rose, abruptly, to her feet. "Thank you for your time, Academician Shemosh."
"My pleasure, Professor. Please don't hesitate to call me if there's anything else I can help you with."
Shemosh watched as T'Shal left. When the door shut behind her, a faint frown appeared on his hairless brow. He touched a control on his desktop, and white noise suddenly flooded the air. He waited a moment for the sonic field to establish itself, then he keyed a sequence into the intercom.
"Vansittaert," a voice answered promptly.
"T'Shal was here," Shemosh said shortly. "She's perturbed by some of Starfleet's questions. She's thinking of reassessing her basic research."
The human's voice sounded anxious. "I hope you've dissuaded her!"
"I've tried. And I will go to see Karabadian now, and get some help from that quarter. But T'Shal has a highly trained mind - and Starfleet, damn them, seem to be asking the right questions."
"Stall them. We have to stall them. We're so close."
"I know. I hope we'll be able to complete in time." Shemosh sighed. "One way or another, it looks like they're going to find out the truth."
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
The Carnegie has moved. It’s holding station, equidistant between us and the anomaly, its prow pointing at the Madagascar. I don’t like it. It feels like a threat. Maybe it is a threat - I don't know all the capabilities of Vansittaert's ship.
Right now, though, it's not my main worry. My main worry is human, small and blonde, she's on the viewscreen now, she's from Temporal Investigations, and she's not helping.
"Ah've bin readin' yon data ye've sent me," says Captain Caird, "and, tae be honest, it's way over mah heid, hen. But Ah've passed it on tae th' science types, an' they're - weel, I willnae say they're nae worried, but it's nae over temporal incursions."
I don't know what's wrong with the universal translator. "So what are they concerned about?"
"Yon anomaly's got potential tae be a source o' temporal disruptions," says Caird. "'Course, that's nae tellin' ye much, onything's got that potential. But yer man Vansittaert is right, it's spittin' oot antichronitons among all th' other stuff, and that cannae be guid."
"Is there any possibility that he's right? That the anomaly is causing the conditions for its own origin?"
Caird purses her lips. "Onything's possible, hen, bu"t Ah widnae have thocht so. If yon anomaly's in the middle o' a predestination paradox, that is the sort of thing that'd show up on oor radar. No, Ah reckon yer man's tellin' ye a bunch o' porkies, there."
I think I grasp her meaning. Maybe. "All right. I'll keep passing on the data I get, and if you can do anything -"
"Ah'll keep ye posted, fair enough, hen. But ye ken that one's a big if?" She gives me a kindly look. "Sae many things we cannae tell ye aboot.... But if we can help ye, we will."
"I suppose I can't ask any more than that," I say. "All right. Thank you."
"Ye're welcome. An' guid luck, Admiral, ye'll need it. Caird oot." The screen goes blank. I heave a sigh.
I only just have time to sigh, before the door of the ready room chimes at me. "Come in," I say.
Marya Kothe comes in. "Sir -" she begins, and then she is pushed aside, and T'Shal marches in.
"I am here to request an explanation," the Vulcan scientist says. I'm not an expert on Vulcans, but it seems clear that the emotion she's currently repressing is anger.
"That'll be all, Commander Kothe, thank you," I say. Marya snaps to attention and backs out. "Take a seat, please, Professor T'Shal," I continue. "What can I do to help?"
She advances into the room, stops just before my desk, and sits down. She's a middle-aged Vulcan academic, small and slight... but I know Vulcans; if her emotional control snaps, I'll be lucky to get out of this room in one piece. "You are questioning the integrity of my research project," she says. "I wish to know why."
"Because your research project is highly suspect," I say. Bluntness helps.
"Specify your concerns."
"Gladly. Galactic Object 4704 is not a Sokek object. Your research is predicated on the idea that it is. That makes your research suspect."
She does the eyebrow thing. That's a good sign. It means she's interested, now, as well as angry. "How have you reached the conclusion that GO4704 is not a Sokek object?"
"Very easily. And you should have reached the same conclusion, which worries me. It's the wrong shape. It's a toroid."
She opens her mouth, but seems to think better of whatever response she's about to give. I just look at her. She closes her mouth again. There is a pregnant silence.
"I am unable to fault your logic," she says, eventually.
I don't say anything. I just watch her.
"A denatured singularity... could not assume a toroidal shape, without some intervening influence being applied. And I am not aware of anything which could so modify the collapsed space-time of a singularity point. It is logical, therefore, to assume you are correct, that GO4704 is some other class of anomaly." She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. "Wait. An ancillary line of speculation becomes important. Why did I not take account of this fact?"
"That's the key issue, to me," I say.
"Have you formulated a hypothesis?"
"I'd be interested to hear yours."
"I... have none. As yet." She closes her eyes again. "I am not trained in the Kolinahr or related forms of mental discipline. To assess one's own mental status, without such techniques, is problematic."
"And that makes a whole lot of sense," I say, "in terms of my - hypothesis. I'd guess you haven't had any particular training in resisting mental influence, either?"
Her eyes open and fix themselves on mine. "Mental influence? As in, hypnosis or telepathic coercion?"
"You're working with Karabadian. A crank from a virtually unaccredited institution - but there's no guaranteeing he doesn't have psi ability. Some humans do. And not all of them are ethical." I lean forward, keeping my gaze fixed on hers. "That's my hypothesis. Whatever GO4704 is, it's something that Karabadian wants. Or maybe Karabadian and Vansittaert. One of them might be using the other... and both of them are using you."
She looks down, suddenly unable to meet my eyes. "This is... perturbing," she says. "And... mortifying."
"I didn't realize the importance of the object's shape until I was off Vansittaert's ship," I say. "Outside Karabadian's psionic range, if I'm right. They have some plans for the object, and they do need your expertise in subspace field theory to gain control of it. Possibly Shemosh's, too, he's a genuine expert like you."
"Conceivably." She looks me in the eye again. "You do not believe Academician Shemosh to be the source of this... influence?"
"I doubt it. Deltan emotional influence is pheromonal, and it's kind of focused on one thing. And Shemosh knows his stuff - I've read his papers, and yours."
"Vansittaert's stated intention is to use the anomaly as a source of unlimited material wealth. A cornucopia. If he is able to control that exclusively, perhaps -" She shakes her head. "I do not see how this would benefit him. He is already immensely wealthy. Besides, it is inconsistent with my knowledge of him as a person. I have not always been with him in Karabadian's company - I have known Vansittaert for some years. I believe him to be quite genuine in his desire to do good."
"Desire's one thing. Results can be quite another. Besides, we don't know that his desires are at the back of this."
"I see." She takes a deep breath. "Regrettably, I must concede that I am far less sure of Karabadian's good intentions. But it is necessary to know what their plans are."
"I know. I've been trying to backtrack, to go through your existing data and find our what they might be applying it for. Maybe you can help, now."
"Conceivably. Though I would be concerned over falling under mental influence again.... It is possible - indeed, probable - that Karabadian wishes to find, or invent, data supporting his triaxial hypothesis. To gain personal and academic prestige by simple fraud."
"Possible. But that's very much the best-case scenario." I've had time to think about this, and to worry. "The potentialities of that anomaly - well, we don't know what they are. And if Karabadian, or Vansittaert, were to abuse them in some way... that might not be something we could survive. Worst-case scenario, it might not be something anyone could survive."
I nod to Vekna, who nods back and sidles down the alleyway, trying to blend in and look discreet - as much as a Klingon can, on a mainly human colony world. But the alleyway is crowded, and the main thoroughfare is bustling with traffic - hundreds of people all going about their business, with barely a glance to spare for us.
Alauta Mala is crowded - or, at least, the inhabited part is; the planet is class L, and the terraforming engines have made only a small part of its surface liveable, as yet. The central settlement - too young even to have a consistent name, as yet - has a population density approaching old Earth's Asian cities. It is a bewildering hubbub of noise, of people talking, machines grumbling - and a mixture of scents, of people and perfumes and, most importantly of all, of food.
There are familiar sounds and familiar smells nearby, right now. I stroll, as casually as I can, towards the door of the spaceport bar. Familiar territory. With a familiar face, half-glimpsed in profile, as I approach. He's on the move. Excellent. I touch my wrist comm, send the pulse signal to Vekna, the one that means get ready.
The man who comes out of the bar is smaller than the average human male, neat in his dress and appearance, with a pale, rather handsome face, light hair conservatively styled, and blue eyes that gleam as his gaze darts about, watching, assessing, cataloguing and recognizing, everywhere he goes. In his profession, it pays to be watchful. But, today, he is not quite watchful enough.
I weave through the crowd, come up from behind him, and cup his elbow with my hand in what might look like an affectionate gesture. "Hello, Denver," I say sweetly.
The captain of the Arcturus Sunfire glances at me, and a wry smile tugs at one side of his mouth. "Quon. I didn't recognize you without your navel on display." I'm wearing the woven undersuit from Omega Force battle armour; it's discreet and protective. "Silly of me. I presume you've people on call? - Ah." Vekna has emerged from the alleyway, one hand in the pocket of her overcoat, as if she is training a powerful disruptor pistol on Denver Serton - which, of course, she is. "Well, I hope we can keep this civilized."
I touch my wrist comm again, alerting Rissmo and Morak - and the android, too, damn her. "I don't see why not," I say in light, conversational tones. "I don't have a quarrel with you, after all."
"Just with our mutual fare, I suppose," says Serton. He pulls a disgruntled face. "No point me asking what led you here, then."
To the one planet in the sector where authentic Sinhalese spices are to be found. "Mr. Premaratne skipped out on me, left me to face the music with Starfleet and the Orions. I want some words with Mr. Premaratne, yes. You can help."
"And what's in it for me? - I know, I know, I don't get any bones broken. You used to have more style, Quon."
"I used to have an Ouroboros-class raider, too. You should worry about that, Denver. Can you afford to replace the Sunfire, if Premaratne decides it's expendable? Or if that Klingon captain from Starfleet catches up with you?"
"Starfleet." Serton sniffs dismissively. "I've been evading Starfleet for longer than your current body's been alive, Quon."
"Rat-running through the Neutral Zone? Times have changed, Denver, or hadn't you noticed? I caught you, so Starfleet can."
"You had luck, and a touch of inside knowledge." And he can see - and smell - where I'm steering him, he knows very well what my inside knowledge is. "All right, Quon, I'm in no hurry to get myself hurt. We've been doing very nicely since we picked up your passenger - on schedule, no embarrassments with Orions, all very smooth and professional. We had enough time for a stop-off here. As you evidently though we might."
"And Premaratne?"
"Exactly where you think he is. Follow your nose, Quon."
I smile at him. "I love it when things go to plan."
"You must enjoy the novelty of it." Serton gently disengages his elbow from my grip. "You don't mind if I fade into the background, do you? I'd rather not have Premaratne know I stood by and let you take him. Or try to."
"How many of your crew are with him now?"
"Oh, please, Quon. Did he let you sic bodyguards on him when he went on one of his shopping trips?"
"We didn't have time." But it makes sense - Premaratne was close-mouthed with me, he'd maintain the same privacy with Serton. "All right, Denver. Thank you for all your help. If I were you, I'd head back to the Sunfire and start looking at the 'Help Wanted' ads."
"You're very sure of yourself, Quon." He gives me a dirty look. "As far as I know, there's only one more stop before - whatever he's doing - is finished. I don't think he'll appreciate you getting in the way. You know him, he's all about removing inconveniences."
"I know him. And I'll deal with him."
"As you wish. You won't mind if I don't wish you luck." And he stalks away, rubbing his elbow in an aggrieved manner, and is lost in the crowd.
I turn and face the spice market.
---
The market is about a hundred metres square, covered with brightly-coloured awnings that filter the harsh light of this world's sun. Under the awnings, the air is redolent with scents, of ingredients and condiments from a hundred different worlds, a thousand different cultures. Including the Sinhalese culture of Earth.
There are many people here, too, but I spot the burly figure waddling up to a stall almost immediately. I glance around. Vekna is flanking me, Rissmo and Morak are approaching from different positions on the perimeter... and Rissmo has Secoo with her. The android is supposed to act in my interests, so let her protect me today. I touch my wrist comm, send the signal that means: close in.
And we do. Bracketing him, blocking the aisles of the market, giving him no way to escape that does not take him past one of us. Not that he notices. He is obliviously haggling with a merchant over some tub of highly-priced dust when I walk up to him and say, "Mr. Premaratne. I'd like a word."
He straightens up, his immense bulk swivelling slowly round, his mismatched green eyes alighting on me. He blows out his cheeks in an exaggerated sigh. "Captain Quon. I am occupied at present."
"I'd like you to clear your diary, Mr. Premaratne."
He turns his head, noting, assessing. Hopefully, he's noting how outnumbered he is. I'm glad he hasn't managed to enlist Denver Serton's loyalty, anyway. If we had to fight the Arcturus Sunfire's crew as well, things would get... interesting.
"This would not be convenient for me at present," he says gravely. "I am sure you recall that I am anxious to avoid inconvenience."
"Nevertheless." Taking Premaratne, apart from any personal pleasure it might give me, would be a big bargaining chip to buy my way back into Starfleet's good graces. "I'm afraid I have to insist."
He raises his voice. "I must warn all those uninvolved that there is likely to be unpleasantness." It won't help him - this overcrowded settlement doesn't have an effective police force, yet. Nearby merchants start ducking behind their stalls, shoppers start to back off. My crew and I remain in place.
Premaratne turns and looks at Secoo. "Klingon Imperial series android. Model KDF-1500 or later. Very impressive."
"More than the equal of a combat cyborg," I say.
Premaratne purses his lips. He turns to the stallholder, now, who has almost sunk out of sight behind his merchandise. "I will revise my order, please. I will take a quantity, twenty grams, of this -" he points to a tub of curry powder "- and a peanut." He keys something into a PADD, which he slips into his sarong. "There. Payment has been made and the transaction logged." Then he looks me directly in the eye. "Captain Quon. I do not wish to antagonize the Symbiosis Commission, so I must take careful measures if I deal with you. I would rather not submit to the inconvenience. You will be compensated at a later date for your own difficulties, if you desire it. Matters can be arranged. Please be reasonable, Captain."
I frown. I'm puzzled, I have to admit. "One peanut? What can you do with just one peanut?"
"I regret very much that I must demonstrate." And he picks up the nut from another tub. The stallholder is now entirely hidden from view. Premaratne pinches the peanut between finger and thumb -
And it's gone. There is a click, of an impact somewhere, and then another click. The nut has ricocheted, hit something else -
Her metal face not even registering surprise, Secoo falls over, to lie full-length on the floor.
Damn it. Every android since Data has come with an emergency deactivation switch. Premaratne knows where Secoo's is... and he could judge the trajectories to hit it. Very impressive.
I'm moving already, lunging - but Premaratne is moving faster, much faster than me. And he's thrown something else, too. Rissmo suddenly screams, a hoarse choking scream. Her green face is masked with violent-coloured spice. Coughing and gasping, she falls to her knees. Premaratne is moving. Morak is nearest, but his movements are uncertain, confused. Damn it. With curry powder in her eyes and nostrils, Rissmo is broadcasting distress with her Orion pheromones - and every humanoid-pattern male within fifty metres is responding. The distraction is enough for Premaratne to come up beside Morak, and hit him, once, with one big meaty fist. The Klingon folds up and crumples to the ground.
Vekna is snarling, and moving fast. She hits Premaratne in the back, with a textbook-perfect martial-arts kick that should shatter his spine. He just grunts, and punches her. She crashes to the floor. Rissmo is sobbing, on her knees, trying to regain control of herself. Premaratne simply touches the side of her head, and she topples over unconscious.
Just me left.
"Captain Quon," Premaratne begins.
I lash out with a taekwondo kick that should take his smug head from his shoulders. It doesn't connect. Nothing human could react that quickly -
Premaratne's big hand reaches out, touches the side of my neck.
Stun field inducers, built into his fingertips. The shock burns along my nerves, and the world goes black. I feel a wrenching dissociation of identity. Carayl is gone, unconscious or dead, and Quon is trapped, helpless in the warm dark, unable to avoid whatever fate awaits.