Gateways #6: Cold Wars Read online

  She was not looking at the tattered remains of her parents. Instead she was staring straight ahead, her eyes not focused on anything. It was as if she were looking deep into herself and saw within images that she knew she would never be able to erase from her mind.

  The soldiers looked at each other uncomfortably. They knew who and what she was, but had no idea how to proceed. They were men of war and destruction, not prepared—by temperament or training—for dealing gently with a traumatized child. The commander took a tentative step toward her, stretched out a hand. “Tsana,” he said.

  She kept screaming even as she twisted and spun from him, moving so quickly she might as well have been composed of light. She dashed past them and sprinted down the corridor, still screaming. The soldiers simply stood there until the irritated commander said impatiently, “Go after her!” and then, dissatisfied with the way they were standing there, took off after her himself. Several of his men trailed him.

  The girl he’d called Tsana ran into another room, a room that the commander recognized instantly as the bedchamber of the Zarnon. The screaming didn’t halt, but instead escalated, and she dashed right back out before the commander could draw near her. He barely gave a glance into the room, knowing that he was going to see the blood-spattered corpse of the Zarnon. It had, after all, been there moments before and wasn’t likely to have gone anywhere. “Tsana!” he called again, even as she ran into another bedchamber.

  The screaming stopped.

  Immediately concerned, the commander and his men ran into the room. There was nobody there. The window was wide open, a steady breeze wafting through and causing the drapes to flap. Three quick, long strides carried the commander across the room and, with trepidation, he looked out and down. He saw the crumbled body of the Zarn’s eldest girl, and was relieved to see that Tsana’s was not next to it. The commander withdrew into the room and glanced around, trying to determine where the girl might have gone. His attention was immediately drawn to the bed. It was large and ornate, with carefully made yellow sheets, as if the bed was expecting its owner to lie down in it sometime soon.

  Two of the soldiers went to either side of the bed, nodded to each other in coordinating the effort, and lifted the bed clear of the floor. And there, on the floor, was the girl. She was curled up, trembling slightly, staring off to that same place that could have been either inside or outside of her head.

  It was in the commander’s nature to be brusque, but the child’s clearly damaged state cut through that demeanor. He gestured for the soldiers to move the bed away completely, which they did, and then crouched near her. “Tsana,” he said softly. “It’s safe. It’s perfectly safe now.”

  Except he knew it was a lie. Somehow Markanian soldiers had gained entrance into the mansion. It had been cursedly stupid for them to beat the one captured Markanian into a bloody, useless mass; they had given in to the blood-fever of the moment, and now they were going to pay for it, because they were going to remain in ignorance of how the Markanians had achieved the massacre. More than that, though . . . this little girl, like any other, drew security from her family. But her family lay in bloodstained shreds, and she—not quite a woman, hovering just on the cusp of it—would never know anything resembling security again.

  Tsana whimpered to herself slightly, giving voice in a light, singsong tone that might have been echoes of a lullaby her mother had sung her, and then lapsed into silence. And nothing that any of the soldiers did could stir her from it. The commander picked her up; her body was stiff, as if death had already claimed it and the muscles had seized up.

  “It will be all right,” he lied once more, and wondered how anything would be all right for the child, ever again.

  2

  DEPARTMENT OF TEMPORAL INVESTIGATIONS

  THE OFFICE WAS relatively spare in its adornments. A few chairs that were reasonably comfortable, carpeting that could stand to be replaced, and a desk at which the receptionist—a junior lieutenant—was seated. His face was somewhat pinched-looking, as if he were sitting on a tack. He seemed to be rather determined to focus on the files on his computer screen, but he kept glancing in the direction of the individual who was occupying one of the chairs. He was trying to be subtle about it, and failing rather miserably. She knew he was interested in her, intrigued by her. She could always tell. She could smell it. The increased hormone levels, the pheromones—whatever it was that someone was giving off, the scent was as strong as burning meat to her.

  “Excuse me,” she said after what had seemed an interminable amount of time. Probably welcoming the opportunity to have an excuse to do so, the lieutenant j.g. looked her full in the face. Her voice was low, almost purring. “I’m still feeling a bit . . . disoriented. I was under the impression that I was to have a meeting with Admiral Gulliver at seventeen hundred hours. I . . . could be wrong about that, I admit. I’m still a little fuzzy on the way things are being done hereabouts, Lieutenant . . .”

  “Vickers. Robert Vickers. Bob. You can call me Bob,” he said quickly.

  “Bob. If you could just check and—”

  “I’ve already checked,” he assured her. “You did have an appointment, yes, and the admiral is running a little late . . . plus, he’s waiting for someone. . . .”

  “Waiting?” Her brow furrowed. “Who is he waiting for?”

  “He didn’t say. I’m afraid he doesn’t tell me all that much,” Vickers said apologetically.

  Mentally, she shrugged, deciding that Vickers wasn’t going to be of much help. She further decided that if something about the circumstance didn’t change within the next few seconds, she was going to get up and leave and . . .

  And go where?

  For about half a second there she had felt a degree of hope. It would have been wonderful if she were actually able to accomplish something, go somewhere, do something. But that hope had quickly faded as the crushing reality of her difficulties closed in on her once more.

  Dead. Dead, they’re all dead, and you should be, too. What are you doing here? Why can’t you be dead, too? What possible purpose can there be to continuing in this . . . ?

  Then the door to the waiting room slid open, and a scent immediately caught her attention. It was incredibly familiar, one that she knew almost as well as her own. She rose from her chair, determined to stand, even though she felt so weakkneed from astonishment that she thought she would fall.

  The owner of the scent scuttled in with that bizarre, familiar, semi-pirouette walk that his tripodal form required. Indeed, among various quarters it had caused him to acquire nicknames ranging from “Top” to “Merry-Go-Round” (and even “Dreidel” on one occasion). His thin neck extended a bit further than its normal length as his craggy, crab-like head turned in her direction. Something vaguely resembling a smile played across his lips. “Fancy meeting you here,” he said in that slightly vibrating voice of his which, once upon a time, she had found rather grating. Now it was the most wonderful sound in the world to her.

  “Arex!” she fairly shrieked, and leaped the distance of the room toward him. He enfolded her in his three arms and she felt, rather than heard, amused laughter in his chest.

  “Greetings, M’Ress,” he said.

  “It’s you! It’s really you!” She shook her head in disbelief, her great mane of orange hair swaying from one side to the other. Her furred muzzle was crinkled up in that way she had when she was grinning, and her fangs were bared—not in threat, but in surprise. Her pointed ears atop her head were flattened down, as if she were expecting to be petted, and her limpid green cats’ eyes were wide with joy. “I never thought I’d be so happy to see anyone in my life, much less you!”

  Arex digested the sentiment and finally said, “I believe I shall choose to take that as a compliment, as oddly phrased as it might be.”

  “But what are you doing here! Have you . . .” She gasped, not daring to believe it, gripping his bony shoulders with such force that she quickly eased up, lest she break them. “Y
ou’ve come to take me back. That’s it, isn’t it? I’m not trapped in this time. There’s a way to return to our century.”

  Arex was about to reply, but then the door to the inner office slid open. An avuncular-looking gentleman with a saltandpepper beard and a gleaming forehead smiled at the two of them. “Greetings,” he said. “I’m Admiral Gulliver. Welcome to the Starfleet Department for Temporally Displaced Officers. Come in, come in, both of you.”

  Understanding dawned upon the feline officer as she turned her gaze toward Arex. He nodded in silent confirmation of that which she was already figuring out. “You’re . . . trapped here, too?” she asked, but there wasn’t very much question in her voice.

  He sighed. “Shuttle expedition that fell through a wormhole. You?”

  “Landing party expedition that stumbled across a time gateway of some sort.”

  “Yes, yes, most unfortunate,” Gulliver said in a neutral tone . . . so carefully neutral, in fact, that it caught M’Ress’s attention. It made her feel as if there was something that he wasn’t saying. But before she could pursue it, Gulliver said, “If you’ll . . . ?” as he gestured once again for them to enter, not bothering to repeat the invitation out loud.

  M’Ress preceded Arex into the office, but she was already feeling despondent over the situation. For one joyous moment she had thought she had a way out of her predicament, only to discover that Arex was in the same fix that she was. Humans liked to say that misery loves company, but having experienced it, she could now say with complete authority that all misery loved was a way to stop being miserable. Having someone to share your grief didn’t accomplish a damned thing.

  As opposed to Arex’s scuttling walk, M’Ress moved with delicate, feline grace, one foot carefully placed directly in front of the other. Early in her career she’d worn boots, but had never been able to find a pair that was truly comfortable, and eventually she’d shed them in favor of going barefoot. Her own natural pads provided more than enough protection, and it added a nice element of stealth to her approach that she found preferable to clonking about in Starfleet-issue footwear. In this case, however, her movements reflected her despondency; she actually made noise padding across the carpet, which was most unusual for her. She didn’t care.

  Gulliver circled behind his desk, rolling out his chair so he could sit while continuing to speak in a very pleasant tone. “I’ve always imagined it Starfleet’s bit of whimsy, assigning someone named Gulliver to oversee a department in charge of unusual travels. Don’t you think so?”

  “I suppose,” said M’Ress, looking as blank as she felt.

  “It seems most . . . amusing to me,” Arex affirmed.

  Gulliver looked from one to the other. “You’ve never read Gulliver’s Travels, have you.”

  “Should we have?” inquired M’Ress. “Is it autobiographical?”

  “Wha—? Oh . . . no,” and he laughed. “I didn’t write it. A man named Jonathan Swift did. It’s a novel about a fellow who finds himself in some very strange places, and he’s endeavoring to get home.”

  “In that respect, I can definitely empathize,” said M’Ress. As was her habit, she stretched out the m just a hair, making it sound as if she truly enjoyed saying the word. She leaned forward, her long, leonine tail whipping around behind her, showing her momentary excitement. “And . . . is there a way? For us, I mean? To return to—”

  But her feelings sank once more when Gulliver began shaking his head. “I’m sorry. It’s quite against Starfleet Temporal policy.”

  “Against policy!” Her ears twitched. “But . . . there are ways to time travel in a controlled fashion. James Kirk did it, several times. . . .”

  “Including one time when he obtained whales and saved the earth; yes, we’re all quite aware of the legends of the good captain,” Gulliver said patiently.

  “He wasn’t a legend to me. I knew him. I served under him. And if he could do it—”

  “Then you should be able to do it?” He shook his head again even as she nodded hers. “Again, I’m afraid not.”

  “But what difference will it make if I return home?”

  “We don’t know. And that is the problem. You see, M’Ress, Starfleet Temporal policy is as follows,” and he leaned forward, fingers interlaced on the desk. “When it comes to temporal displacement, all things happen for a purpose.”

  “That’s predestination.” She blew air impatiently between her teeth. “You’re telling me that there’s some greater being manipulating our lives and making a shambles of them in as creative a manner as possible?”

  He chuckled and said, “We tend to leave that decision to the individual. The point is, you’re here, now. According to our records, you vanished over eighty years ago. That’s the reality of our universe. The same with Arex, some,”—he double-checked the files—“seventy-one years ago.”

  “And if we unvanish, what difference will it make?” demanded M’Ress.

  “We don’t know.” It was Arex who had spoken. When she looked at him in obvious surprise that he seemed to be taking the admiral’s side, he simply shrugged. “This is my second time having this discussion. I volunteered to be here when I heard you were coming through, for old time’s sake.”

  “ ‘Old time’ is all I have left to me,” said M’Ress bleakly. “I still can’t believe that my returning would pose any sort of risk. . . .”

  “You said it yourself, Lieutenant,” Gulliver reminded her. “You served with Captain Kirk. He learned firsthand the difference that even one person could make. Starfleet . . . indeed, the Federation . . . is bound by the Prime Directive to do everything within its power to maintain the status quo, if you will, of all worlds. The reality of the worlds of the here and now includes one Caitian, Lieutenant Shiboline M’Ress, and one Triexian, Lieutenant Arex Na Eth, having disappeared without a trace. That must remain the case. I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?” M’Ress said, making no endeavor to keep the bitterness from her voice. She felt as if she wanted to scream, as if she wanted to explode in all directions at once. But all of her training, her very nature, prompted her to keep her own counsel. She did not want this . . . this stranger to see how upset she truly was, so instead she reined herself in and tried to keep her voice as neutral as possible. “When someone is truly sorry, they endeavor to make things better. Are you going to try and make things better for me, Admiral? Better for Arex?”

  “We already have been doing so, Lieutenant,” Gulliver said patiently. “You certainly have firsthand knowledge of that. The education—”

  “Yes, yes, I know,” sighed M’Ress. “I wasn’t trying to be dismissive of the reeducation program you’ve been utilizing. Sleep-teaching, psi-teaching, all manner of specialized learning tools you’ve been using to make me aware of how much I’ve missed. But . . .”

  “But what?”

  “Well, it’s . . . it’s made me aware of how much I’ve missed.”

  Gulliver didn’t comprehend, but Arex clearly did. “ Admiral,” he said softly, “much of the joy of what we do is derived from the discovering of it. It’s as if . . .” He paused, trying to come up with a workable comparison, and then he smiled. “Let us say that you have a child. A son. So one day you’re at home, holding the newborn infant in your arms. Then you put it down, walk out the door, thinking you’ll be back in fifteen minutes. Well, one thing leads to another, and the next thing you know, you return and it’s fifteen years later. So there’s your son, all grown, smiling, welcoming you back to the bosom of your home. And he sits you down and tells you everything that he’s been up to in the intervening decade and a half. So there you are, appreciating all that . . . and glad to see how tall and strong he’s grown . . . but at the same time . . .”

  “At the same time,” Gulliver interrupted, smiling sadly, “you’re overwhelmed with regret for not having been there to see it all happen.”

  “Yes,” M’Ress said. “Exactly.” She shifted in her seat and looked at Arex. “Thank you. Than
k you for expressing it so well.”

  “I am pleased I could be of service,” said Arex.

  “Well,” said Gulliver, sounding quite regretful, “there’s nothing we can do about the time lost. Still, if you’ll allow me a bit of humor: I have every confidence that you’ll land on your feet.”

  M’Ress winced visibly. “That would be a cat joke, would it not? How nice to know some things remain consistent.”

  “M’Ress has heard them all,” Arex told Gulliver by way of explanation. “There are very few Caitians in Starfleet . . . or at least there were few when we were there. And when she would encounter new individuals, they would invariably make a reference to, or joke about, earth felines, always thinking they were the first to come up with it. It’s always meant in gentle jest, with no nastiness attached to it . . . but it becomes repetitive and even tiresome.”

  “So let us be clear with one another, Admiral,” M’Ress said, leaning forward, furred fingers interlaced. “I have one life, not nine. I have never been killed by curiosity, my parents do not live in a cat house, my mother did not rock me as an infant in a cat’s cradle, the preferred Caitian method of self-defense is not cat-boxing, I do not deposit my earnings into a kitty, if I am trying to be delicate about a subject I do not pussyfoot around . . . shall I go on?”

  “I would really prefer if you did not,” Gulliver assured her. “My apologies. I didn’t realize I was walking on such thoroughly trod ground. Let’s . . . try things from another approach. Would you like me to arrange for you to visit your native Caitia? Granted, they’re not members of the Federation . . .”