"Welcome aboard," the man in the shiny black tunic says. He has a peaked cap with gold braid on it, and epaulettes with five broad gold stripes on them. "I'm Commander Parlabane. Head of security for the Carnegie."
"Admiral M'eioi. Starfleet." I look around at the Carnegie's transporter room. "Head of security?"
Parlabane chuckles. He is heavily built, with a broad face and a broad smile. I get the feeling, though, that the affable look is just a layer over a very tough interior. "Mr. Vansittaert thought we weren't treating you with the dignity proper to a Starfleet Admiral," he says.
"I've no complaints. In any case, I'm just here to meet Professor T'Shal and go over some experimental results.... Where is Professor T'Shal?"
"I think she's in her lab, Admiral. May I escort you?" He stands to one side, and gestures towards the door. It seems he's not going to take no for an answer.
"Mr. Vansittaert didn't insist on this level of formality before," I remark, as I head to the door with Parlabane at my side.
"I think he regrets that, Admiral. We do need to show Starfleet the proper respect, don't we?"
"We're public servants, Commander. You pay our wages, you get to treat us how you like. Within reason and the law, I guess."
"Interesting viewpoint, Admiral." We're walking along a long, broad corridor that seems to be a thoroughfare in this section of Vansittaert's ship. People are moving along it, purposefully. The whole vast ship seems to be in a ferment.
"Something happening?" I ask.
"Just being prepared," says Parlabane. "Have you seen the latest readings from the Sokek object?"
"GO4704 seems to be reaching a new level of activity, I know." Does he know it's not a Sokek object? The remark seems like bait, and I don't think I should rise to it. "What are you preparing for, Commander?"
"The coming of the millennium, I guess. If the scientists have got it right. I know it's all over my head, anyway. Professor T'Shal's in one of the small conference rooms just now, I'll take you right there, shall I?"
"I was supposed to meet her at her lab -"
"I'm sure that's where she'd rather be, Admiral, but sometimes you have to have meetings - By the way...." His affable tone drops away for a moment. "There might be some peculiar energy discharges, they say. A lot of stuff is getting locked down as a precaution. Is there anything in your transporter buffer that the health and safety people might get worried about, Admiral?"
"My transporter buffer? I didn't bring one. I'm not on an away team here, Commander."
"Any sidearms, even? Only I'm told there may be - well, something about induction currents in nadion emitters. I don't understand half the details, but all my guys have had to turn in their stunners for the duration."
"I'm not carrying any weapons." I glance sidelong at him. "Should I be?"
He laughs aloud at that. "No, we're the hospitable type, here, Admiral." He indicates a side passage. "Here we are."
The side corridor is almost deserted, and it terminates in a plain doorway. Parlabane presses his fingertip to the panel beside it, and the door hisses open. "After you, Admiral," he says, waving me politely through.
I step through the doorway, into what looks like a moderately well-appointed hotel room, rather than a conference room. T'Shal is there, sitting behind a desk; she rises abruptly as I come in. The door slides shut behind me.
"Admiral M'eioi," says T'Shal. "I am afraid that -" She stops. She puts her hand to her forehead, and sits back down, slowly. "You should not have come here."
I look around the room, slowly. It is like living quarters, with couches, a bed in one corner, a food replicator, sanitary facilities behind a screen - and there is no one else here. Just T'Shal.
"What's going on?" I ask her.
"I think we have been asking the wrong questions," says T'Shal. "I was brought here some ten standard hours ago. I have not been allowed to communicate -"
"Allowed?" I touch my combadge. "M'eioi to Madagascar." There is no response. "M'eioi to Madagascar. Come in, please."
"Communications are disabled," says T'Shal. "I was able to bring a PADD -" She holds it up. "It contains summaries of my most recent research notes."
"I don't believe this," I mutter. I turn to the door. It doesn't open. I key the panel beside it. The door remains shut. The reality sinks in.
We're prisoners.
---
"He can't possibly think he's going to get away with this," I say, sitting down on a couch. "We'll be missed. If I don't check in within an hour or so, my team will start asking where I am. Your people must already have missed you."
"The logical conclusion is that Vansittaert must consider this factor unimportant," says T'Shal. "I believe my investigations bear this out. The activity of the anomaly is reaching a constant level. I suspect that only one more impulse is required before it reaches a new, presumably final, equilibrium." She taps on the PADD, and data scrolls across the screen. "I am no closer, unfortunately, to discovering what this equilibrium actually entails."
"It must just be a matter of hours." The Andrew Carnegie, for all her size, probably couldn't hold off a determined attack from the Madagascar. But would Marya Kothe have the nerve to commit a Starfleet ship to an attack on an important Federation citizen? Probably, once she'd exhausted every other avenue - and that would take time. And time is all Vansittaert needs.
"Do you know the comms protocols for this ship?" I ask.
T'Shal blinks. "I fail to comprehend the relevance of your question," she says.
"I'm thinking, maybe we can software hack your PADD and create a local comms interface. If we can get into the data subchannels on this ship, we could try to get a message out to Madagascar. Or, in a pinch, hotwire the door controls and get us out of here."
T'Shal looks positively alarmed. Of course, she's a civilian academic, she doesn't have Starfleet's training in breaking out of prison cells. Not that I've had that much of it. Probably nowhere near enough.
"I am not familiar with the data transfer infrastructure on this vessel. I am sorry, Admiral. I have always presumed it is a variant of the commercial comms software used by Vansittaert's own concerns, but I had not thought to inquire into specifics. Again, I offer my regrets."
"It's all right." I rise to my feet, begin to pace across the room. "There's a way out of any cage." I smile, briefly. "Old Starfleet adage. Let me take stock -"
There is a noise from outside. We both turn to face the door, as it slides open.
Parlabane is first through, and this time, he has a stun pistol in his fist - at least, I hope it's just a stun pistol, and not an actual phaser. I tense myself. Armed or not, I might be able to take him -
Then two more people come through the door: a vast, heavy-set, burly human supporting the stumbling form of a Trill woman who seems to be semi-conscious. I've only got the descriptions from Surella's reports to go on, but I know who they are: the mysterious Mr. Premaratne, and Carayl Quon. Behind them, Vansittaert comes in, followed by two more guards.
Premaratne half-leads, half-drags Quon to a couch and deposits her on it, not entirely ungently. Three armed men, and a combat cyborg of unknown abilities. The odds are, to put it mildly, not in my favour.
"So. You and your agent here -" I gesture at Premaratne while glaring at Vansittaert "- are the ones who've woken the anomaly up."
"I knew you'd be astute, Admiral." Vansittaert actually sounds pleased. "I'm sorry about the overcrowding, but it will only be for a little while. Mr. Premaratne decided not to burn any bridges with the Symbiosis Commission by, ahh, applying a final solution to Captain Quon, here. I don't think I mind. It will be a pleasure to have another witness, I think."
"A witness?"
"To the final act. Oh, come now, Admiral, you must know we're at the last stage now. The Deep Gate is about to open, and everything will change."
"Your computational models," says T'Shal, "are founded on incorrect assumptions. The result of your actions -"
"Ah, yes," says Vansittaert. "Professor T'Shal, you have my unbounded and sincere gratitude for everything you've done for me. This project would have been doomed without your work. It's unfortunate, I know, that you've been a little bit misled as to my actual aims."
"Which are what?" I demand. "Galactic domination? The usual megalomaniac rigmarole?"
"Admiral M'eioi, you wound me," says Vansittaert. "My ultimate aim is, well, exactly as I've stated it. I know I've been immensely fortunate in my own life, and I'm not a selfish person, I want everyone to have the same opportunities, the same material prosperity, as me. Tell me, have you heard of the Nexus?"
"Everyone's heard of the Nexus." The energized particle wave which sweeps through space - and, inside it, an eternity of unbridled pleasure, as reality bends out of shape at the merest thought. Paradise. Or endless meaningless idleness, to look at it another way. People have died, and killed, and threatened genocide, to get inside that ultimate lotus-seeker's daydream....
"Well, then. You know that the localised energy gradients that surround it make approach hazardous. Our work -" he beams at T'Shal "- has shown that GO4704 can interact safely at the Nexus's subspace frequencies. And that the energy fields can be channelled through GO4704's toroidal structure. You're right, of course, it isn't a Sokek object. What it is... is a back door to the Nexus. Though I thought 'back door' lacked a certain something, as a descriptor. So I came up with the code name for this project. The Deep Gate."
"You're going to open your own personal gateway to the Nexus?"
"Certainly not. That would be the height of selfishness, and I told you, I'm not a selfish person. Once the Deep Gate is open, Nexus subspace harmonics will permeate through it, and will propagate at subspace velocity through local spacetime. About warp fifteen, subspace radio speed. The entire galaxy will become the Nexus, Admiral. The earthly paradise, brought about at last. Reality itself will bend to everyone's whim. You'll have a ringside seat, when I bring the Carnegie's lab module into the correct position. You will be one of the first. In just a day or so, Admiral, you will become a god." His long features rearrange themselves into that uncomfortable smile. "I'll just leave you here to think about that, shall I?"
---
I think about it. I watch, stunned, as Vansittaert and the guards leave, and then I collapse onto the couch, and I think about it.
And I don't think anything good. The idea of the Nexus... the ultimate wish-fulfillment fantasy... it's never appealled to me. Life needs to be real. If it were my choice to make... I wouldn't choose that. And what right does Vansittaert have, to foist it on me?
Not just on me. On everyone. At subspace radio speeds, the effect will subsume the whole of the Federation in weeks. To encompass the whole galaxy will take years, but... it'll happen. I think of thousands, maybe millions, of planetary cultures, all of them with an unexpected paradise dropped in their laps. It'd make a mockery of the Prime Directive.
"This is an ethical conundrum," says T'Shal. I look at her, astonished. "Mr. Vansittaert is acting unethically in making this choice, without consultation, on behalf of everyone," she says. "But - it is paradise, after all. Do we have the right to object?"
"Self-determination," I begin, weakly.
"But, within the Nexus, everyone has absolute self-determination," says T'Shal. "That is a given -"
"Doesn't work," a new voice mutters.
I turn to Quon. She is sitting up straighter, brushing her lank chestnut-coloured hair away from her face. "It doesn't work," she repeats, hoarsely.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"Premaratne kept hitting me with stun, but I'm OK. He was very careful, he knows my limits, and he wouldn't want the inconvenience of a corpse." She snarls. "Listen. I'm a physicist myself - well, in several previous lives - and I'm telling you, it doesn't work." She coughs. She's clearly not in good physical shape.
"Please specify," says T'Shal.
"Energy gradients. The barrier between the Nexus and the real world. To broadcast the Nexus across subspace, you'd need power, enough power to change the basic constants of subspace. The anomaly at the heart of the Nexus has enough energy to do that in a strictly local area - not even an area, a line, dammit, the Nexus itself is one-dimensional in this reality - and even then, there's a constant energy storm where the metrical frames conflict, and the Nexus is continually in motion, it can't remain constant in any one place. So where's the energy going to come from, to stabilize the Nexus effect over interstellar ranges? OK, I know GO4704 soaks up energy, but it hasn't soaked up that much. Nowhere near." She coughs again.
I turn to look at T'Shal. She is blinking, rapidly. "I am - unsure of this," she says.
"Can you calculate the power requirements?" I ask.
"Theoretically, unlimited power can be drawn from the Sokek object -" She closes her eyes tightly. "But GO4704 is not a Sokek object. Why is it so hard to remember that?"
"Psi field," says Quon hoarsely. "I'm not much of a telepath, even when my nerves aren't jangled. But there's a psi field here, I can feel it."
"The psi effect was meant to keep T'Shal from questioning the project's premises -" I begin.
"Not just me," says T'Shal. She opens her eyes. "Fascinating. The power requirement is another obvious issue, just like the shape of the anomaly. The psi field blinded me to one obvious flaw. I think it is also blinding Vansittaert to another one. Someone is using him, just as he used me. But to what end?"
I do like how (some of) the bad guys in the last few stories have been reactions to the Federation's ethical limits and capability limits, and yet foils to one another. While the last had well-meaning people willing to do terrible things in an attempt to set a political unification to high-handedly impose Federation ideals.... and in this one, where everyone is trying their best to be very gentle to high-handedly impose Federation economic ideals taken to an almost terrifying conclusion.
Thank you for making a Quadrant-wide Genesis wave seem almost benign.
And both running up against the real world and how other individuals would exploit it, somewhat literally in this case it seems.
Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Amphicyon crashes out of subspace just as subspace itself distorts. The lurch makes my guts protest, evokes a warning bleep from the shields and the structural integrity field -
On the screen, a twisting, roiling column of eldritch flame reaches out across the stars. I slam my fist on the command chair's armrest. Too late. Too late, again.
"Tractor beam on the Arcturus Sunfire, now!"
The smuggler's ship is arcing away from the source of the blast. We learned a great deal from the facility at Gamma Occidentis, and we already had M'eioi's list of possible locations - we put the two together, and we came up with the right answer. But not quite in time.
Blue light reaches from our engineering hull, seizes the Arcturus Sunfire. "Active scans, all bands. Lock in targeting, all phaser banks. Oh, and hail them." We may as well go through the motions.
The image of the ship disappears from the viewer, replaced by a tricky-looking human face. "Captain Surella, of course. I'm Denver Serton." The voice is light, dry, urbane. "You'll notice we're offering no resistance. I've heard about you and your, ahh, direct methods."
"I will not disappoint you." I bare my teeth. "Where is Premaratne?"
"Ah, well." Serton's smile is one I would like to punch off his face. "I won't insult an officer of your undoubted perspicacity by feigning ignorance... but the fact is, I fear you're going to be disappointed. He isn't here."
"Scans are tending to confirm that, boss," says Thala, crouched over the science station.
"You know, I'm sure I read something in the Federation Charter, once, about the right to privacy," says Serton. "But never mind. No, Mr. Premaratne gave us instructions to be here - and I'm just as surprised as you are by the light show, Captain - and then he beetled off." His smile grows broader, and there is a light in his eyes, as of some fond personal reminiscence.
"We have movement orders for the device used in this light show, Serton," I say. "We know where the device was made, and where it was shipped to, and who was supposed to take delivery. Proving that you did - well, it will take a small amount of time. But we can prove it, and we will."
Serton shrugs. "So what? If Premaratne and his backers paid me to set off some pyrotechnics in empty space, light years from anyone, what concern is it of yours? I'm not seeing where I've done anything illegal, here, Captain. Under the Federation Charter, which Starfleet is sworn to uphold. Or do those rules not apply?"
"Unethical scientific experimentation's illegal under the charter," says Thala offhandedly, "and ignorance is no excuse." Serton's smile slips a little. I could warm to Thala, for once.
"Where is Premaratne?" I demand.
"He took a commercial fast shuttle," says Serton. "Really, I don't know where. He's not an easy man to get to know, Captain."
"I will accept your best guess, Serton. I suspect you make the effort to find out all there is to know about your passengers."
"Yes." Serton's smile is slowly fading. "Look, Captain, you do realize I'm simply an employee in this affair? A hired hand, nothing more. It pains me to admit it, but I'm not of any significance in this -"
"I do not discriminate, Serton. There are figures as insignificant as you in my ship's brig now."
"Well, you wouldn't want it overcrowded, I'm sure. Premaratne is - well, he's an agent. Used by some discreet persons in the Federation who want to remain discreet. So he doesn't say who he's working for. But when he lit out with Quon, it was on a VCE shuttle." The smile comes back. "In case you weren't aware, that's -"
"Adrian Vansittaert. Yes." I frown. "Wait. Lit out with Quon?"
"The redoubtable Captain Quon, yes. Last seen blissfully unconscious in Premaratne's company. I didn't ask what he was planning to do with her, it seemed indiscreet. Captain Quon caught up with me and Premaratne before you did, and she had a discussion with the gentleman. I don't think it went quite the way she planned. Though Premaratne was obviously leery of just disposing of a Trill symbiote -"
"So he took her away." My frown deepens. This is worrying. If Premaratne is taking a potential witness, and on a traceable vehicle - it implies they are not concerned about being discovered. As if their plans are about to come to fruition... and nothing after that will matter. Which was Havishaw's line, too.
"So, now you can guess where Premaratne is," says Serton, "how about going off in hot pursuit? I'm sure you're a sensible person, Captain, you know you should chase after the important people and not worry about the little ones -"
"Sir." Som Bloxx speaks up from the comms station. "There's something odd. I'm receiving an all-stations priority hail, but the ident is a civilian one -"
"What? On screen. Put this weasel on hold."
Serton's affronted face is wiped away, replaced by an abstract holding pattern. After a moment, that, too, vanishes. The scene now shows two people standing before a plain metal wall. One of them is human, tall, thin, with a long angular face. The other - My eyes widen. The other is M'eioi.
The human speaks. "For those who don't know me, my name is Adrian Vansittaert. If you're receiving this message, please, be happy, because the millennium is only a day behind it. By now, my project to stimulate Galactic Object 4704 is completed, and a new age of unlimited joy is at hand." He smiles. It looks false. "I know that's a grandiose claim, but you'll discover that I'm right. I have with me Admiral M'eioi of Starfleet's science division, who's had ample time to review my findings and confirm them. Perhaps you don't want to rely on my word, but you know you can trust Starfleet. So, I will hand this over to the Admiral, who is free to speak as she wishes, without compulsion or coercion." He turns. "Admiral M'eioi, the floor is yours. You know my plans. Please, in your own words, explain them."
M'eioi looks at him. I am not an expert in Caitian body language, but I can see her ears are folded flat to her skull, her tail is switching rapidly from side to side. "M'eioi," she says. "Admiral. Six four six dash delta dash two niner zero two seven."
Vansittaert looks briefly puzzled, but the significance is evidently lost on him. It is not lost on me. Name, rank and serial number....
"Mr. Vansittaert thinks he has a gateway to unlimited happiness for everyone," M'eioi continues. "He thinks he's persuaded me of this, too. He's wrong. What's happening here at Galactic Object 4704 is a violation of both the conventional and the temporal Prime Directive. It has to be stopped."
Vansittaert is gazing at her in what looks like confusion and mild disbelief.
"All Starfleet vessels," M'eioi continues, "proceed to GO4704 and make every possible effort to stop Vansittaert's ship, the Andrew Carnegie, from interfering further with the anomaly. You have a day. Use it. Vansittaert must be stopped, and all other considerations, including my life, are secondary. Calling the Madagascar -"
The transmission stops, is replaced by the holding pattern. I curse and slam my hand down on the chair's control panel. Alarm sirens sound.
"Helm. Get us under way."
"What about Serton?" Thala asks.
"It is his lucky day. Cut him loose. Forget Serton. Can we use quantum slipstream?"
"We've got slipstream capacity for a limited time, boss."
"Use it. Warp to GO4704, now, absolute maximum speed, every warp factor you can squeeze out of this antique."
"Sir, the Madagascar -" Bloxx begins.
"Vansittaert must think he can handle the Madagascar. He may be wrong. He evidently misjudged the Admiral." Beneath me, the Amphicyon's engines begin to growl. I lean forward in the chair. "We will find out, at first hand. And stand ready for battle stations as soon as we arrive."
The starfield appears on the viewer, and the stars stretch out into streaks of light as the warp drive engages.
Too late. We were too late to stop Serton and Vansittaert's plans here, whatever they are.
Vansittaert presses his fingertips into his temples. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, exhales. "What on Earth possessed you," he asks M'eioi, "to say something like that?"
"It's no more than the truth." The Caitian is almost vibrating with anger. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Vansittaert doesn't realize that.
"I gave you the opportunity to speak freely, without coercion -" Vansittaert draws in another deep breath. Actually, the bare little anteroom has me, M'eioi and T'Shal on one side; behind Vansittaert, on the other side, are the remaining academics, plus three armed security guards and the unlovely bulk of Mr. Premaratne, so there is a fair amount of coercion on display. "You know what my goals are -"
"Better than you," M'eioi snaps.
Vansittaert's hands drop to his sides as he stares at her. I am trying to judge the angles, to see what chance we stand - not a good one, even against the security guards and their stunners; with Premaratne lurking in the background, no chance at all. If Vansittaert comes within reach - but he won't. Not unless M'eioi can tempt him over, and I doubt her Starfleet mentality has that much deviousness.
It is hard to think. The psi field is a constant, low-level, nagging pressure on my brain. Just knowing it's there gives us some ability to resist it - but it's a continual, wearing effort. It has to be telling on the person producing it, too. I steal a glance at Vansittaert's cronies. Shemosh looks bland and calm, the picture of a Deltan academic; Tarul looks apprehensive, sneaking doubtful glances at T'Shal; Karabadian looks angry and confused, but not stressed - though his "assistant", in her metallic gold figure-hugging minidress, appears worried about something. Probably concerned she's going to lose her privileged position.
"I don't understand," Vansittaert is saying. "Are you saying you know more about the Deep Gate than I do? I assure you, you're quite wrong."
"We have proof," says T'Shal. Her hands are shaking as she holds up the PADD. She has no training in combat - real or psychic - and she has had to do the lion's share of the intellectual work, too; the strain is telling on her. "You left me with enough computational power to complete a preliminary analysis -"
A chime sounds. Vansittaert touches his wrist comm. "Madagascar is moving," a voice says. "Intercept course."
Vansittaert pulls a face. "Contingency six," he says.
"Acknowledged," the voice replies.
"Madagascar and her frigates are quite capable of dealing with your ship," says M'eioi. "And they will take my orders seriously."
"They will try a peaceful solution first," says Vansittaert. "They are Starfleet, after all."
"They will open fire and disable your ship soon enough," says M'eioi.
Vansittaert smiles. "No," he says, "not soon enough. We will engage the ship's particle generators and synchronize with the anomaly's emissions. It will be quite adequate to block any directed energy weapons, and scramble any exotic waveforms you might try to generate. I realize that your dreadnought is an impressive vessel, Admiral, but I have the full power of the anomaly on tap."
"You can't keep it up forever," says M'eioi.
"I don't have to. The Deep Gate will reach full alignment inside a day. I need less than twenty-four hours. And I'll have them."
"Alignment with what?" I ask. Vansittaert turns towards me, surprise on his long face. "Not the Nexus. You don't have anything like the power levels you would need to break through the energy gradients around the Nexus."
"It's not a question of power," says Vansittaert. "It's a question of finesse."
I meet his gaze and hold it. "Finesse," I say, and I let my voice drip scorn. "Yes, you've been finessed, all right."
"You practiced a deception upon me," says T'Shal, "and it was reinforced by the constant presence of a psionic field. You have erred, however, in supposing that a similar deception could not be practiced upon you."
"You've been used, Vansittaert," adds M'eioi.
"This is absurd," says Vansittaert. "Psionic field? I never asked for any psionic field -"
He stops. He turns. His accusing gaze focuses on Karabadian.
The portly human's face turns the colour of uncooked dough. "You think I -? You believe them?"
"You are my resident expert on psi effects," says Vansittaert.
"I - I am a theoretician!" Karabadian sputters. "I am a scientist! Not some, some mind-controlling mountebank!"
"We have proof." T'Shal's voice is desperately tired, now.
"You have proof of nothing!" cries Karabadian. "I am a genuine scientist, a visionary! And I am dedicated to this project and its aims! You have no right to accuse me!" He shakes a fat finger at T'Shal.
"Professor T'Shal has always been a reliable source of information for the project," says Vansittaert slowly. "I think I would like to hear what she has to say."
"Well, I do not!" snarls Karabadian. "I will not stay to be accused and insulted!" And he stumps off towards the doorway. A guard makes a move to stop him, is checked by a motion of Vansittaert's hand. He reaches the door, turns, and says, "Come, Natalia." Khoklova glances around, her drawn face uncertain. "Come, Natalia," Karabadian repeats, more forcefully. Reluctantly, Khoklova slinks out behind him. The door hisses shut.
"If he is attempting mental influence," says Vansittaert, "then removing him from our proximity will help."
Has the pressure in my skull lessened? I'm not sure I can tell.
"Galactic Object 4704 is a fascinating thing," says T'Shal. "Now we know what it really is.... It must have formed at a very early stage of this galaxy's life, a standing wave in the gravitational field of the central supermassive black hole. In a sense, you are correct - its employment is a matter of finesse. Essentially, it is an antichroniton reservoir, a node which collects and stores quantum particles from other timestreams. It is a point of balance between multiple alternative states of existence."
"I've seen your mission pod," says M'eioi. "We figured out how it must work. You place someone inside the anomaly, at the centre of the stressed-space field. Your pod must contain psi amplifiers that broadcast the impulses of a sentient mind into the anomaly. We know you've sensitized it to psi fields."
"And, once it reaches a certain critical limit," says T'Shal, "once the antichroniton reservoir is sufficiently full, as it were, and the anomaly's interaction with normal space is correctly configured -"
"Something less than a day from now," I put in.
"- then the sentient mind inside the psi amplifiers will be able to resolve the anomaly's power into a new quantum state. One of its own choosing."
"Yes," says Vansittaert, "yes, I know. That's how we're going to bridge the energy gradient to the Nexus -"
"No," says M'eioi. "No, the Nexus is an anomaly itself, there is no possible timeline you can use to bring it into the real universe. But whoever's operating that device will be in a position to choose any timeline that is possible. And it's not going to be you, is it, Vansittaert? I'm sure Karabadian fed you a very plausible line, about how you shouldn't risk your precious brain inside those untested psi amplifiers, how he would gladly brave the danger in your place. Because the antichroniton reservoir is depleted when it's used. In fact, the subspace shock will unravel GO4704 completely, it will be gone for good. It is a wishing machine, Vansittaert. But it only grants one wish. And it's not going to be yours."
Vansittaert blinks, slowly. "You do sound very convinced," he says. "Almost convincing, in fact. But you're wrong. It wasn't Karabadian who volunteered to take control of the device. It was -"
We all turn as one.
Shemosh's face is paper-white, twisted with emotion, and the naked emotional need is radiating from him. "Please." His voice is hoarse. "Please - you must let me - you must -"
"You?" says T'Shal. "This is... this is illogical."
"Please." The word is backed by the full force of his Deltan pheromones, and it is awful to hear.
"You," says Vansittaert blankly. "You wanted to use me -"
He stops. He shuts his eyes, and his lips move for a moment, rapidly and soundlessly.
Then he opens his eyes again. "It changes nothing," he says.
"What?" says M'eioi.
"Nothing. Nothing at all." He waves an imperious hand at the guards. "Take them to the mission pod. Collect that idiot Karabadian, bring him too." There is anger on his long face, and madness in his eyes. "I'll make sure you all have ringside seats. One chance? To change the universe for the better? I'll take that chance. I can do it. I can make the right choice, the right choice for everyone. You can watch me do it. I'll show you. I'll show you all."
It is almost a surprise when we emerge from subspace without some sort of disruption. There is activity on the sensors, though, a great deal of it. I study the viewscreen for a moment, trying to establish what is happening.
Galactic Object 4704 has dimmed to the point of near invisibility, a mere smudge of light among the stars. The huge shape of the Andrew Carnegie is floating almost at the centre of the anomaly, its image flickering a little on the screen, as if a heat haze is playing around it.
Some kilometres away, Madagascar is flaring with violet lightning, flashes and sparks as long as my ship, as bright as the sun. Lines of flickering light reach out to the four frigate-class auxiliaries, each of which is also spitting brilliant sparks. I have no idea what it is trying to accomplish, but it looks formidable.
"Lieutenant Lillian. Check sensors. Tell me what is happening here. Lieutenant Bloxx. Hail the Madagascar. Find out what they think is happening here." I settle back in my chair.
It takes only a few moments before the screen flickers, and a human face appears on it. Commander Marya Kothe, I remember, M'eioi's exec. "Captain Surella. Glad to see you."
"Status report, Commander."
Kothe is military enough not to waste further words. "The Carnegie has retreated into an energy zone around GO4704. We think it's tapping the anomaly's own energy to set up a radiation exclusion field. Directed energy weapons are useless, transporter interdiction is total, and the anomaly's generating low-level gravitational shockwaves which make it impossible to target torpedoes or send shuttlecraft - the local turbulence stops them in their tracks. We're trying to use Madagascar's particle emitters to generate a counter field, but we've had no luck yet."
"What of Admiral M'eioi?"
"We can't isolate any specific life signs aboard the Carnegie. In any case -" Kothe's face turns grim. "Her orders were explicit, sir."
Stop the Carnegie first, at all costs. And precious hours have passed since then - "Very well. How can we assist?"
"I don't think Amphicyon has the specialist emitters we need to break through. If you can think of any other way to take down the Carnegie - feel free, sir."
"Very well." Thoughts are forming in my mind. "I will keep you informed. Amphicyon out."
The image of the monstrous ship in the anomaly reappears. I continue to think. "Gravitational turbulence. How extreme?"
"Intermittent scale three grav pulses, sir," says Lillian promptly. "We can't get a firing solution for torpedoes, and our shuttles would be tossed all over the sky before they could make a docking seal -"
"Quite," I say. "Helm. Steer three five zero mark one. Thrusters only." Niquoeb shoots me a puzzled glance, but complies. Amphicyon starts to move, slowly.
"A big ship," I muse, "but it has the usual control points. Main engineering. Computer core. Bridge, auxiliary control, life support. I assume there is disruption on the comms channels, too?"
"Lots of jamming, sir," Som Bloxx confirms.
"Then pass the word among the crew. There will be consistent design patterns, there will be signage, even, telling us where those critical areas are...."
"If we could get anyone aboard to find them, boss," says Thala.
"That need not be a problem. All stop. Thrusters to station keeping. But turn the ship, heading seven seven mark zero."
Amphicyon comes about. The Carnegie is broadside on to us now, still shimmering slightly, but with her full length exposed. From her stern, I note, a glimmering line - a force-field docking tube, it looks like - connects with a mission pod, separated from the engineering hull. The pod is in the very centre of GO4704. A single volley would destroy it... if we could fire effectively....
"Scale three gravimetric disturbance. Enough to throw around a torpedo or a shuttle. So, we ourselves must be the weapon." My finger stabs at the general address switch. "All hands. Brace for impact, and prepare for combat. Full power to impulse. Ramming speed."
And now there is shuddering and trembling, as the Amphicyon surges forwards, into the gravity waves. Niquoeb is wrestling with the helm controls, trying to keep our course straight. A blue light reaches out from the Carnegie, and Thala snarls, "Polarizing hull!" The tractor beam glances off our energized hull plating -
- and the inertial dampers and SI fields shriek alarms, as the dull crash of impact echoes through the ship. I grip the armrests tightly to avoid being thrown from the chair. A low groaning sound, as of structural members stressed beyond endurance, makes itself heard. There is nothing on the viewer but static.
I rise from my seat. The phaser at my hip might be useless, but my mek'leth will still work. "Lillian. Coordinate with Madagascar, try to break the damping field. Niquoeb. Work the helm, see if you can force the Carnegie clear of the anomaly. Thala. You have the ship."
"Where will you be?" Thala sounds almost resigned.
"Where I should be." My hand comes down on the general address switch again. "All warriors! Assemble in the forward saucer section! Board and storm!"
---
I have, at least, judged my aim correctly. Amphicyon has crashed into the Carnegie's midsection, the part that started life as a Risian cruise liner. Our saucer section is crushed into its upper hull, where gigantic picture windows offer a view of space to the passengers in a charming artificial lagoon. Charming and vulnerable.
My inner ear protests as I make my way through hull breaches, across two wavering and incompatible artificial gravity fields. There is a cold wind blowing. Both ships are leaking atmosphere at a frantic rate.
Down becomes unambiguous, and my boots squelch into wet sand. "Fan out! Find the exits!" I shout to the security troops behind me. The water level in the lagoon is much lower than it should be; coral reefs are exposed, gaily coloured fish are flapping weakly on suddenly dry land. The deck plating beneath us must have buckled. This is good; a sudden deluge of salt water on the decks below us can only add to our enemies' problems. I lope across the uneven ground, scanning it for hidden threats, and an access point into the body of the ship.
A collapsed structure of flimsy wood and vegetable fibres - I think it is called a tiki bar - yields my first find. I spot a flash of gold within it, tear a panel aside with my free hand - and find myself staring at a light-haired human female, wearing a tight-fitting gold garment that displays her femininity in a very obvious manner.
"Please don't hurt me," she squeals.
"I am a Starfleet officer. You are in no danger, unless you offer resistance. Who are you?"
"Natalia Khoklova. Please don't hurt me." She sniffles. "I don't know anything. They never -"
"Where is Vansittaert? Where is he keeping Admiral M'eioi?"
"I don't -" Her eyes are wide, and something changes in them.
I snarl and spin around, slashing with the mek'leth. It strikes something, something which explodes with a bang and a shower of sparks. An electrical stun baton, I realize, wielded by a stocky human in a black uniform. He stares at the ruined weapon for a tenth of a second, until I strike him between the eyes with the mek'leth's pommel, and he collapses onto the wet sand.
Security forces. And their phaser-based stun weapons are no more effective than ours, but they have these crude electrical prods - I can see my troops in conflict with them, in several places, already. I smile. These batons will not prove an advantage, not against Starfleet combat training.
I turn back to Khoklova, who cowers. "Where is Admiral M'eioi?"
She swallows. "Mr. Vansittaert took them all to the mission pod. As witnesses, he said. He wanted them to watch. He didn't want me, I'm nobody, I'm not important -"
"Remain where you are, and offer no resistance, and you will not be harmed." The mission pod. It was a reasonable assumption anyway, and this only confirms it. I must find the main entrance to this pleasure palace, and make my way into the body of the ship. I do not spare Khoklova a second glance as I head for a promising-looking archway on the nearest wall.
My combadge bleeps at me. Surprising. I had thought the comms jamming would be total. "Surella."
"Captain." Lillian's voice, slightly scratchy with interference. "I've routed some suggested waveforms from Madagascar through our deflector dish. We can't neutralize the exclusion field, but we can open up a few frequencies, for comms and weapons -"
"Opening nadion frequencies for our phasers will activate the enemy's stunners, too," I growl.
"Yes, sir. But I remembered you were carrying your antique phaser, sir, and its frequencies are slightly different. You should find -"
I open my eyes wide. Despite myself, I am impressed. "You have given me the only working gun on this ship? Qapla', Lieutenant."
"I hope so, sir. We'll carry on working -"
"Do so. Surella out."
I say this, because the door in the archway is opening up, and there are people behind it, ready to come through. I crouch down, draw the phaser, twist the selector to heavy stun.
Black-clad forms are spilling through the archway. I take aim at the nearest of them, and press the trigger.
The phaser makes a very gratifying sizzling hiss, and the man drops, poleaxed, as the stun beam wraps him in an orange glare.
I turn towards the group behind him, and, with a flick of my wrist, fan a beam across them. It will not strike any one with force enough to stun - merely to numb, confuse, startle and shock them.
There is a shriek as one guard drops his stun baton into the salt water he is standing in. The others mill around, confused. I spray another beam across them. Numbed, confused, startled, shocked and cowed, now. And my own security details are gathering behind me -
I move forwards, concentrating on one figure, with gold-striped epaulettes and a gold-braided cap. When dealing with private security forces, one should always start with the one in the most impressive hat.
I push him to the ground, and he barely resists. I cannot resist the temptation. "HoD Qotlh jIH. Qotlh BortaS," I growl, "je Dujvam tevwI maj."
He just gawps at me. Not a devotee of Battlecruiser Vengeance, then. "I am Captain Surella of the USS Amphicyon," I tell him, "and this ship is now under Starfleet authority. Who are you?"
"Parlabane," he says. "Commander Parlabane. Head of security."
"Excellent. Then you can tell your troops to stand down and await arrest. It will save time for us, and unpleasantness for them. How do I get to the mission pod?"
"It's -" He shakes his head. "There's nothing you can do. It's self-contained, Mr. Vansittaert doesn't need the rest of the ship, not in the time that's left, there must be only minutes to go -" I reach for his collar, and give him a gentle shake to stop his gabbling.
"Take me there," I order him.
"There's nothing you can do," he whines.
I shake him again. "Take me there. And we will see what I can do."
Only discovered this thread a few days ago. Made my day to see there was a new instalment again. Just popping up to say I love your characters (I don't usually enjoy reading about Klingons but Surella is great), I love your details and I love USS Amphicyon's name! I'm sure Surella thinks it's appropriate... If she comes through this alive, she'll be happy - now through no fault of her own they'll have to give her a new ship. Hopefully it won't be an NX01.
The interior of the mission pod is a single, spherical, space. A broad metal walkway runs around the waist of the hollow sphere, and a narrow catwalk crosses it from one side to the other. I can see machinery - exotic particle manipulators, I think - all pointing inwards towards the centre of the sphere.
Someone standing at the middle of that catwalk would be at the focal point of all that machinery. And, presumably, the full power of the anomaly, too.
I tug at my bonds, but it is useless. The bonds are - peculiar. There are holo-emitters in the mission pod, and Vansittaert has activated his holographic flunkeys. So, Abercrombie is holding my wrists in an unbreakable grip, and Boucher is holding Quon, and Calvert is holding T'Shal. The holograms might look like ordinary human business people, without the level of physical training that Quon and I have... but their photonic limbs are locked in position, and they will hold with all the power the holo-emitters can put out.
Shemosh and T'Shal's assistant Tarul are here, too, shackled to the wall by more conventional chains. Tarul looks blank and confused, and as for Shemosh... the waves of sheer despair emanating from him are almost tangible.
They don't seem to be bothering Vansittaert or Premaratne, though. They are moving around the walkway, checking instruments, methodically, imperturbably.
Now Vansittaert comes near to me, and smiles that uncomfortable smile. "Not long now," he says. "The pod is in position, and the anomaly's power is nearly at its peak."
"And when it reaches the peak?" I tug at Abercrombie's immobile hands, uselessly.
"All I need do is cross the focus of the emitters," says Vansittaert, "and - well. I suppose I owe you thanks, for pointing out what is really going to happen. The psi receptors are tuned to the anomaly's frequencies, and they will transmit my wishes to the anomaly, and the anomaly's... perspective... into my mind. All I need to do is choose what I want."
My gaze turns towards Shemosh. I wonder what he was planning to choose.
"It won't work," I insist. "You can't decide how to shape the world. You don't have the insight, the wisdom. Nobody does. We're talking about the whole of history here."
"I've been making decisions at the very highest level for decades," says Vansittaert. "I don't think I'm an arrogant man, Admiral, but I know very well that the choices I make affect other people's lives, many other people's lives. I flatter myself that I have, in general, chosen wisely. And I will choose wisely now."
"You think." There is no give in the holographic fingers. "But you would need to be sure, Vansittaert, and you can't be. And you know what? Even if you did have the wisdom, you still wouldn't have the right."
"I can bring happiness and fulfilment to every person in the galaxy," Vansittaert says. "How can I have the right to refrain from that?"
"Your idea of happiness, your idea of fulfilment. What about the people who disagree with you?"
"I'm not inhuman, Admiral. I will try to save as many of them as I can."
I hiss in exasperation. "You're looking at the whole galaxy as if it's full of lay figures. Like these holograms." I jerk my head towards Abercrombie's frozen face. "At base, you think of all of us like these artificial yes-men of yours."
"That's unfair of you, Admiral. My photonic assistants have their uses, but I have always known they were never fully human. Obviously, actual sentient beings are quite different from these, as you put it, lay figures. They have their uses, as sounding boards, interlocutors - means for me to develop my ideas."
I shake my head. "Slaves."
"Obedient machinery. Unless you think of all machines as slaves? I don't think you can be that foolish, Admiral."
For the first time since they brought us here, Quon speaks up. "Slaves, yes," she says. "Did you know, in ancient Rome, they gave a victorious general a triumph, a huge celebration to tell him how good he was? Only they detailed one slave to stay with him, all the time, telling him, every so often, 'Remember you are mortal'." She snarls at him. "You could use one of those guys, Vansittaert."
"It sounds a waste of resources. I know I'm mortal, Captain. Though that may change, perhaps -"
A shudder seems to run through the pod for an instant. Vansittaert quirks an eyebrow, picks up a PADD and consults it. "Hmm. Main power failure." Hope must have shown in my face, for he turns to me and shakes his head. "The pod's auxiliary power is quite enough, I do assure you."
"Attention." A voice blasts suddenly over the intercom, a familiar voice, a surprisingly welcome voice. "This is Captain Surella of the USS Amphicyon. This ship is now in Starfleet hands. Occupants of the mission pod, stand down, release your captives, and refrain from any further interference with the anomaly. This will be your only warning."
Vansittaert frowns. "I suppose I could turn off the boarding tube to the engineering hull... but it might make things inconvenient, getting back afterwards."
"If I may?" The obsequious and gravelly tones of Premaratne. The big cyborg lumbers towards Vansittaert. "You employ me, sir, to minimize and remove inconvenience."
"How very true." Vansittaert considers. "Very well, Mr. Premaratne. If I know Klingons, Captain Surella will want to be inconvenient in person. Meet her in the boarding tube. Dissuade her."
Premaratne nods, once, and walks away.
"It needn't be for long," says Vansittaert, speaking to himself more than to me. "It won't be long at all. Just a few minutes, now. Just a few minutes...."
I take a deep breath and step through the round hatch. Beyond, the spartan interior of an airlock chamber, and another round hatchway before me. I check the control panel beside the hatch.
The boarding tube is a force-field cylinder, tethering the mission pod to the hull of the ship. The parameters of the tube... concern me, somewhat. Damage from the collision has shifted it to a backup power supply - and, I am painfully aware, Vansittaert has controls at the other end which can simply turn it off. Well. Transporter operations are still impossible, so this is the only way in. I must take it.
I hit the main switch, and the door behind me closes, as the one before me swings open.
There is a walkway - a collapsible, extensible thing, metal plates slung between wires, more guide wires at waist height. I step gingerly onto the first plate. It bears my weight easily enough. The ship's artificial gravity field is being conducted along the force field walls.... Those walls are blue and sparkling, nearly transparent, and beyond them I can see space and stars. The anomaly has ceased to radiate in visible light. I have a terrible suspicion that that is a bad sign.
The docking tube is perhaps a hundred and fifty metres long, and at the far end, I can see another doorway... and, in front of it, a hulking humanoid shape. I snarl, and draw my phaser, and send a burning orange bolt squarely down the length of the tube.
The figure does not fall. I fire again. The figure does not even move. It must be Premaratne, there is no other reasonable explanation. And his cyborg augmentation must include personal shielding, strong enough that a hand weapon cannot penetrate it.
I toss the phaser back into the airlock chamber. It is no use to me, and if Premaratne seizes it, I am not immune to it - I scowl, and advance.
The metal plates shift and sway beneath my feet, the guide wires sing from strain. I try not to think about what will happen if they fail.
Premaratne remains motionless as I advance. I have heard quite enough about him, but this is the first time I have seen him. He is massive, ponderous. Human martial arts styles mostly emphasize swiftness, precision, balance; there are a few exceptions, such as the one they call sumo. But I must not expect him to fight like a human. He is most likely trained, even programmed, with moves from the Klingon and the Gorn martial traditions, ones which emphasize strength, power, endurance.
Yes. He will be a martial artist of great skill, bigger than me, stronger than me, armed and armoured in ways I am not. This will be an honourable battle. My challenge, then, is to make it a victorious one.
"This ship is under Starfleet jurisdiction," I snap at him, once I am close enough for him to hear me. "You and your employer are under arrest, on charges of illicit experimentation and the false imprisonment of a Starfleet officer. Stand down."
He looks at me calmly with those mismatched eyes of his. Well, I knew it would not work, but it had to be said. Duty demanded it.
"Captain Surella." His voice, though low-pitched, is surprisingly mild. "I regret that I may not comply with your instructions. My employer is about to begin the final phase of his operations. He must not be inconvenienced in any way."
"Stand aside," I snarl at him.
"You must know," he says, still in a maddeningly reasonable voice, "that Mr. Vansittaert's intentions are wholly beneficent. Captain, I must request you, in the strongest possible terms, to desist from interfering. I cannot answer for the consequences if you remain obdurate."
I have no words for him, now, only a hiss of rage.
Premaratne sighs. "As you wish," he says, and moves.
He moves fast. A Ferasan pounce move, seemingly impossible with that heavy frame and ungainly limbs - but the servos in his body make him fast as a Ferasan. But his body turns slightly, and his left arm comes around - A Gorn-style power grab. I was right about his programming.
Unfortunately, predicting it is one thing, avoiding it is another. I throw myself forward, colliding with his massive boulder of a belly, pummelling him savagely - then I duck aside, away from his encircling arm. My blows have no effect. And I am not quite fast enough - he does not get a grip, but his fingertips pluck at my shoulder -
Instant agony flares through me, followed by numbness. Stun field inducers, built into his fingertips - I stagger into the guide wire, and my feet stumble on the metal plates, and suddenly I am falling. My right arm is numbed, paralysed, useless. I reach out, desperate, with my left hand, catch the edge of a metal plate -
And I am dangling, one-handed, from the walkway, with the force field sparkling beneath me, and Premaratne turns to look down at me with mismatched green eyes.
He raises one spatulate foot above my straining fingertips.
My flailing feet touch the force field, and with a desperate effort I jack-knife my body, throw one leg over the walkway, snatch my hand aside just before the foot descends. The walkway rocks and bounces with the force of the impact, and I give a wordless yell, catch myself before I fall, and roll, clumsily, into him as he tries to regain his balance.
He gives a grunt of surprise - I have achieved that much, at least - and catches himself on the waist-high guide wire -
There is a high, thin, metallic sound as it breaks.
Premaratne falls forwards, and I swing my other leg clear of his snatching hands. His massive frame crashes into the force field, and there is a sudden blast of freezing air.
Too dense. He is too dense, with all that mass of machinery and power cells and armour inside him, and the tube's controlling computer is not quick enough to switch out of low-power mode and reinforce the field. Accompanied by a scream of escaping air, Premaratne falls through the force field wall and drifts, slowly, into the void beyond. After a moment, I can see his last breath escaping from his mouth, leaving a comet-trail of frozen vapours behind as he spins lazily away into space.
Trembling, I haul myself upright. The force field is stabilizing, though the drop in air pressure has made everything very cold. Sensation is returning to my right arm - pins and needles, as the stunned nerves begin to function again. I flex my fingers. I wish I had not.
Focus. I am a Starfleet officer and a Klingon warrior. Focus. Pain is not important. Not while I have my duty.
No time to go back for the phaser. I still have my mek'leth - I did not even draw it against Premaratne, I knew it would be useless. I draw it now. I will face down Vansittaert with my weapon in my hand.
The walkway sags a little, but remains stable while I reach the hatchway.
It is locked. No matter. This is a standard design, it takes me only a moment to find the manual override and hand-crank the door open. The exercise even makes my right arm feel a little better.
I take a firm grip on the mek'leth, step into the airlock, close the outer door behind me. The inner one opens automatically, now.
Beyond it -
A huge hollow space, with a walkway around the middle, and on the opposite side from me, I see Vansittaert, and M'eioi, and others. And, thankfully, besides the circular walkway around the room, there is a narrow catwalk cutting straight across the middle.
Vansittaert screams something as I charge, along the catwalk, straight towards him.
Nothing happens. That's the bizarre thing. Nothing happens.
Vansittaert stands there with his mouth gaping comically open, and Surella charges across the catwalk, straight through the focus of the psi emitters. There's a brief moment when she seems to falter, that's all - and is there a tiny change in the humming sound of the machinery all around us? - but that's it. If it's even there.
"Captain, ahh, Surella," Vansittaert begins.
He never finishes. Surella's face is locked into a scowl of sheer Klingon rage, and she draws her mek'leth and slashes with it in one fluid, brutal movement.
There is a sudden stink of blood in the chamber's aseptic air.
Vansittaert's knees buckle and his body drops, heavily, to the deck. His head flies through the air, bounces off a railing, falls into the complex tangle of machinery beneath us.
Surella draws in a deep breath. With a visible effort, she composes herself. She turns towards M'eioi, snaps to full attention. "Permission requested to terminate hostilities, Admiral," she says.
There is only a faint quiver in the Caitian's voice as she replies, "Permission granted, Captain."
Surella nods. She touches her combadge. "Surella to Amphicyon. Have the jamming fields dropped?"
A woman's voice replies, "The anomaly's vanished, sir. There's some local jamming still from stations on the Carnegie, but security's shutting them down. We can get through them in any event."
"Very good. Transport field technicians to the mission pod, now, with capability to disable and remove holograms." Her gaze switches to Tarul and the inconsolably sobbing Shemosh. "We may also need conventional cutting gear. And a medic or two, as a precaution."
"Nobody's been hurt, much," I say. Surella ignores me.
"Team assembling in the transporter room now," says the woman. "Uh, we've detected some shuttle launches from the Carnegie, with human life signs aboard. I don't know if you want us to try and intercept -"
"I imagine many members of Vansittaert's staff will want to flee," says Surella. "We can pick them up later, if need be, when they return to the Federation -"
"One of them's probably Karabadian," I say. Surella turns to me. "Professor Karabadian. We think he's the psi adept Vansittaert was using to fog people's minds around here. And that someone else was using to fog Vansittaert's mind." I glance meaningfully at Shemosh. Vansittaert's security people never brought Karabadian to the mission pod, and I think that's because Karabadian knew full well the jig was up.
Amazingly, Shemosh giggles - a high-pitched, manic tittering that doesn't speak well for his mental health. "Karabadian? No, no, no...."
Whining columns of blue, sparkling light appear, resolve themselves into Starfleet techs and medics. Three of them aim tricorders at me, T'Shal and M'eioi. The holograms, still holding us in their unfailing grip, wink out of existence.
I rub my wrists, trying to get some feeling back into them. Techs with cutters are liberating Tarul and Shemosh. The Deltan continues to giggle.
M'eioi goes over to him, picking her way daintily around the gruesome spreading pool beside Vansittaert's corpse. She kneels down beside him, her grass-green eyes almost kindly in her black face. "What was it all about?" she asks. "You can tell us now, surely?"
Shemosh draws in a deep, ragged breath. "I was working on it," he said, "working on the object... when the news came. Hobus. I had just... I had just worked out what it was...."
"The supernova? What happened?"
Shemosh swallows. "GO4704 is a function of the galaxy's central black hole, and its interaction with the subspace matrix. Any galaxy with a supermassive black hole can have one like it, but circumstances - random interference from other anomalies, incident radiation in certain wavebands - usually conspire to prevent their formation or destabilize them after a short time. I was so happy when I found the records of GO4704, realized it conformed to my theoretical predictions - and then - Hobus. My parents, my whole family - they were traders, and their ship passed too close to the blast wave. But I knew - I knew - the anomaly was reaching its final phase, that within a century at most it would activate spontaneously and dissipate. I knew I could use it. Could alter the antichroniton absorption rate, could project a psi matrix... I knew." He coughs, proceeds in a dry and academic tone. "The details are not without interest. I will present my unmodified data to the Vulcan Science Academy, if I may. It is potentially valuable."
"To find more of these.... things?" M'eioi asks.
Shemosh shakes his head. "The next nearest one is in a galaxy twenty-seven million parsecs away. And the antichroniton decay rates indicate it won't be... ready... for another twenty thousand years. One chance. I had one chance...." Tears begin to run down his cheeks.
"To undo Hobus?" asks M'eioi, and then answers herself. "No. You wouldn't take that big a risk with history, would you? Just to divert the ship. To save your family."
"I could see how to do it," says Shemosh. "I knew."
"But time travel is strictly regulated," I say, "and for the best possible reasons - you can't predict the repercussions of even a minimal change. So there was no way you could ask anyone for permission -"
"Yes." His voice is suddenly stronger. "Yes, I acted illegally and unethically. And I'll take the consequences. But would you have done anything differently?" His bloodshot gaze rakes the room, challenging and accusing all of us. "Could you have?"
I could refute him. I've had hosts before, will have again; I have fond memories, and more than memories, of all of them... but I know that the time comes, finally, to move on, to let go. To accept change, and the finality of change. To let the past stay past.
I could refute him. I choose not to. Let him keep his illusion. It's all he has left.
"So you attached yourself to Vansittaert, who had the resources you needed," T'Shal says, "and you effectively employed me and my team to work out the technical details, while Karabadian's psi talent -"
Shemosh laughs again, a raw and unhealthy sound. "Karabadian is nothing. He's a dupe, a fool. His so-called assistant, though -"
"What?" says M'eioi.
"Natalia Khoklova is a human mutant," says Shemosh. "With a substantial psi index, and ability in telepathic hypnosis and projective coercion. She was exactly what I needed to keep Vansittaert and the others in line. And, of course, she herself was quite susceptible to... traditional Deltan methods of persuasion." He shakes his head. "I said, I have acted unethically."
Surella's face is a picture of chagrin. "Natalia Khoklova?" she says. "Light hair, scanty dress, attractive in an Earth-human sort of way?"
"You've met her, then?" says M'eioi.
"I let her go," says Surella. The expression on her face is priceless. It's almost worth the drubbings I've taken through this whole sorry business.
"We'll catch up with her," says M'eioi confidently, and rises to her feet. "You're right, of course," she says to Shemosh, "we will have to take you into custody. And then -" She looks around her, and sighs. "Then we'll have to make a start on cleaning up this mess."
"Whit in the guid Lord's name did ye dae, woman?" Carolyn Caird yells at Surella.
The team from Temporal Investigations arrived aboard the Madagascar ahead of every other Starfleet ship. It's headed up by Caird and her associate T'Mev, an elegant Vulcan woman in science division uniform... whose Vulcan imperturbability is starting to look distinctly ragged around the edges.
"We have cross-checked from our external temporal observatories." T'Mev looks at Surella, across the conference room table, with something approaching hostility. "The antichroniton discharge from the dissolution of GO4704 registered strongly, of course. But our most detailed study discloses no timeline variations, no paradoxical loops, no divergent timestreams -"
"But th' energy frae yon bubble o' nowt had tae gae somewhere," Caird interrupts, "so Ah'm askin' ye again, lassie, whit did ye dae?"
Surella just narrows her eyes. Maybe the defect in Caird's translator means she's not getting through to the Klingon... but I don't think so. In fact, I think I know what the answer is, now.
"She didn't do anything." I say. "Am I right, Captain?"
Surella smiles, a slight, wry smile. "That is correct, sir."
T'Mev closes her eyes, opens them again after enough time to count to ten. Caird just sits there and gawps.
"Vansittaert's machinery synchronized your mind with the anomaly," I continue, "and put you in effective control of the antichroniton discharge. Did it work properly? What did it feel like?"
"I... do not believe I can answer that, sir," says Surella. "The device put a vision of the entire universe into my head - but the device is no longer functional, and my head is not large enough to contain the memory. Considering that it was assembled by deluded and dishonest people, on a basis of ad hoc and unethical experimentation, I suppose I am lucky to have retained my sanity."
Caird finds her voice. "But in that moment... ye saw th' whole o' time?"
"Yes," says Surella shortly.
"And ye could see how tae use that energy?"
"Again," says Surella, "yes."
"You had the power to remake the world," I say. "But that wasn't good enough, was it? You had the power, but you didn't have the right."
"Self-evidently," says Surella. "It would have been a direct violation of Starfleet General Order Number One. And my own culture has views on the subject, too. To impose one's will on another by strength may be acceptable, but to completely suppress other people's self-determination -" She shakes her head.
"Dishonourable," I say.
"Yes, sir," says Surella.
"So let me get this straight in ma heid," says Caird. "Ye stepped into Vansittaert's gadget, an' it gi'ed ye th' power tae rearrange history... an' ye took a look at it, an' put it back the way ye found it?"
"It was the only honourable course of action," says Surella. Her dark gaze rests on me. "I am glad that one of my superior officers understands Klingon honour, at least."
"Aye," says Caird. "Ah s'pose there might be some timeline, somewhere, where Ah can understand it... but, aye, Ah see yer point."
"It is consistent with our external observations, at least," says T'Mev. She stabs decisively at a PADD. "We shall mark this incident as closed, then."
"Aye, Ah reckon so," says Caird. She gazes at Surella with something approaching admiration. "Someone wi' access tae temporal technology, who disnae get an urge tae meddle? We should hae ye stuffed, lassie."
---
"There are a few things we need to deal with," I say to Surella, as we walk down the long echoing corridor towards the transporter room. "Khoklova, Quon... Vansittaert."
"Starfleet Intelligence and Federation Security have been informed about Khoklova," Surella says crisply. "I am unsure what legal sanction can be brought against her, since Shemosh has admitted using undue influence over her... but she is a psi adept, and potentially a dangerous one. As for Quon -" She shrugs. "She was an employee only, and a dupe. And I gather she was some use to you, in realizing the real situation. In the circumstances, there is no reason to prosecute Quon. Even," she adds tartly, "if the Symbiosis Commission would permit it."
"Which leaves the question of Vansittaert," I say.
"Technically, sir, he was still in a state of open hostility to the Federation. I know that the anomaly vanished as soon as I had... interacted with it... but he still had resources and presented a clear and present potential danger."
"That's the line you're taking?"
"It is the correct one, sir, in terms of the applicable law. If you want a better explanation -"
"I think I do." Vansittaert was a billionnaire, a political as well as a financial operator. A Starfleet captain can't behead someone like that without consequences, and it doesn't matter if she was technically in the right. Maybe it's not fair, but it's the way the world works.
"He deserved it," Surella says shortly. "I could see - He set up that device, sir. There was no way he would have refrained from using it. And we could not have trusted his judgement, sir, as to what constitutes a perfect world."
"No. No, I suppose not. But once you'd used up the anomaly -"
"People like Vansittaert do not reach their positions by giving up, sir. He would have pleaded undue mental influence, like Khoklova and the others. He would most likely have received only a token punishment for his actions, if that." Surella's dark eyes take on a haunted look. "And then he would have found some other outlet for his benevolence."
"Yes," I say softly, "yes, I suppose he would."
"If you will pardon me saying so, sir...." Normally so direct, she appears suddenly diffident. "I think this incident... might have shown you something. About how the other half lives."
"How so?"
"You and I both know, sir, that Starfleet and the Federation mean well enough. But half the people of the quadrant... when they dream of Federation benevolence, they wake screaming."
"I... see." I do see. And she's right. Because most of the evil in the world is done, not by people setting out to be evil... but by people, honest and sincere people, trying their best to do good. "We're not all like Vansittaert, though," I protest, weakly. "We don't have his resources, or his self-belief. Vansittaert... had no brakes. He was out of control."
"Yes, sir. I appreciate that. That is why I cut off his head."
"All right. You win, Captain. I will back you at the court of inquiry." She deserves that much from me, at the very least.
"Thank you, sir." We've reached the transporter room, at last. Surella steps onto the pad.
"One last thing, Captain," I say.
"Sir?"
"I realize your position in Starfleet is - well, less than ideal." Between residual prejudice against the traditional enemy, and simple bungling bureaucracy, that is certainly true. "If you ever need a recommendation, a positive performance reference, anything of that sort - you can call on me."
Surella looks hard at me, then gives a brusque nod. "Thank you, sir. In an ideal egalitarian state like the Federation, such things should not matter. However - well, it seems they do." Her mouth twists in a wry smile. "Just look at Captain Quon."
"I'm not sure I can get you an Ouroboros-class raider," I say. "But good luck, anyway."
"Thank you again, sir." She turns to the transporter operator. "Energize."
I am in something of a pensive mood as I make my way back to the bridge. The impression of my - experience - in Vansittaert's device has already faded, as I said; it was something too vast for a single brain to encompass, unaided. Nonetheless, I cannot help but wonder - should I have taken that opportunity? Did I do, or not do, the right thing?
Well, it is something, I suppose, to have turned down the chance to become a god.
Any mood of self-congratulation I might have had, though, is punctured as Thala hands me a PADD with the laconic comment, "Damage report, boss."
The Madagascar has tractored my ship away from the Carnegie, and the atmosphere leaks from both ships have been sealed. I study the PADD. It is not as bad as I feared; the forward decks of the main saucer are open to vacuum, true, and several strategically placed crumple zones have crumpled according to design... but Amphicyon's inertial dampers and high-intensity SI fields handled the impact well; we are functional, even warp-capable, though battle-ready might be too much to expect....
"Better than I thought," I remark aloud.
"Better than the Carnegie, that's for sure, boss," says Thala. "We broke her main structural unit - the keel, if you like. With that out of alignment, they can't restore their SI fields, and without those, they can't run drives - or tractor the ship away without it breaking up. Unless someone comes out here and builds a spaceyard around them, they're stuck here."
Vansittaert's giant ship, on the screen, does have something of a broken-backed look to it. I grunt. "Well. There was already a hazard to navigation at this location - all we will need to do is change the details. No doubt Vansittaert's estate will send me the bill, in due course."
Thala chuckles. "That's an interesting point, boss. There's already a lot of shouting on the news channels, and it turns out nobody knows what to do, because Vansittaert never left a will. Crazy, huh? With all the lawyers he must have employed...."
"No," I say, "no, it is... all of a piece."
If you asked Vansittaert, I suspect he would have answered simply that he never expected to die. That medical advances would keep him alive, or that he would transcend his human flesh and be uploaded into some transhumanist immortality.... The real answer, though, I think, is that people like Vansittaert think that nothing but them matters. That the world will not be real, when it no longer has them in it.
When I am dead, a human egomaniac once said, let fire the world confound.
I would rather face any amount of evil, of plain ordinary malevolence, than that sort of blinkered egotism. The unconscious, unquestioned assumption that what mattered to him was the only thing that could matter. There are monsters who delight in suffering... and there are real monsters who simply do not understand that such a thing as suffering exists.
Well. Vansittaert is dead, his schemes are confounded, and all I have to deal with now is the aftermath.... "Mr. Thala," I say.
"Boss?"
"And you, Lieutenant Lillian... all of you, in fact." I settle back in my command chair and turn from side to side, surveying the bridge. "I have been guilty of an error, I think. I believed you all to be a pack of Federation weaklings, wished upon me by Personnel to quench my warrior spirit. But you have acted, all of you, with courage and ingenuity and loyalty, in these recent events. You are a fine crew. It is my honour to command you. Qapla'."
There is a brief, bemused silence. Then Thala says, with obvious sincerity, "Thanks, boss."
"Well." I shift uneasily in the chair. "I do not know where I will command you next, though, beyond Starbase 271 and urgent repairs -"
"This might help, sir," says Som Bloxx. "Incoming transmission from Admiral Kavanagh."
"On screen." I stand up, and come to attention as Kavanagh's face appears on the viewer.
"Captain Surella." Kavanagh is an older human male, with shrewd grey eyes gleaming in a face seamed with wrinkles; his hair is grey, thinning at the top of the head, but he has cultivated some impressive snowy side-whiskers, perhaps to compensate. "I understand there was some admin foul-up that stopped you joining my task group. Something about you being classed as K6 when you're actually T22 -?"
"A17, sir." What is T22, and do I want to know?
"Well, whatever. I gather you've kept yourself busy, at least. Good. I can use an officer with initiative. Task Group Origen's mission is successfully concluded, but I have an assignment in mind that might suit you and your ship."
"Yes, sir?"
"Diplomatic thing, really. We need to wave the flag around some of the frontier systems near Tzenkethi space. I can transfer you and the Amphicyon over to Public Relations Command for the duration."
I have to choose my next words very carefully. "I'm sorry, sir. The combat damage to my ship means she's quite unsuitable for any - prestige - assignments, at least until repairs are complete. It could take weeks in spacedock to bring her up to the required standard, I'm afraid."
"Hmph." Kavanagh's eyes narrow. "Combat damage?"
"I have the damage report here, sir." I pick up the PADD and hold it out. "I can transmit the details on your data subchannel -"
Kavanagh snorts. "I'm bored enough reading my own damage reports, thank you, Captain. Very well. I'll have to turn that assignment over to someone else." He fixes me with a hard stare. "You need to think hard about your career track, Captain. You can't just go around running odd jobs for Science Division, you know. Kavanagh out." The screen goes blank.
"Dodged a bullet there, I think, boss," says Thala.
I sit down, heavily. "Indeed. Someone find out what category T22 is, why I am supposed to be in it, and how many I would have to kill in order to wipe that category out completely." I snarl at the viewscreen. "Running odd jobs for Science Division...." Someone has switched channels, and I contemplate the wreck of the Carnegie, hanging in the space where GO4704 used to be. "Well, at least that is interesting."
Comments
"Welcome aboard," the man in the shiny black tunic says. He has a peaked cap with gold braid on it, and epaulettes with five broad gold stripes on them. "I'm Commander Parlabane. Head of security for the Carnegie."
"Admiral M'eioi. Starfleet." I look around at the Carnegie's transporter room. "Head of security?"
Parlabane chuckles. He is heavily built, with a broad face and a broad smile. I get the feeling, though, that the affable look is just a layer over a very tough interior. "Mr. Vansittaert thought we weren't treating you with the dignity proper to a Starfleet Admiral," he says.
"I've no complaints. In any case, I'm just here to meet Professor T'Shal and go over some experimental results.... Where is Professor T'Shal?"
"I think she's in her lab, Admiral. May I escort you?" He stands to one side, and gestures towards the door. It seems he's not going to take no for an answer.
"Mr. Vansittaert didn't insist on this level of formality before," I remark, as I head to the door with Parlabane at my side.
"I think he regrets that, Admiral. We do need to show Starfleet the proper respect, don't we?"
"We're public servants, Commander. You pay our wages, you get to treat us how you like. Within reason and the law, I guess."
"Interesting viewpoint, Admiral." We're walking along a long, broad corridor that seems to be a thoroughfare in this section of Vansittaert's ship. People are moving along it, purposefully. The whole vast ship seems to be in a ferment.
"Something happening?" I ask.
"Just being prepared," says Parlabane. "Have you seen the latest readings from the Sokek object?"
"GO4704 seems to be reaching a new level of activity, I know." Does he know it's not a Sokek object? The remark seems like bait, and I don't think I should rise to it. "What are you preparing for, Commander?"
"The coming of the millennium, I guess. If the scientists have got it right. I know it's all over my head, anyway. Professor T'Shal's in one of the small conference rooms just now, I'll take you right there, shall I?"
"I was supposed to meet her at her lab -"
"I'm sure that's where she'd rather be, Admiral, but sometimes you have to have meetings - By the way...." His affable tone drops away for a moment. "There might be some peculiar energy discharges, they say. A lot of stuff is getting locked down as a precaution. Is there anything in your transporter buffer that the health and safety people might get worried about, Admiral?"
"My transporter buffer? I didn't bring one. I'm not on an away team here, Commander."
"Any sidearms, even? Only I'm told there may be - well, something about induction currents in nadion emitters. I don't understand half the details, but all my guys have had to turn in their stunners for the duration."
"I'm not carrying any weapons." I glance sidelong at him. "Should I be?"
He laughs aloud at that. "No, we're the hospitable type, here, Admiral." He indicates a side passage. "Here we are."
The side corridor is almost deserted, and it terminates in a plain doorway. Parlabane presses his fingertip to the panel beside it, and the door hisses open. "After you, Admiral," he says, waving me politely through.
I step through the doorway, into what looks like a moderately well-appointed hotel room, rather than a conference room. T'Shal is there, sitting behind a desk; she rises abruptly as I come in. The door slides shut behind me.
"Admiral M'eioi," says T'Shal. "I am afraid that -" She stops. She puts her hand to her forehead, and sits back down, slowly. "You should not have come here."
I look around the room, slowly. It is like living quarters, with couches, a bed in one corner, a food replicator, sanitary facilities behind a screen - and there is no one else here. Just T'Shal.
"What's going on?" I ask her.
"I think we have been asking the wrong questions," says T'Shal. "I was brought here some ten standard hours ago. I have not been allowed to communicate -"
"Allowed?" I touch my combadge. "M'eioi to Madagascar." There is no response. "M'eioi to Madagascar. Come in, please."
"Communications are disabled," says T'Shal. "I was able to bring a PADD -" She holds it up. "It contains summaries of my most recent research notes."
"I don't believe this," I mutter. I turn to the door. It doesn't open. I key the panel beside it. The door remains shut. The reality sinks in.
We're prisoners.
---
"He can't possibly think he's going to get away with this," I say, sitting down on a couch. "We'll be missed. If I don't check in within an hour or so, my team will start asking where I am. Your people must already have missed you."
"The logical conclusion is that Vansittaert must consider this factor unimportant," says T'Shal. "I believe my investigations bear this out. The activity of the anomaly is reaching a constant level. I suspect that only one more impulse is required before it reaches a new, presumably final, equilibrium." She taps on the PADD, and data scrolls across the screen. "I am no closer, unfortunately, to discovering what this equilibrium actually entails."
"It must just be a matter of hours." The Andrew Carnegie, for all her size, probably couldn't hold off a determined attack from the Madagascar. But would Marya Kothe have the nerve to commit a Starfleet ship to an attack on an important Federation citizen? Probably, once she'd exhausted every other avenue - and that would take time. And time is all Vansittaert needs.
"Do you know the comms protocols for this ship?" I ask.
T'Shal blinks. "I fail to comprehend the relevance of your question," she says.
"I'm thinking, maybe we can software hack your PADD and create a local comms interface. If we can get into the data subchannels on this ship, we could try to get a message out to Madagascar. Or, in a pinch, hotwire the door controls and get us out of here."
T'Shal looks positively alarmed. Of course, she's a civilian academic, she doesn't have Starfleet's training in breaking out of prison cells. Not that I've had that much of it. Probably nowhere near enough.
"I am not familiar with the data transfer infrastructure on this vessel. I am sorry, Admiral. I have always presumed it is a variant of the commercial comms software used by Vansittaert's own concerns, but I had not thought to inquire into specifics. Again, I offer my regrets."
"It's all right." I rise to my feet, begin to pace across the room. "There's a way out of any cage." I smile, briefly. "Old Starfleet adage. Let me take stock -"
There is a noise from outside. We both turn to face the door, as it slides open.
Parlabane is first through, and this time, he has a stun pistol in his fist - at least, I hope it's just a stun pistol, and not an actual phaser. I tense myself. Armed or not, I might be able to take him -
Then two more people come through the door: a vast, heavy-set, burly human supporting the stumbling form of a Trill woman who seems to be semi-conscious. I've only got the descriptions from Surella's reports to go on, but I know who they are: the mysterious Mr. Premaratne, and Carayl Quon. Behind them, Vansittaert comes in, followed by two more guards.
Premaratne half-leads, half-drags Quon to a couch and deposits her on it, not entirely ungently. Three armed men, and a combat cyborg of unknown abilities. The odds are, to put it mildly, not in my favour.
"So. You and your agent here -" I gesture at Premaratne while glaring at Vansittaert "- are the ones who've woken the anomaly up."
"I knew you'd be astute, Admiral." Vansittaert actually sounds pleased. "I'm sorry about the overcrowding, but it will only be for a little while. Mr. Premaratne decided not to burn any bridges with the Symbiosis Commission by, ahh, applying a final solution to Captain Quon, here. I don't think I mind. It will be a pleasure to have another witness, I think."
"A witness?"
"To the final act. Oh, come now, Admiral, you must know we're at the last stage now. The Deep Gate is about to open, and everything will change."
"Your computational models," says T'Shal, "are founded on incorrect assumptions. The result of your actions -"
"Ah, yes," says Vansittaert. "Professor T'Shal, you have my unbounded and sincere gratitude for everything you've done for me. This project would have been doomed without your work. It's unfortunate, I know, that you've been a little bit misled as to my actual aims."
"Which are what?" I demand. "Galactic domination? The usual megalomaniac rigmarole?"
"Admiral M'eioi, you wound me," says Vansittaert. "My ultimate aim is, well, exactly as I've stated it. I know I've been immensely fortunate in my own life, and I'm not a selfish person, I want everyone to have the same opportunities, the same material prosperity, as me. Tell me, have you heard of the Nexus?"
"Everyone's heard of the Nexus." The energized particle wave which sweeps through space - and, inside it, an eternity of unbridled pleasure, as reality bends out of shape at the merest thought. Paradise. Or endless meaningless idleness, to look at it another way. People have died, and killed, and threatened genocide, to get inside that ultimate lotus-seeker's daydream....
"Well, then. You know that the localised energy gradients that surround it make approach hazardous. Our work -" he beams at T'Shal "- has shown that GO4704 can interact safely at the Nexus's subspace frequencies. And that the energy fields can be channelled through GO4704's toroidal structure. You're right, of course, it isn't a Sokek object. What it is... is a back door to the Nexus. Though I thought 'back door' lacked a certain something, as a descriptor. So I came up with the code name for this project. The Deep Gate."
"You're going to open your own personal gateway to the Nexus?"
"Certainly not. That would be the height of selfishness, and I told you, I'm not a selfish person. Once the Deep Gate is open, Nexus subspace harmonics will permeate through it, and will propagate at subspace velocity through local spacetime. About warp fifteen, subspace radio speed. The entire galaxy will become the Nexus, Admiral. The earthly paradise, brought about at last. Reality itself will bend to everyone's whim. You'll have a ringside seat, when I bring the Carnegie's lab module into the correct position. You will be one of the first. In just a day or so, Admiral, you will become a god." His long features rearrange themselves into that uncomfortable smile. "I'll just leave you here to think about that, shall I?"
---
I think about it. I watch, stunned, as Vansittaert and the guards leave, and then I collapse onto the couch, and I think about it.
And I don't think anything good. The idea of the Nexus... the ultimate wish-fulfillment fantasy... it's never appealled to me. Life needs to be real. If it were my choice to make... I wouldn't choose that. And what right does Vansittaert have, to foist it on me?
Not just on me. On everyone. At subspace radio speeds, the effect will subsume the whole of the Federation in weeks. To encompass the whole galaxy will take years, but... it'll happen. I think of thousands, maybe millions, of planetary cultures, all of them with an unexpected paradise dropped in their laps. It'd make a mockery of the Prime Directive.
"This is an ethical conundrum," says T'Shal. I look at her, astonished. "Mr. Vansittaert is acting unethically in making this choice, without consultation, on behalf of everyone," she says. "But - it is paradise, after all. Do we have the right to object?"
"Self-determination," I begin, weakly.
"But, within the Nexus, everyone has absolute self-determination," says T'Shal. "That is a given -"
"Doesn't work," a new voice mutters.
I turn to Quon. She is sitting up straighter, brushing her lank chestnut-coloured hair away from her face. "It doesn't work," she repeats, hoarsely.
"Are you all right?" I ask.
"Premaratne kept hitting me with stun, but I'm OK. He was very careful, he knows my limits, and he wouldn't want the inconvenience of a corpse." She snarls. "Listen. I'm a physicist myself - well, in several previous lives - and I'm telling you, it doesn't work." She coughs. She's clearly not in good physical shape.
"Please specify," says T'Shal.
"Energy gradients. The barrier between the Nexus and the real world. To broadcast the Nexus across subspace, you'd need power, enough power to change the basic constants of subspace. The anomaly at the heart of the Nexus has enough energy to do that in a strictly local area - not even an area, a line, dammit, the Nexus itself is one-dimensional in this reality - and even then, there's a constant energy storm where the metrical frames conflict, and the Nexus is continually in motion, it can't remain constant in any one place. So where's the energy going to come from, to stabilize the Nexus effect over interstellar ranges? OK, I know GO4704 soaks up energy, but it hasn't soaked up that much. Nowhere near." She coughs again.
I turn to look at T'Shal. She is blinking, rapidly. "I am - unsure of this," she says.
"Can you calculate the power requirements?" I ask.
"Theoretically, unlimited power can be drawn from the Sokek object -" She closes her eyes tightly. "But GO4704 is not a Sokek object. Why is it so hard to remember that?"
"Psi field," says Quon hoarsely. "I'm not much of a telepath, even when my nerves aren't jangled. But there's a psi field here, I can feel it."
"The psi effect was meant to keep T'Shal from questioning the project's premises -" I begin.
"Not just me," says T'Shal. She opens her eyes. "Fascinating. The power requirement is another obvious issue, just like the shape of the anomaly. The psi field blinded me to one obvious flaw. I think it is also blinding Vansittaert to another one. Someone is using him, just as he used me. But to what end?"
I do like how (some of) the bad guys in the last few stories have been reactions to the Federation's ethical limits and capability limits, and yet foils to one another. While the last had well-meaning people willing to do terrible things in an attempt to set a political unification to high-handedly impose Federation ideals.... and in this one, where everyone is trying their best to be very gentle to high-handedly impose Federation economic ideals taken to an almost terrifying conclusion.
Thank you for making a Quadrant-wide Genesis wave seem almost benign.
And both running up against the real world and how other individuals would exploit it, somewhat literally in this case it seems.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
Amphicyon crashes out of subspace just as subspace itself distorts. The lurch makes my guts protest, evokes a warning bleep from the shields and the structural integrity field -
On the screen, a twisting, roiling column of eldritch flame reaches out across the stars. I slam my fist on the command chair's armrest. Too late. Too late, again.
"Tractor beam on the Arcturus Sunfire, now!"
The smuggler's ship is arcing away from the source of the blast. We learned a great deal from the facility at Gamma Occidentis, and we already had M'eioi's list of possible locations - we put the two together, and we came up with the right answer. But not quite in time.
Blue light reaches from our engineering hull, seizes the Arcturus Sunfire. "Active scans, all bands. Lock in targeting, all phaser banks. Oh, and hail them." We may as well go through the motions.
The image of the ship disappears from the viewer, replaced by a tricky-looking human face. "Captain Surella, of course. I'm Denver Serton." The voice is light, dry, urbane. "You'll notice we're offering no resistance. I've heard about you and your, ahh, direct methods."
"I will not disappoint you." I bare my teeth. "Where is Premaratne?"
"Ah, well." Serton's smile is one I would like to punch off his face. "I won't insult an officer of your undoubted perspicacity by feigning ignorance... but the fact is, I fear you're going to be disappointed. He isn't here."
"Scans are tending to confirm that, boss," says Thala, crouched over the science station.
"You know, I'm sure I read something in the Federation Charter, once, about the right to privacy," says Serton. "But never mind. No, Mr. Premaratne gave us instructions to be here - and I'm just as surprised as you are by the light show, Captain - and then he beetled off." His smile grows broader, and there is a light in his eyes, as of some fond personal reminiscence.
"We have movement orders for the device used in this light show, Serton," I say. "We know where the device was made, and where it was shipped to, and who was supposed to take delivery. Proving that you did - well, it will take a small amount of time. But we can prove it, and we will."
Serton shrugs. "So what? If Premaratne and his backers paid me to set off some pyrotechnics in empty space, light years from anyone, what concern is it of yours? I'm not seeing where I've done anything illegal, here, Captain. Under the Federation Charter, which Starfleet is sworn to uphold. Or do those rules not apply?"
"Unethical scientific experimentation's illegal under the charter," says Thala offhandedly, "and ignorance is no excuse." Serton's smile slips a little. I could warm to Thala, for once.
"Where is Premaratne?" I demand.
"He took a commercial fast shuttle," says Serton. "Really, I don't know where. He's not an easy man to get to know, Captain."
"I will accept your best guess, Serton. I suspect you make the effort to find out all there is to know about your passengers."
"Yes." Serton's smile is slowly fading. "Look, Captain, you do realize I'm simply an employee in this affair? A hired hand, nothing more. It pains me to admit it, but I'm not of any significance in this -"
"I do not discriminate, Serton. There are figures as insignificant as you in my ship's brig now."
"Well, you wouldn't want it overcrowded, I'm sure. Premaratne is - well, he's an agent. Used by some discreet persons in the Federation who want to remain discreet. So he doesn't say who he's working for. But when he lit out with Quon, it was on a VCE shuttle." The smile comes back. "In case you weren't aware, that's -"
"Adrian Vansittaert. Yes." I frown. "Wait. Lit out with Quon?"
"The redoubtable Captain Quon, yes. Last seen blissfully unconscious in Premaratne's company. I didn't ask what he was planning to do with her, it seemed indiscreet. Captain Quon caught up with me and Premaratne before you did, and she had a discussion with the gentleman. I don't think it went quite the way she planned. Though Premaratne was obviously leery of just disposing of a Trill symbiote -"
"So he took her away." My frown deepens. This is worrying. If Premaratne is taking a potential witness, and on a traceable vehicle - it implies they are not concerned about being discovered. As if their plans are about to come to fruition... and nothing after that will matter. Which was Havishaw's line, too.
"So, now you can guess where Premaratne is," says Serton, "how about going off in hot pursuit? I'm sure you're a sensible person, Captain, you know you should chase after the important people and not worry about the little ones -"
"Sir." Som Bloxx speaks up from the comms station. "There's something odd. I'm receiving an all-stations priority hail, but the ident is a civilian one -"
"What? On screen. Put this weasel on hold."
Serton's affronted face is wiped away, replaced by an abstract holding pattern. After a moment, that, too, vanishes. The scene now shows two people standing before a plain metal wall. One of them is human, tall, thin, with a long angular face. The other - My eyes widen. The other is M'eioi.
The human speaks. "For those who don't know me, my name is Adrian Vansittaert. If you're receiving this message, please, be happy, because the millennium is only a day behind it. By now, my project to stimulate Galactic Object 4704 is completed, and a new age of unlimited joy is at hand." He smiles. It looks false. "I know that's a grandiose claim, but you'll discover that I'm right. I have with me Admiral M'eioi of Starfleet's science division, who's had ample time to review my findings and confirm them. Perhaps you don't want to rely on my word, but you know you can trust Starfleet. So, I will hand this over to the Admiral, who is free to speak as she wishes, without compulsion or coercion." He turns. "Admiral M'eioi, the floor is yours. You know my plans. Please, in your own words, explain them."
M'eioi looks at him. I am not an expert in Caitian body language, but I can see her ears are folded flat to her skull, her tail is switching rapidly from side to side. "M'eioi," she says. "Admiral. Six four six dash delta dash two niner zero two seven."
Vansittaert looks briefly puzzled, but the significance is evidently lost on him. It is not lost on me. Name, rank and serial number....
"Mr. Vansittaert thinks he has a gateway to unlimited happiness for everyone," M'eioi continues. "He thinks he's persuaded me of this, too. He's wrong. What's happening here at Galactic Object 4704 is a violation of both the conventional and the temporal Prime Directive. It has to be stopped."
Vansittaert is gazing at her in what looks like confusion and mild disbelief.
"All Starfleet vessels," M'eioi continues, "proceed to GO4704 and make every possible effort to stop Vansittaert's ship, the Andrew Carnegie, from interfering further with the anomaly. You have a day. Use it. Vansittaert must be stopped, and all other considerations, including my life, are secondary. Calling the Madagascar -"
The transmission stops, is replaced by the holding pattern. I curse and slam my hand down on the chair's control panel. Alarm sirens sound.
"Helm. Get us under way."
"What about Serton?" Thala asks.
"It is his lucky day. Cut him loose. Forget Serton. Can we use quantum slipstream?"
"We've got slipstream capacity for a limited time, boss."
"Use it. Warp to GO4704, now, absolute maximum speed, every warp factor you can squeeze out of this antique."
"Sir, the Madagascar -" Bloxx begins.
"Vansittaert must think he can handle the Madagascar. He may be wrong. He evidently misjudged the Admiral." Beneath me, the Amphicyon's engines begin to growl. I lean forward in the chair. "We will find out, at first hand. And stand ready for battle stations as soon as we arrive."
The starfield appears on the viewer, and the stars stretch out into streaks of light as the warp drive engages.
Too late. We were too late to stop Serton and Vansittaert's plans here, whatever they are.
We must not be too late again.
Vansittaert presses his fingertips into his temples. He takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, exhales. "What on Earth possessed you," he asks M'eioi, "to say something like that?"
"It's no more than the truth." The Caitian is almost vibrating with anger. I suppose I shouldn't be surprised that Vansittaert doesn't realize that.
"I gave you the opportunity to speak freely, without coercion -" Vansittaert draws in another deep breath. Actually, the bare little anteroom has me, M'eioi and T'Shal on one side; behind Vansittaert, on the other side, are the remaining academics, plus three armed security guards and the unlovely bulk of Mr. Premaratne, so there is a fair amount of coercion on display. "You know what my goals are -"
"Better than you," M'eioi snaps.
Vansittaert's hands drop to his sides as he stares at her. I am trying to judge the angles, to see what chance we stand - not a good one, even against the security guards and their stunners; with Premaratne lurking in the background, no chance at all. If Vansittaert comes within reach - but he won't. Not unless M'eioi can tempt him over, and I doubt her Starfleet mentality has that much deviousness.
It is hard to think. The psi field is a constant, low-level, nagging pressure on my brain. Just knowing it's there gives us some ability to resist it - but it's a continual, wearing effort. It has to be telling on the person producing it, too. I steal a glance at Vansittaert's cronies. Shemosh looks bland and calm, the picture of a Deltan academic; Tarul looks apprehensive, sneaking doubtful glances at T'Shal; Karabadian looks angry and confused, but not stressed - though his "assistant", in her metallic gold figure-hugging minidress, appears worried about something. Probably concerned she's going to lose her privileged position.
"I don't understand," Vansittaert is saying. "Are you saying you know more about the Deep Gate than I do? I assure you, you're quite wrong."
"We have proof," says T'Shal. Her hands are shaking as she holds up the PADD. She has no training in combat - real or psychic - and she has had to do the lion's share of the intellectual work, too; the strain is telling on her. "You left me with enough computational power to complete a preliminary analysis -"
A chime sounds. Vansittaert touches his wrist comm. "Madagascar is moving," a voice says. "Intercept course."
Vansittaert pulls a face. "Contingency six," he says.
"Acknowledged," the voice replies.
"Madagascar and her frigates are quite capable of dealing with your ship," says M'eioi. "And they will take my orders seriously."
"They will try a peaceful solution first," says Vansittaert. "They are Starfleet, after all."
"They will open fire and disable your ship soon enough," says M'eioi.
Vansittaert smiles. "No," he says, "not soon enough. We will engage the ship's particle generators and synchronize with the anomaly's emissions. It will be quite adequate to block any directed energy weapons, and scramble any exotic waveforms you might try to generate. I realize that your dreadnought is an impressive vessel, Admiral, but I have the full power of the anomaly on tap."
"You can't keep it up forever," says M'eioi.
"I don't have to. The Deep Gate will reach full alignment inside a day. I need less than twenty-four hours. And I'll have them."
"Alignment with what?" I ask. Vansittaert turns towards me, surprise on his long face. "Not the Nexus. You don't have anything like the power levels you would need to break through the energy gradients around the Nexus."
"It's not a question of power," says Vansittaert. "It's a question of finesse."
I meet his gaze and hold it. "Finesse," I say, and I let my voice drip scorn. "Yes, you've been finessed, all right."
"You practiced a deception upon me," says T'Shal, "and it was reinforced by the constant presence of a psionic field. You have erred, however, in supposing that a similar deception could not be practiced upon you."
"You've been used, Vansittaert," adds M'eioi.
"This is absurd," says Vansittaert. "Psionic field? I never asked for any psionic field -"
He stops. He turns. His accusing gaze focuses on Karabadian.
The portly human's face turns the colour of uncooked dough. "You think I -? You believe them?"
"You are my resident expert on psi effects," says Vansittaert.
"I - I am a theoretician!" Karabadian sputters. "I am a scientist! Not some, some mind-controlling mountebank!"
"We have proof." T'Shal's voice is desperately tired, now.
"You have proof of nothing!" cries Karabadian. "I am a genuine scientist, a visionary! And I am dedicated to this project and its aims! You have no right to accuse me!" He shakes a fat finger at T'Shal.
"Professor T'Shal has always been a reliable source of information for the project," says Vansittaert slowly. "I think I would like to hear what she has to say."
"Well, I do not!" snarls Karabadian. "I will not stay to be accused and insulted!" And he stumps off towards the doorway. A guard makes a move to stop him, is checked by a motion of Vansittaert's hand. He reaches the door, turns, and says, "Come, Natalia." Khoklova glances around, her drawn face uncertain. "Come, Natalia," Karabadian repeats, more forcefully. Reluctantly, Khoklova slinks out behind him. The door hisses shut.
"If he is attempting mental influence," says Vansittaert, "then removing him from our proximity will help."
Has the pressure in my skull lessened? I'm not sure I can tell.
"Galactic Object 4704 is a fascinating thing," says T'Shal. "Now we know what it really is.... It must have formed at a very early stage of this galaxy's life, a standing wave in the gravitational field of the central supermassive black hole. In a sense, you are correct - its employment is a matter of finesse. Essentially, it is an antichroniton reservoir, a node which collects and stores quantum particles from other timestreams. It is a point of balance between multiple alternative states of existence."
"I've seen your mission pod," says M'eioi. "We figured out how it must work. You place someone inside the anomaly, at the centre of the stressed-space field. Your pod must contain psi amplifiers that broadcast the impulses of a sentient mind into the anomaly. We know you've sensitized it to psi fields."
"And, once it reaches a certain critical limit," says T'Shal, "once the antichroniton reservoir is sufficiently full, as it were, and the anomaly's interaction with normal space is correctly configured -"
"Something less than a day from now," I put in.
"- then the sentient mind inside the psi amplifiers will be able to resolve the anomaly's power into a new quantum state. One of its own choosing."
"Yes," says Vansittaert, "yes, I know. That's how we're going to bridge the energy gradient to the Nexus -"
"No," says M'eioi. "No, the Nexus is an anomaly itself, there is no possible timeline you can use to bring it into the real universe. But whoever's operating that device will be in a position to choose any timeline that is possible. And it's not going to be you, is it, Vansittaert? I'm sure Karabadian fed you a very plausible line, about how you shouldn't risk your precious brain inside those untested psi amplifiers, how he would gladly brave the danger in your place. Because the antichroniton reservoir is depleted when it's used. In fact, the subspace shock will unravel GO4704 completely, it will be gone for good. It is a wishing machine, Vansittaert. But it only grants one wish. And it's not going to be yours."
Vansittaert blinks, slowly. "You do sound very convinced," he says. "Almost convincing, in fact. But you're wrong. It wasn't Karabadian who volunteered to take control of the device. It was -"
We all turn as one.
Shemosh's face is paper-white, twisted with emotion, and the naked emotional need is radiating from him. "Please." His voice is hoarse. "Please - you must let me - you must -"
"You?" says T'Shal. "This is... this is illogical."
"Please." The word is backed by the full force of his Deltan pheromones, and it is awful to hear.
"You," says Vansittaert blankly. "You wanted to use me -"
He stops. He shuts his eyes, and his lips move for a moment, rapidly and soundlessly.
Then he opens his eyes again. "It changes nothing," he says.
"What?" says M'eioi.
"Nothing. Nothing at all." He waves an imperious hand at the guards. "Take them to the mission pod. Collect that idiot Karabadian, bring him too." There is anger on his long face, and madness in his eyes. "I'll make sure you all have ringside seats. One chance? To change the universe for the better? I'll take that chance. I can do it. I can make the right choice, the right choice for everyone. You can watch me do it. I'll show you. I'll show you all."
It is almost a surprise when we emerge from subspace without some sort of disruption. There is activity on the sensors, though, a great deal of it. I study the viewscreen for a moment, trying to establish what is happening.
Galactic Object 4704 has dimmed to the point of near invisibility, a mere smudge of light among the stars. The huge shape of the Andrew Carnegie is floating almost at the centre of the anomaly, its image flickering a little on the screen, as if a heat haze is playing around it.
Some kilometres away, Madagascar is flaring with violet lightning, flashes and sparks as long as my ship, as bright as the sun. Lines of flickering light reach out to the four frigate-class auxiliaries, each of which is also spitting brilliant sparks. I have no idea what it is trying to accomplish, but it looks formidable.
"Lieutenant Lillian. Check sensors. Tell me what is happening here. Lieutenant Bloxx. Hail the Madagascar. Find out what they think is happening here." I settle back in my chair.
It takes only a few moments before the screen flickers, and a human face appears on it. Commander Marya Kothe, I remember, M'eioi's exec. "Captain Surella. Glad to see you."
"Status report, Commander."
Kothe is military enough not to waste further words. "The Carnegie has retreated into an energy zone around GO4704. We think it's tapping the anomaly's own energy to set up a radiation exclusion field. Directed energy weapons are useless, transporter interdiction is total, and the anomaly's generating low-level gravitational shockwaves which make it impossible to target torpedoes or send shuttlecraft - the local turbulence stops them in their tracks. We're trying to use Madagascar's particle emitters to generate a counter field, but we've had no luck yet."
"What of Admiral M'eioi?"
"We can't isolate any specific life signs aboard the Carnegie. In any case -" Kothe's face turns grim. "Her orders were explicit, sir."
Stop the Carnegie first, at all costs. And precious hours have passed since then - "Very well. How can we assist?"
"I don't think Amphicyon has the specialist emitters we need to break through. If you can think of any other way to take down the Carnegie - feel free, sir."
"Very well." Thoughts are forming in my mind. "I will keep you informed. Amphicyon out."
The image of the monstrous ship in the anomaly reappears. I continue to think. "Gravitational turbulence. How extreme?"
"Intermittent scale three grav pulses, sir," says Lillian promptly. "We can't get a firing solution for torpedoes, and our shuttles would be tossed all over the sky before they could make a docking seal -"
"Quite," I say. "Helm. Steer three five zero mark one. Thrusters only." Niquoeb shoots me a puzzled glance, but complies. Amphicyon starts to move, slowly.
"A big ship," I muse, "but it has the usual control points. Main engineering. Computer core. Bridge, auxiliary control, life support. I assume there is disruption on the comms channels, too?"
"Lots of jamming, sir," Som Bloxx confirms.
"Then pass the word among the crew. There will be consistent design patterns, there will be signage, even, telling us where those critical areas are...."
"If we could get anyone aboard to find them, boss," says Thala.
"That need not be a problem. All stop. Thrusters to station keeping. But turn the ship, heading seven seven mark zero."
Amphicyon comes about. The Carnegie is broadside on to us now, still shimmering slightly, but with her full length exposed. From her stern, I note, a glimmering line - a force-field docking tube, it looks like - connects with a mission pod, separated from the engineering hull. The pod is in the very centre of GO4704. A single volley would destroy it... if we could fire effectively....
"Scale three gravimetric disturbance. Enough to throw around a torpedo or a shuttle. So, we ourselves must be the weapon." My finger stabs at the general address switch. "All hands. Brace for impact, and prepare for combat. Full power to impulse. Ramming speed."
And now there is shuddering and trembling, as the Amphicyon surges forwards, into the gravity waves. Niquoeb is wrestling with the helm controls, trying to keep our course straight. A blue light reaches out from the Carnegie, and Thala snarls, "Polarizing hull!" The tractor beam glances off our energized hull plating -
- and the inertial dampers and SI fields shriek alarms, as the dull crash of impact echoes through the ship. I grip the armrests tightly to avoid being thrown from the chair. A low groaning sound, as of structural members stressed beyond endurance, makes itself heard. There is nothing on the viewer but static.
I rise from my seat. The phaser at my hip might be useless, but my mek'leth will still work. "Lillian. Coordinate with Madagascar, try to break the damping field. Niquoeb. Work the helm, see if you can force the Carnegie clear of the anomaly. Thala. You have the ship."
"Where will you be?" Thala sounds almost resigned.
"Where I should be." My hand comes down on the general address switch again. "All warriors! Assemble in the forward saucer section! Board and storm!"
---
I have, at least, judged my aim correctly. Amphicyon has crashed into the Carnegie's midsection, the part that started life as a Risian cruise liner. Our saucer section is crushed into its upper hull, where gigantic picture windows offer a view of space to the passengers in a charming artificial lagoon. Charming and vulnerable.
My inner ear protests as I make my way through hull breaches, across two wavering and incompatible artificial gravity fields. There is a cold wind blowing. Both ships are leaking atmosphere at a frantic rate.
Down becomes unambiguous, and my boots squelch into wet sand. "Fan out! Find the exits!" I shout to the security troops behind me. The water level in the lagoon is much lower than it should be; coral reefs are exposed, gaily coloured fish are flapping weakly on suddenly dry land. The deck plating beneath us must have buckled. This is good; a sudden deluge of salt water on the decks below us can only add to our enemies' problems. I lope across the uneven ground, scanning it for hidden threats, and an access point into the body of the ship.
A collapsed structure of flimsy wood and vegetable fibres - I think it is called a tiki bar - yields my first find. I spot a flash of gold within it, tear a panel aside with my free hand - and find myself staring at a light-haired human female, wearing a tight-fitting gold garment that displays her femininity in a very obvious manner.
"Please don't hurt me," she squeals.
"I am a Starfleet officer. You are in no danger, unless you offer resistance. Who are you?"
"Natalia Khoklova. Please don't hurt me." She sniffles. "I don't know anything. They never -"
"Where is Vansittaert? Where is he keeping Admiral M'eioi?"
"I don't -" Her eyes are wide, and something changes in them.
I snarl and spin around, slashing with the mek'leth. It strikes something, something which explodes with a bang and a shower of sparks. An electrical stun baton, I realize, wielded by a stocky human in a black uniform. He stares at the ruined weapon for a tenth of a second, until I strike him between the eyes with the mek'leth's pommel, and he collapses onto the wet sand.
Security forces. And their phaser-based stun weapons are no more effective than ours, but they have these crude electrical prods - I can see my troops in conflict with them, in several places, already. I smile. These batons will not prove an advantage, not against Starfleet combat training.
I turn back to Khoklova, who cowers. "Where is Admiral M'eioi?"
She swallows. "Mr. Vansittaert took them all to the mission pod. As witnesses, he said. He wanted them to watch. He didn't want me, I'm nobody, I'm not important -"
"Remain where you are, and offer no resistance, and you will not be harmed." The mission pod. It was a reasonable assumption anyway, and this only confirms it. I must find the main entrance to this pleasure palace, and make my way into the body of the ship. I do not spare Khoklova a second glance as I head for a promising-looking archway on the nearest wall.
My combadge bleeps at me. Surprising. I had thought the comms jamming would be total. "Surella."
"Captain." Lillian's voice, slightly scratchy with interference. "I've routed some suggested waveforms from Madagascar through our deflector dish. We can't neutralize the exclusion field, but we can open up a few frequencies, for comms and weapons -"
"Opening nadion frequencies for our phasers will activate the enemy's stunners, too," I growl.
"Yes, sir. But I remembered you were carrying your antique phaser, sir, and its frequencies are slightly different. You should find -"
I open my eyes wide. Despite myself, I am impressed. "You have given me the only working gun on this ship? Qapla', Lieutenant."
"I hope so, sir. We'll carry on working -"
"Do so. Surella out."
I say this, because the door in the archway is opening up, and there are people behind it, ready to come through. I crouch down, draw the phaser, twist the selector to heavy stun.
Black-clad forms are spilling through the archway. I take aim at the nearest of them, and press the trigger.
The phaser makes a very gratifying sizzling hiss, and the man drops, poleaxed, as the stun beam wraps him in an orange glare.
I turn towards the group behind him, and, with a flick of my wrist, fan a beam across them. It will not strike any one with force enough to stun - merely to numb, confuse, startle and shock them.
There is a shriek as one guard drops his stun baton into the salt water he is standing in. The others mill around, confused. I spray another beam across them. Numbed, confused, startled, shocked and cowed, now. And my own security details are gathering behind me -
I move forwards, concentrating on one figure, with gold-striped epaulettes and a gold-braided cap. When dealing with private security forces, one should always start with the one in the most impressive hat.
I push him to the ground, and he barely resists. I cannot resist the temptation. "HoD Qotlh jIH. Qotlh BortaS," I growl, "je Dujvam tevwI maj."
He just gawps at me. Not a devotee of Battlecruiser Vengeance, then. "I am Captain Surella of the USS Amphicyon," I tell him, "and this ship is now under Starfleet authority. Who are you?"
"Parlabane," he says. "Commander Parlabane. Head of security."
"Excellent. Then you can tell your troops to stand down and await arrest. It will save time for us, and unpleasantness for them. How do I get to the mission pod?"
"It's -" He shakes his head. "There's nothing you can do. It's self-contained, Mr. Vansittaert doesn't need the rest of the ship, not in the time that's left, there must be only minutes to go -" I reach for his collar, and give him a gentle shake to stop his gabbling.
"Take me there," I order him.
"There's nothing you can do," he whines.
I shake him again. "Take me there. And we will see what I can do."
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
The interior of the mission pod is a single, spherical, space. A broad metal walkway runs around the waist of the hollow sphere, and a narrow catwalk crosses it from one side to the other. I can see machinery - exotic particle manipulators, I think - all pointing inwards towards the centre of the sphere.
Someone standing at the middle of that catwalk would be at the focal point of all that machinery. And, presumably, the full power of the anomaly, too.
I tug at my bonds, but it is useless. The bonds are - peculiar. There are holo-emitters in the mission pod, and Vansittaert has activated his holographic flunkeys. So, Abercrombie is holding my wrists in an unbreakable grip, and Boucher is holding Quon, and Calvert is holding T'Shal. The holograms might look like ordinary human business people, without the level of physical training that Quon and I have... but their photonic limbs are locked in position, and they will hold with all the power the holo-emitters can put out.
Shemosh and T'Shal's assistant Tarul are here, too, shackled to the wall by more conventional chains. Tarul looks blank and confused, and as for Shemosh... the waves of sheer despair emanating from him are almost tangible.
They don't seem to be bothering Vansittaert or Premaratne, though. They are moving around the walkway, checking instruments, methodically, imperturbably.
Now Vansittaert comes near to me, and smiles that uncomfortable smile. "Not long now," he says. "The pod is in position, and the anomaly's power is nearly at its peak."
"And when it reaches the peak?" I tug at Abercrombie's immobile hands, uselessly.
"All I need do is cross the focus of the emitters," says Vansittaert, "and - well. I suppose I owe you thanks, for pointing out what is really going to happen. The psi receptors are tuned to the anomaly's frequencies, and they will transmit my wishes to the anomaly, and the anomaly's... perspective... into my mind. All I need to do is choose what I want."
My gaze turns towards Shemosh. I wonder what he was planning to choose.
"It won't work," I insist. "You can't decide how to shape the world. You don't have the insight, the wisdom. Nobody does. We're talking about the whole of history here."
"I've been making decisions at the very highest level for decades," says Vansittaert. "I don't think I'm an arrogant man, Admiral, but I know very well that the choices I make affect other people's lives, many other people's lives. I flatter myself that I have, in general, chosen wisely. And I will choose wisely now."
"You think." There is no give in the holographic fingers. "But you would need to be sure, Vansittaert, and you can't be. And you know what? Even if you did have the wisdom, you still wouldn't have the right."
"I can bring happiness and fulfilment to every person in the galaxy," Vansittaert says. "How can I have the right to refrain from that?"
"Your idea of happiness, your idea of fulfilment. What about the people who disagree with you?"
"I'm not inhuman, Admiral. I will try to save as many of them as I can."
I hiss in exasperation. "You're looking at the whole galaxy as if it's full of lay figures. Like these holograms." I jerk my head towards Abercrombie's frozen face. "At base, you think of all of us like these artificial yes-men of yours."
"That's unfair of you, Admiral. My photonic assistants have their uses, but I have always known they were never fully human. Obviously, actual sentient beings are quite different from these, as you put it, lay figures. They have their uses, as sounding boards, interlocutors - means for me to develop my ideas."
I shake my head. "Slaves."
"Obedient machinery. Unless you think of all machines as slaves? I don't think you can be that foolish, Admiral."
For the first time since they brought us here, Quon speaks up. "Slaves, yes," she says. "Did you know, in ancient Rome, they gave a victorious general a triumph, a huge celebration to tell him how good he was? Only they detailed one slave to stay with him, all the time, telling him, every so often, 'Remember you are mortal'." She snarls at him. "You could use one of those guys, Vansittaert."
"It sounds a waste of resources. I know I'm mortal, Captain. Though that may change, perhaps -"
A shudder seems to run through the pod for an instant. Vansittaert quirks an eyebrow, picks up a PADD and consults it. "Hmm. Main power failure." Hope must have shown in my face, for he turns to me and shakes his head. "The pod's auxiliary power is quite enough, I do assure you."
"Attention." A voice blasts suddenly over the intercom, a familiar voice, a surprisingly welcome voice. "This is Captain Surella of the USS Amphicyon. This ship is now in Starfleet hands. Occupants of the mission pod, stand down, release your captives, and refrain from any further interference with the anomaly. This will be your only warning."
Vansittaert frowns. "I suppose I could turn off the boarding tube to the engineering hull... but it might make things inconvenient, getting back afterwards."
"If I may?" The obsequious and gravelly tones of Premaratne. The big cyborg lumbers towards Vansittaert. "You employ me, sir, to minimize and remove inconvenience."
"How very true." Vansittaert considers. "Very well, Mr. Premaratne. If I know Klingons, Captain Surella will want to be inconvenient in person. Meet her in the boarding tube. Dissuade her."
Premaratne nods, once, and walks away.
"It needn't be for long," says Vansittaert, speaking to himself more than to me. "It won't be long at all. Just a few minutes, now. Just a few minutes...."
I take a deep breath and step through the round hatch. Beyond, the spartan interior of an airlock chamber, and another round hatchway before me. I check the control panel beside the hatch.
The boarding tube is a force-field cylinder, tethering the mission pod to the hull of the ship. The parameters of the tube... concern me, somewhat. Damage from the collision has shifted it to a backup power supply - and, I am painfully aware, Vansittaert has controls at the other end which can simply turn it off. Well. Transporter operations are still impossible, so this is the only way in. I must take it.
I hit the main switch, and the door behind me closes, as the one before me swings open.
There is a walkway - a collapsible, extensible thing, metal plates slung between wires, more guide wires at waist height. I step gingerly onto the first plate. It bears my weight easily enough. The ship's artificial gravity field is being conducted along the force field walls.... Those walls are blue and sparkling, nearly transparent, and beyond them I can see space and stars. The anomaly has ceased to radiate in visible light. I have a terrible suspicion that that is a bad sign.
The docking tube is perhaps a hundred and fifty metres long, and at the far end, I can see another doorway... and, in front of it, a hulking humanoid shape. I snarl, and draw my phaser, and send a burning orange bolt squarely down the length of the tube.
The figure does not fall. I fire again. The figure does not even move. It must be Premaratne, there is no other reasonable explanation. And his cyborg augmentation must include personal shielding, strong enough that a hand weapon cannot penetrate it.
I toss the phaser back into the airlock chamber. It is no use to me, and if Premaratne seizes it, I am not immune to it - I scowl, and advance.
The metal plates shift and sway beneath my feet, the guide wires sing from strain. I try not to think about what will happen if they fail.
Premaratne remains motionless as I advance. I have heard quite enough about him, but this is the first time I have seen him. He is massive, ponderous. Human martial arts styles mostly emphasize swiftness, precision, balance; there are a few exceptions, such as the one they call sumo. But I must not expect him to fight like a human. He is most likely trained, even programmed, with moves from the Klingon and the Gorn martial traditions, ones which emphasize strength, power, endurance.
Yes. He will be a martial artist of great skill, bigger than me, stronger than me, armed and armoured in ways I am not. This will be an honourable battle. My challenge, then, is to make it a victorious one.
"This ship is under Starfleet jurisdiction," I snap at him, once I am close enough for him to hear me. "You and your employer are under arrest, on charges of illicit experimentation and the false imprisonment of a Starfleet officer. Stand down."
He looks at me calmly with those mismatched eyes of his. Well, I knew it would not work, but it had to be said. Duty demanded it.
"Captain Surella." His voice, though low-pitched, is surprisingly mild. "I regret that I may not comply with your instructions. My employer is about to begin the final phase of his operations. He must not be inconvenienced in any way."
"Stand aside," I snarl at him.
"You must know," he says, still in a maddeningly reasonable voice, "that Mr. Vansittaert's intentions are wholly beneficent. Captain, I must request you, in the strongest possible terms, to desist from interfering. I cannot answer for the consequences if you remain obdurate."
I have no words for him, now, only a hiss of rage.
Premaratne sighs. "As you wish," he says, and moves.
He moves fast. A Ferasan pounce move, seemingly impossible with that heavy frame and ungainly limbs - but the servos in his body make him fast as a Ferasan. But his body turns slightly, and his left arm comes around - A Gorn-style power grab. I was right about his programming.
Unfortunately, predicting it is one thing, avoiding it is another. I throw myself forward, colliding with his massive boulder of a belly, pummelling him savagely - then I duck aside, away from his encircling arm. My blows have no effect. And I am not quite fast enough - he does not get a grip, but his fingertips pluck at my shoulder -
Instant agony flares through me, followed by numbness. Stun field inducers, built into his fingertips - I stagger into the guide wire, and my feet stumble on the metal plates, and suddenly I am falling. My right arm is numbed, paralysed, useless. I reach out, desperate, with my left hand, catch the edge of a metal plate -
And I am dangling, one-handed, from the walkway, with the force field sparkling beneath me, and Premaratne turns to look down at me with mismatched green eyes.
He raises one spatulate foot above my straining fingertips.
My flailing feet touch the force field, and with a desperate effort I jack-knife my body, throw one leg over the walkway, snatch my hand aside just before the foot descends. The walkway rocks and bounces with the force of the impact, and I give a wordless yell, catch myself before I fall, and roll, clumsily, into him as he tries to regain his balance.
He gives a grunt of surprise - I have achieved that much, at least - and catches himself on the waist-high guide wire -
There is a high, thin, metallic sound as it breaks.
Premaratne falls forwards, and I swing my other leg clear of his snatching hands. His massive frame crashes into the force field, and there is a sudden blast of freezing air.
Too dense. He is too dense, with all that mass of machinery and power cells and armour inside him, and the tube's controlling computer is not quick enough to switch out of low-power mode and reinforce the field. Accompanied by a scream of escaping air, Premaratne falls through the force field wall and drifts, slowly, into the void beyond. After a moment, I can see his last breath escaping from his mouth, leaving a comet-trail of frozen vapours behind as he spins lazily away into space.
Trembling, I haul myself upright. The force field is stabilizing, though the drop in air pressure has made everything very cold. Sensation is returning to my right arm - pins and needles, as the stunned nerves begin to function again. I flex my fingers. I wish I had not.
Focus. I am a Starfleet officer and a Klingon warrior. Focus. Pain is not important. Not while I have my duty.
No time to go back for the phaser. I still have my mek'leth - I did not even draw it against Premaratne, I knew it would be useless. I draw it now. I will face down Vansittaert with my weapon in my hand.
The walkway sags a little, but remains stable while I reach the hatchway.
It is locked. No matter. This is a standard design, it takes me only a moment to find the manual override and hand-crank the door open. The exercise even makes my right arm feel a little better.
I take a firm grip on the mek'leth, step into the airlock, close the outer door behind me. The inner one opens automatically, now.
Beyond it -
A huge hollow space, with a walkway around the middle, and on the opposite side from me, I see Vansittaert, and M'eioi, and others. And, thankfully, besides the circular walkway around the room, there is a narrow catwalk cutting straight across the middle.
Vansittaert screams something as I charge, along the catwalk, straight towards him.
Nothing happens. That's the bizarre thing. Nothing happens.
Vansittaert stands there with his mouth gaping comically open, and Surella charges across the catwalk, straight through the focus of the psi emitters. There's a brief moment when she seems to falter, that's all - and is there a tiny change in the humming sound of the machinery all around us? - but that's it. If it's even there.
"Captain, ahh, Surella," Vansittaert begins.
He never finishes. Surella's face is locked into a scowl of sheer Klingon rage, and she draws her mek'leth and slashes with it in one fluid, brutal movement.
There is a sudden stink of blood in the chamber's aseptic air.
Vansittaert's knees buckle and his body drops, heavily, to the deck. His head flies through the air, bounces off a railing, falls into the complex tangle of machinery beneath us.
Surella draws in a deep breath. With a visible effort, she composes herself. She turns towards M'eioi, snaps to full attention. "Permission requested to terminate hostilities, Admiral," she says.
There is only a faint quiver in the Caitian's voice as she replies, "Permission granted, Captain."
Surella nods. She touches her combadge. "Surella to Amphicyon. Have the jamming fields dropped?"
A woman's voice replies, "The anomaly's vanished, sir. There's some local jamming still from stations on the Carnegie, but security's shutting them down. We can get through them in any event."
"Very good. Transport field technicians to the mission pod, now, with capability to disable and remove holograms." Her gaze switches to Tarul and the inconsolably sobbing Shemosh. "We may also need conventional cutting gear. And a medic or two, as a precaution."
"Nobody's been hurt, much," I say. Surella ignores me.
"Team assembling in the transporter room now," says the woman. "Uh, we've detected some shuttle launches from the Carnegie, with human life signs aboard. I don't know if you want us to try and intercept -"
"I imagine many members of Vansittaert's staff will want to flee," says Surella. "We can pick them up later, if need be, when they return to the Federation -"
"One of them's probably Karabadian," I say. Surella turns to me. "Professor Karabadian. We think he's the psi adept Vansittaert was using to fog people's minds around here. And that someone else was using to fog Vansittaert's mind." I glance meaningfully at Shemosh. Vansittaert's security people never brought Karabadian to the mission pod, and I think that's because Karabadian knew full well the jig was up.
Amazingly, Shemosh giggles - a high-pitched, manic tittering that doesn't speak well for his mental health. "Karabadian? No, no, no...."
Whining columns of blue, sparkling light appear, resolve themselves into Starfleet techs and medics. Three of them aim tricorders at me, T'Shal and M'eioi. The holograms, still holding us in their unfailing grip, wink out of existence.
I rub my wrists, trying to get some feeling back into them. Techs with cutters are liberating Tarul and Shemosh. The Deltan continues to giggle.
M'eioi goes over to him, picking her way daintily around the gruesome spreading pool beside Vansittaert's corpse. She kneels down beside him, her grass-green eyes almost kindly in her black face. "What was it all about?" she asks. "You can tell us now, surely?"
Shemosh draws in a deep, ragged breath. "I was working on it," he said, "working on the object... when the news came. Hobus. I had just... I had just worked out what it was...."
"The supernova? What happened?"
Shemosh swallows. "GO4704 is a function of the galaxy's central black hole, and its interaction with the subspace matrix. Any galaxy with a supermassive black hole can have one like it, but circumstances - random interference from other anomalies, incident radiation in certain wavebands - usually conspire to prevent their formation or destabilize them after a short time. I was so happy when I found the records of GO4704, realized it conformed to my theoretical predictions - and then - Hobus. My parents, my whole family - they were traders, and their ship passed too close to the blast wave. But I knew - I knew - the anomaly was reaching its final phase, that within a century at most it would activate spontaneously and dissipate. I knew I could use it. Could alter the antichroniton absorption rate, could project a psi matrix... I knew." He coughs, proceeds in a dry and academic tone. "The details are not without interest. I will present my unmodified data to the Vulcan Science Academy, if I may. It is potentially valuable."
"To find more of these.... things?" M'eioi asks.
Shemosh shakes his head. "The next nearest one is in a galaxy twenty-seven million parsecs away. And the antichroniton decay rates indicate it won't be... ready... for another twenty thousand years. One chance. I had one chance...." Tears begin to run down his cheeks.
"To undo Hobus?" asks M'eioi, and then answers herself. "No. You wouldn't take that big a risk with history, would you? Just to divert the ship. To save your family."
"I could see how to do it," says Shemosh. "I knew."
"But time travel is strictly regulated," I say, "and for the best possible reasons - you can't predict the repercussions of even a minimal change. So there was no way you could ask anyone for permission -"
"Yes." His voice is suddenly stronger. "Yes, I acted illegally and unethically. And I'll take the consequences. But would you have done anything differently?" His bloodshot gaze rakes the room, challenging and accusing all of us. "Could you have?"
I could refute him. I've had hosts before, will have again; I have fond memories, and more than memories, of all of them... but I know that the time comes, finally, to move on, to let go. To accept change, and the finality of change. To let the past stay past.
I could refute him. I choose not to. Let him keep his illusion. It's all he has left.
"So you attached yourself to Vansittaert, who had the resources you needed," T'Shal says, "and you effectively employed me and my team to work out the technical details, while Karabadian's psi talent -"
Shemosh laughs again, a raw and unhealthy sound. "Karabadian is nothing. He's a dupe, a fool. His so-called assistant, though -"
"What?" says M'eioi.
"Natalia Khoklova is a human mutant," says Shemosh. "With a substantial psi index, and ability in telepathic hypnosis and projective coercion. She was exactly what I needed to keep Vansittaert and the others in line. And, of course, she herself was quite susceptible to... traditional Deltan methods of persuasion." He shakes his head. "I said, I have acted unethically."
Surella's face is a picture of chagrin. "Natalia Khoklova?" she says. "Light hair, scanty dress, attractive in an Earth-human sort of way?"
"You've met her, then?" says M'eioi.
"I let her go," says Surella. The expression on her face is priceless. It's almost worth the drubbings I've taken through this whole sorry business.
"We'll catch up with her," says M'eioi confidently, and rises to her feet. "You're right, of course," she says to Shemosh, "we will have to take you into custody. And then -" She looks around her, and sighs. "Then we'll have to make a start on cleaning up this mess."
"Whit in the guid Lord's name did ye dae, woman?" Carolyn Caird yells at Surella.
The team from Temporal Investigations arrived aboard the Madagascar ahead of every other Starfleet ship. It's headed up by Caird and her associate T'Mev, an elegant Vulcan woman in science division uniform... whose Vulcan imperturbability is starting to look distinctly ragged around the edges.
"We have cross-checked from our external temporal observatories." T'Mev looks at Surella, across the conference room table, with something approaching hostility. "The antichroniton discharge from the dissolution of GO4704 registered strongly, of course. But our most detailed study discloses no timeline variations, no paradoxical loops, no divergent timestreams -"
"But th' energy frae yon bubble o' nowt had tae gae somewhere," Caird interrupts, "so Ah'm askin' ye again, lassie, whit did ye dae?"
Surella just narrows her eyes. Maybe the defect in Caird's translator means she's not getting through to the Klingon... but I don't think so. In fact, I think I know what the answer is, now.
"She didn't do anything." I say. "Am I right, Captain?"
Surella smiles, a slight, wry smile. "That is correct, sir."
T'Mev closes her eyes, opens them again after enough time to count to ten. Caird just sits there and gawps.
"Vansittaert's machinery synchronized your mind with the anomaly," I continue, "and put you in effective control of the antichroniton discharge. Did it work properly? What did it feel like?"
"I... do not believe I can answer that, sir," says Surella. "The device put a vision of the entire universe into my head - but the device is no longer functional, and my head is not large enough to contain the memory. Considering that it was assembled by deluded and dishonest people, on a basis of ad hoc and unethical experimentation, I suppose I am lucky to have retained my sanity."
Caird finds her voice. "But in that moment... ye saw th' whole o' time?"
"Yes," says Surella shortly.
"And ye could see how tae use that energy?"
"Again," says Surella, "yes."
"You had the power to remake the world," I say. "But that wasn't good enough, was it? You had the power, but you didn't have the right."
"Self-evidently," says Surella. "It would have been a direct violation of Starfleet General Order Number One. And my own culture has views on the subject, too. To impose one's will on another by strength may be acceptable, but to completely suppress other people's self-determination -" She shakes her head.
"Dishonourable," I say.
"Yes, sir," says Surella.
"So let me get this straight in ma heid," says Caird. "Ye stepped into Vansittaert's gadget, an' it gi'ed ye th' power tae rearrange history... an' ye took a look at it, an' put it back the way ye found it?"
"It was the only honourable course of action," says Surella. Her dark gaze rests on me. "I am glad that one of my superior officers understands Klingon honour, at least."
"Aye," says Caird. "Ah s'pose there might be some timeline, somewhere, where Ah can understand it... but, aye, Ah see yer point."
"It is consistent with our external observations, at least," says T'Mev. She stabs decisively at a PADD. "We shall mark this incident as closed, then."
"Aye, Ah reckon so," says Caird. She gazes at Surella with something approaching admiration. "Someone wi' access tae temporal technology, who disnae get an urge tae meddle? We should hae ye stuffed, lassie."
---
"There are a few things we need to deal with," I say to Surella, as we walk down the long echoing corridor towards the transporter room. "Khoklova, Quon... Vansittaert."
"Starfleet Intelligence and Federation Security have been informed about Khoklova," Surella says crisply. "I am unsure what legal sanction can be brought against her, since Shemosh has admitted using undue influence over her... but she is a psi adept, and potentially a dangerous one. As for Quon -" She shrugs. "She was an employee only, and a dupe. And I gather she was some use to you, in realizing the real situation. In the circumstances, there is no reason to prosecute Quon. Even," she adds tartly, "if the Symbiosis Commission would permit it."
"Which leaves the question of Vansittaert," I say.
"Technically, sir, he was still in a state of open hostility to the Federation. I know that the anomaly vanished as soon as I had... interacted with it... but he still had resources and presented a clear and present potential danger."
"That's the line you're taking?"
"It is the correct one, sir, in terms of the applicable law. If you want a better explanation -"
"I think I do." Vansittaert was a billionnaire, a political as well as a financial operator. A Starfleet captain can't behead someone like that without consequences, and it doesn't matter if she was technically in the right. Maybe it's not fair, but it's the way the world works.
"He deserved it," Surella says shortly. "I could see - He set up that device, sir. There was no way he would have refrained from using it. And we could not have trusted his judgement, sir, as to what constitutes a perfect world."
"No. No, I suppose not. But once you'd used up the anomaly -"
"People like Vansittaert do not reach their positions by giving up, sir. He would have pleaded undue mental influence, like Khoklova and the others. He would most likely have received only a token punishment for his actions, if that." Surella's dark eyes take on a haunted look. "And then he would have found some other outlet for his benevolence."
"Yes," I say softly, "yes, I suppose he would."
"If you will pardon me saying so, sir...." Normally so direct, she appears suddenly diffident. "I think this incident... might have shown you something. About how the other half lives."
"How so?"
"You and I both know, sir, that Starfleet and the Federation mean well enough. But half the people of the quadrant... when they dream of Federation benevolence, they wake screaming."
"I... see." I do see. And she's right. Because most of the evil in the world is done, not by people setting out to be evil... but by people, honest and sincere people, trying their best to do good. "We're not all like Vansittaert, though," I protest, weakly. "We don't have his resources, or his self-belief. Vansittaert... had no brakes. He was out of control."
"Yes, sir. I appreciate that. That is why I cut off his head."
"All right. You win, Captain. I will back you at the court of inquiry." She deserves that much from me, at the very least.
"Thank you, sir." We've reached the transporter room, at last. Surella steps onto the pad.
"One last thing, Captain," I say.
"Sir?"
"I realize your position in Starfleet is - well, less than ideal." Between residual prejudice against the traditional enemy, and simple bungling bureaucracy, that is certainly true. "If you ever need a recommendation, a positive performance reference, anything of that sort - you can call on me."
Surella looks hard at me, then gives a brusque nod. "Thank you, sir. In an ideal egalitarian state like the Federation, such things should not matter. However - well, it seems they do." Her mouth twists in a wry smile. "Just look at Captain Quon."
"I'm not sure I can get you an Ouroboros-class raider," I say. "But good luck, anyway."
"Thank you again, sir." She turns to the transporter operator. "Energize."
I am in something of a pensive mood as I make my way back to the bridge. The impression of my - experience - in Vansittaert's device has already faded, as I said; it was something too vast for a single brain to encompass, unaided. Nonetheless, I cannot help but wonder - should I have taken that opportunity? Did I do, or not do, the right thing?
Well, it is something, I suppose, to have turned down the chance to become a god.
Any mood of self-congratulation I might have had, though, is punctured as Thala hands me a PADD with the laconic comment, "Damage report, boss."
The Madagascar has tractored my ship away from the Carnegie, and the atmosphere leaks from both ships have been sealed. I study the PADD. It is not as bad as I feared; the forward decks of the main saucer are open to vacuum, true, and several strategically placed crumple zones have crumpled according to design... but Amphicyon's inertial dampers and high-intensity SI fields handled the impact well; we are functional, even warp-capable, though battle-ready might be too much to expect....
"Better than I thought," I remark aloud.
"Better than the Carnegie, that's for sure, boss," says Thala. "We broke her main structural unit - the keel, if you like. With that out of alignment, they can't restore their SI fields, and without those, they can't run drives - or tractor the ship away without it breaking up. Unless someone comes out here and builds a spaceyard around them, they're stuck here."
Vansittaert's giant ship, on the screen, does have something of a broken-backed look to it. I grunt. "Well. There was already a hazard to navigation at this location - all we will need to do is change the details. No doubt Vansittaert's estate will send me the bill, in due course."
Thala chuckles. "That's an interesting point, boss. There's already a lot of shouting on the news channels, and it turns out nobody knows what to do, because Vansittaert never left a will. Crazy, huh? With all the lawyers he must have employed...."
"No," I say, "no, it is... all of a piece."
If you asked Vansittaert, I suspect he would have answered simply that he never expected to die. That medical advances would keep him alive, or that he would transcend his human flesh and be uploaded into some transhumanist immortality.... The real answer, though, I think, is that people like Vansittaert think that nothing but them matters. That the world will not be real, when it no longer has them in it.
When I am dead, a human egomaniac once said, let fire the world confound.
I would rather face any amount of evil, of plain ordinary malevolence, than that sort of blinkered egotism. The unconscious, unquestioned assumption that what mattered to him was the only thing that could matter. There are monsters who delight in suffering... and there are real monsters who simply do not understand that such a thing as suffering exists.
Well. Vansittaert is dead, his schemes are confounded, and all I have to deal with now is the aftermath.... "Mr. Thala," I say.
"Boss?"
"And you, Lieutenant Lillian... all of you, in fact." I settle back in my command chair and turn from side to side, surveying the bridge. "I have been guilty of an error, I think. I believed you all to be a pack of Federation weaklings, wished upon me by Personnel to quench my warrior spirit. But you have acted, all of you, with courage and ingenuity and loyalty, in these recent events. You are a fine crew. It is my honour to command you. Qapla'."
There is a brief, bemused silence. Then Thala says, with obvious sincerity, "Thanks, boss."
"Well." I shift uneasily in the chair. "I do not know where I will command you next, though, beyond Starbase 271 and urgent repairs -"
"This might help, sir," says Som Bloxx. "Incoming transmission from Admiral Kavanagh."
"On screen." I stand up, and come to attention as Kavanagh's face appears on the viewer.
"Captain Surella." Kavanagh is an older human male, with shrewd grey eyes gleaming in a face seamed with wrinkles; his hair is grey, thinning at the top of the head, but he has cultivated some impressive snowy side-whiskers, perhaps to compensate. "I understand there was some admin foul-up that stopped you joining my task group. Something about you being classed as K6 when you're actually T22 -?"
"A17, sir." What is T22, and do I want to know?
"Well, whatever. I gather you've kept yourself busy, at least. Good. I can use an officer with initiative. Task Group Origen's mission is successfully concluded, but I have an assignment in mind that might suit you and your ship."
"Yes, sir?"
"Diplomatic thing, really. We need to wave the flag around some of the frontier systems near Tzenkethi space. I can transfer you and the Amphicyon over to Public Relations Command for the duration."
I have to choose my next words very carefully. "I'm sorry, sir. The combat damage to my ship means she's quite unsuitable for any - prestige - assignments, at least until repairs are complete. It could take weeks in spacedock to bring her up to the required standard, I'm afraid."
"Hmph." Kavanagh's eyes narrow. "Combat damage?"
"I have the damage report here, sir." I pick up the PADD and hold it out. "I can transmit the details on your data subchannel -"
Kavanagh snorts. "I'm bored enough reading my own damage reports, thank you, Captain. Very well. I'll have to turn that assignment over to someone else." He fixes me with a hard stare. "You need to think hard about your career track, Captain. You can't just go around running odd jobs for Science Division, you know. Kavanagh out." The screen goes blank.
"Dodged a bullet there, I think, boss," says Thala.
I sit down, heavily. "Indeed. Someone find out what category T22 is, why I am supposed to be in it, and how many I would have to kill in order to wipe that category out completely." I snarl at the viewscreen. "Running odd jobs for Science Division...." Someone has switched channels, and I contemplate the wreck of the Carnegie, hanging in the space where GO4704 used to be. "Well, at least that is interesting."