Gateways #6: Cold Wars Read online

  But he was jarred from his self-satisfied reverie by the doomsday noises occurring outside his cell. Smyt brought himself down, down, until he was fully awake and back to full attention.

  He listened thoughtfully, dispassionately. In his mind’s eye, he could easily picture the chaos that the noises were suggesting. He vaguely wondered whether anyone was dead, and if so, how many. Whether any Aerons had died or not wasn’t all that important to him; it would simply give him an indication of how humbled they would be when they finally came crawling to him. If he waited a few minutes more, then undoubtedly there would be some deaths, and that would get them nicely softened up.

  So he waited a few minutes more.

  Then, satisfied with the degree of discord that had been unleashed above, he began rolling up the sleeve of his left arm. It looked no different than his right arm, and any medical scan of it would have detected no difference. He ran his long, tapered fingers along the inner forearm, found the ridge he was seeking, and tapped it once. There was a soft whirring of servos and a small panel slid open on the arm, revealing an equally small array of controls. There were several lights blinking, indicating that everything was functioning as anticipated.

  He shook his head. “Idiots,” he murmured. He had done nothing to instigate the insanity; no, no, the Aerons had more than done that to themselves. On the other hand, he had certainly done nothing to prevent the catastrophe from being unleashed. There was no better way, he reasoned, to convince them of the necessity for dealing with him directly, rather than shunting him away into some sort of prison.

  He reached into the exposed section of the arm and deftly manipulated the controls. It was not the easiest of chores, considering that the ground was rumbling beneath him, but ultimately it did not take long at all. Within moments the trembling had subsided, and Smyt smiled with quiet confidence. He could practically sense the relief flooding over everyone within the area of the test site . . . indeed, very possibly everyone on the planet, even those who did not comprehend what had just happened.

  From that moment on, it was just a matter of time.

  He closed the control panel, rolled the sleeve back down, and returned to his meditative state. He knew that, sooner or later, they would be coming to him, and he wanted to be in a calm, imperturbable frame of mind when they did so.

  As it happened, it was sooner rather than later.

  The brisk sound of footsteps approaching rousted him from his inner contemplation, and he had just managed to recall his consciousness to full wakefulness when the doors to his cell slid open and a familiar figure was standing there, accompanied by several guards.

  “Good day to you, Burkitt,” said an unnecessarily jovial Smyt. “And how are you doing with the Gateway? All the testing procedures go as smoothly as you could have hoped?” He inclined his head slightly, displaying a false air of concern. “You look somewhat haggard, dear fellow. Has there been a problem?”

  Burkitt said nothing at first, merely glared at Smyt. It was all Smyt could do to keep a self-satisfied smirk off his face, but he knew he was dealing with delicacies. He did not wish to annoy his customer, particularly considering how obviously aggravated Burkitt was at that moment. So he said nothing, waiting for Burkitt to break the silence.

  “Leave us,” Burkitt said, and although his gaze was fixed upon Smyt, the comment was clearly addressed to the guards. They promptly did as they were told, while Burkitt stepped into the cell and allowed the doors to close behind him. Smyt could see that the warmaster was trembling with barely suppressed rage, but gave no indication that he was the least bit concerned. “Do you know what happened?” Burkitt demanded. “And did you know it would happen?”

  Smyt, who had been planning to lie, saw the look in Burkitt’s eyes and immediately intuited that any attempt at prevarication would not bode well for him. Smyt was by no means an imposing figure, and yet he managed to draw himself up and look at least mildly impressive. “I know that something happened,” he said with brisk efficiency. “I’d have to be deaf, dumb, and blind to be unaware of that. Precisely what it was, I’ve no idea, nor did I know exactly what results your mucking with the Gateway would trigger. You could have actually lucked onto the proper functioning of the device. I wouldn’t have expected you to do so, you understand, but anything is possible. I think I can safely assume, however, that that isn’t what occurred.”

  “No. It’s not,” Burkitt said tersely.

  Smyt settled back, still fighting the impulse to smile at Burkitt’s obvious discomfiture. “Tell me what did occur.”

  Burkitt took a deep breath, and Smyt could see that Burkitt was fighting back the anger that had threatened, however momentarily, to consume him. “We’re not altogether certain. The controls appear to be encrypted, but our scientists were certain they had managed to crack it. It was . . .” He placed one hand on one of the chairs, leaning slightly on it, but not sitting. “It was supposed to be a modest test of the device’s capabilities. It’s not as if we were intending to use it to launch a full strike against the Markanians. We wanted to do nothing more than use it to transport a test device from one side of our world to the other.”

  “And instead . . .?” prompted Smyt, when Burkitt didn’t immediately continue.

  “Instead,” said Burkitt, looking shaken just from the recollection, “when the Gateway was activated—as near as we can determine—it appeared to lock onto a sun.”

  “Onto a sun?” Smyt was doing an excellent job of sounding surprised. He was quite pleased with himself, chalking it up to his meditative skills. “Which one?”

  “How would I know?” Burkitt said testily. “It was hot, it was bright, and it almost killed us all. Thank the gods no one was standing near the Gateway when it started up.”

  “The Gateway has a protective filter for just such a mishap,” Smyt said, as if what Burkitt was telling him was news to him. “If it had not prevented the heat from getting through, you, everybody there, half the damned planet would have been incinerated.”

  “That much is true, apparently,” admitted Burkitt. “But what the filter couldn’t keep out, as it so happened, was the star’s gravity. The gravimetric force that came through . . . it started pulling up everything around it. Huge pieces of the planet, the upper portions of a nearby mountain peak . . . it was as if a giant vacuum had been turned on and was sucking in everything in sight. The control center building was trembling, being pulled apart by the power of it. Pieces of it went flying, got sucked in despite the distance of the device. Our scientists were trying to shut it down, but weren’t succeeding in doing so.” He paused a moment, as if gathering himself. Apparently he was having trouble relating what had occurred, as if he couldn’t believe it even though he had been an eyewitness to it. “Not only that, but the power of the star was beginning to affect the very tectonic plates between the planet’s surface, triggering quakes, and . . .” He shook his head, and for a moment—just a moment—he trembled slightly. Smyt found himself admiring the warmaster’s selfcontrol; had he witnessed as catastrophic an accident as Burkitt had, he doubted he would be able to address the recollections of it with such equanimity. Burkitt steadied himself then and said, with remarkable cool, “If they had not managed to shut it down . . . the entire planet would very likely have been sucked into the thing.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  Burkitt licked his dry lips. “Several of my people. They were trying to get the scientists to safer ground . . . as if there were any safer ground. As the building came apart, several were killed by falling rubble . . . and a couple more were just . . . just hauled away. I felt . . .”

  “Felt what?”

  Burkitt let out a long breath. “I felt the gravity pulling at me. I would have gone next . . . been pulled through the air, into the Gateway, hurled right into the fiery core of a star . . . and then it just . . . shut down.”

  “With no warning?”

  “I can only think that whatever steps our scientists took to d
isconnect it eventually kicked in. Either that,” he added thoughtfully, “or there was some sort of built-in override or safety shut-off.”

  Suddenly his eyes narrowed and he stared at Smyt. It was a gaze that made Smyt feel extremely uncomfortable, and he began to wonder if, somehow, he had underestimated the Aeron warmaster. For a moment, he expected Burkitt to grab his arm, rip it open, and expose the controls hidden away therein. But then the moment passed, and Burkitt leaned back, letting out a soft sigh of relief. “Whatever the reason . . . it stopped. And we were spared what could easily have been the most cataclysmic mistake in the history of our people.”

  He said nothing more for a time. Finally Smyt could take the silence no longer. “So . . . now what?”

  “Now?” He laughed bitterly. “Well, I had an interesting meeting with my fellow Counselars, I can certainly tell you that. Half of them wanted to have me put on trial for posing a deadly threat to our world. The other half insisted that, although the concept of striking back at the Markanians was a sound one, that we were foolish to proceed without the aid of the individual who best knew how to operate the Gateway. Even though,” he added, “it is my conviction that that individual—namely you—is endeavoring to play one race against the other. I do not trust you now, Smyt, any more than I did before.”

  “And may I ask what the final resolution of your Counselars was?”

  Burkitt rose and walked around the cell, hands draped behind his back. “When I said they were evenly split, that was not exaggeration. And obviously, I was not about to vote for my being put on trial.”

  “Meaning you have elected to trust me,” Smyt concluded with clear satisfaction.

  “I have elected to do no such thing,” Burkitt said, giving Smyt that same uneasy feeling he had before. “Your price—presuming it’s reasonable—will be met. And you will be working directly on the Gateway, showing our scientists the proper way to operate it. However, we will make certain that you are positioned directly in front of the Gateway when next it’s opened. If, in an attempt to subject our world to destructive forces, you open the portal to a star, or a black hole, or some other ‘inappropriate’ destination, you will be the very first to meet whatever fate you intend for the rest of us.”

  Smyt laughed unpleasantly. “There’s certainly nothing like a trusting atmosphere to provide a conducive environment for scientific exploration.”

  Smiling grimly, Burkitt assured him, “Then take heart, for I can promise you nothing like a trusting atmosphere. On the other hand, if you consider the terms unacceptable, we can simply destroy the Gateway now and leave you to rot.”

  At that, Smyt was seized with silent fury. “The Gateway is my property. You have no right—”

  And suddenly Smyt was off his feet, Burkitt lifting him with one hand and slamming him up against the wall. His voice choking with fury, Burkitt snarled, “Several of the soldiers I lost were men I trained myself, from their youth. They were like sons to me. I take their loss very, very seriously, and as much as I hold myself responsible for what happened to them, I condemn you all the more.” And with each subsequent pause, he thumped Smyt against the wall once more. “So I do not—suggest—you speak—to me—of your—rights.” He unclenched his fingers then, and Smyt slid to the floor. “Do we understand each other?”

  Smyt coughed several times, and then said, “Perfectly.”

  Then Burkitt hauled him to his feet, and Smyt flinched against an anticipated blow. Instead, Burkitt simply said, “Good. Then let’s get to work.”

  9

  MARKANIA

  “THANK YOU FOR COMING,” Furvus of the Ruling Council of Markania said for what seemed the hundredth time. His forehead was beaded with sweat, and he dabbed at it with a cloth, forcing a smile as he led Captain Shelby and Lieutenant Arex past the ornate columns leading to the inner chamber of the Council. Outside there was a cold rain falling, and a fairly stiff wind blowing. Shelby was wearing a Starfleet-issue windbreaker over her uniform tunic, against the weather. Furthermore, Shelby had to walk carefully, because the rain had caused the walkways to become quite slick. Yet, despite the weather, there seemed to be a fair number of citizens out and about. That was made more understandable when she learned that a steady rain and chill winds were more or less the standard state of the weather thereabouts. If the people of Thallon 18—or Markania, as they termed it—remained indoors waiting for a sunny day, they’d likely never go outside at all. Interestingly, Arex didn’t seem the least impeded by the inclement weather. Perhaps his three-legged structure gave him additional traction. Whatever it was, he moved with utter confidence across the slick flagging that led up to the council building.

  “The rest of the Council is waiting within,” Furvus said, gesturing ahead of himself. “They all want to thank you for coming.” Shelby couldn’t help but observe that she had never seen, in all her career, a planetary head who appeared more concerend about being liked than Furvus. That, she mused, was never a good attribute for a leader to have. One simply couldn’t be concerned about whether he or she was liked. Well, that certainly puts you on solid footing, doesn’t it? Shelby’s mind commented in a snide fashion. She airily told her mind to shut the hell up.

  “Will the thanks be en masse, or individually?” inquired Arex.

  Shelby fired him a look and he promptly silenced himself, although there was a hint of a smile on his wide lips.

  Totally missing the sarcasm, Furvus bowed slightly to the security head and said, “Whichever you would prefer.”

  Shelby had trouble believing that Furvus could possibly be that dense, but such seemed to be the case. “Neither will be necessary,” Shelby said promptly. “I think you’ve made your appreciation abundantly clear.”

  She was finding it even harder to believe that this “Furvus” was any sort of a genuine leader of the world. He seemed extremely tentative, bordering on being apologetic for his very existence. Yet the Markanians that they passed appeared to hold him in proper esteem, bowing their heads slightly as they went. Perhaps the Markanians were culturally trained to prize humility above all else. That being the case, Furvus could probably be king for life.

  As they walked down the corridor toward what she assumed was the council chamber, she noticed a series of mosaics artfully crafted into the wall. As benign an attitude as Furvus was putting forward, she was seeing a very different view of the Markanians from the wall-works. She saw a blue-skinned race that she took to be the Markanians, locked in combat with another race. They were very pale in hue, but there was nothing in their depiction that indicated any sort of physical weakness. What Shelby found of even further interest was that the mosaics seemed to cover a significant span of time. In some of them, the combatants were armed with little more than cutting weapons and clubs. From those very primitive beginnings, up through to relatively modern times, with the enemies having at one another with energy-blasting weapons, Shelby was witnessing generation upon generation of enmity. “What a waste,” she muttered to herself.

  Arex obviously heard her talking under her breath and looked at her with curiosity, but she didn’t offer any sort of clarification, nor was it his place to request it. Instead he simply continued to move alongside her, noiselessly, as her security escort.

  Yes. Yes, noiselessly. That was the most remarkable thing about him: how he didn’t seem to walk so much as he glided. She had it on reliable authority from Starfleet that Arex had been absolutely devastating in both hand-to-hand and weapons simulations while he was being appraised for Starfleet duty. His scores had literally been off the charts, and his installation as head of security had been a natural fit.

  Would that M’Ress had proven as natural. Unfortunately she continued to seem out of place, having difficulty fitting in. Every time Shelby happened to wander past the Caitian, she seemed preoccupied and distant. She supposed she couldn’t entirely blame M’Ress. She was, after all, in a time and place that was not her own. That would have been enough to drag down even the most g
regarious of souls . . . except for Arex, whose basic upbeat nature didn’t seem the least bit perturbed by his new circumstances.

  Well, she’d always heard that cats don’t travel well. That notion made Shelby smile, and she reminded herself that she should share the observation with M’Ress. Certainly M’Ress would find a cat reference amusing. She probably had a very good sense of humor about such things.

  Furvus appeared to notice where Shelby’s attention was focused. “Impressive array, is it not?” he said, slowing his pace.

  She nodded. “Very much so.”

  “Would that it were not.” He sighed heavily. “I am afraid, Captain, that you have wandered onto a world caught in a true schism.”

  “We haven’t ‘wandered’ into anything, Furvus . . . I’m sorry, do you have a title of some sort? President? Honorable?”

  “I am simply Furvus,” he said, once again sounding almost apologetic. “Once . . . once our people were most enamored of titles. And of war,” and he indicated the mosaics. “And I fear that time is coming once again. Which is why I, on behalf of the Ruling Council, asked that you come. Our thanks for your coming, by the way.”

  She’d lost count of the number of times he’d said that. “Thank you.”

  They walked through a large set of double doors, and Shelby could hear what sounded like urgent discussion on the other side, which promptly lapsed into silence when they entered. There were two more Markanians seated at a semicircular table, and they fixed what looked to be urgent gazes upon Shelby and Arex when they entered. One of them looked at the two Starfleet officers and asked, “Which one would be the leader?”

  “I am Captain Shelby,” she said. “This is Lieutenant Arex.” Not for the first time, she regretted that Si Cwan had chosen to remain with the Excalibur. This was the precise sort of situation where the knowledgeable Thallonian would come in handy.