The Three-Handed Game 14

T'Pia

Nelson Karas appears to be very interested in the toes of his boots. His colleague, Lieutenant Vasque, is staring straight ahead with a self-consciously wooden expression. I sit quietly behind my ready room desk, with Twosani Dezin standing by my side, and I regard them both with quite deliberate impassivity.

After what I judge to be a psychologically effective interval of time, I say, "Please explain, gentlemen."

"Sir," says Vasque, and stops. Commander Karas seems even more engrossed in the state of his boots.

"Am I required to be more specific?" I ask. "How many matters are there which require explanation?"

"We were reading off the performance data of King Estmere," Karas says. "We thought -"

"They've got more experience with Tholian drive systems than we do, sir," says Vasque. "We figured we could, well, adapt their techniques -"

"- they get twenty per cent more out of their engines than we do, easily, sir -"

"- and they have designs for the plasma manifold on file, and -"

"- it looked like it'd be easy enough to install -"

It is either feast or famine, it seems, when it comes to getting these humans to talk. "You copied some modifications of the impulse plasma manifold from King Estmere, and implemented them on our drive systems. Is that a broadly accurate summary of your actions?"

"Uh," says Vasque, "yes, sir."

"I see." I raise my right eyebrow. "Were these modifications successful?"

That fazes them. They exchange puzzled glances. "Uh," says Vasque, "sir -"

"I believe the answer you are looking for, Mr. Vasque, is no," I say. "I think I have a certain command of human idiom, through my exposure to your culture. Am I correct in saying that an apt description of the plasma manifold, in its current condition, would be blown to smithereens?"

"Yes, sir," says Vasque helplessly.

"Turns out the Recluse's channels have a different cross-sectional profile from an Orb Weaver's," says Karas. "Same area, but a different profile. So -"

"So, when you activated the EPS stream," I interrupt, "it was partially obstructed, and that obstruction caused interference, heat build-up, and explosive failure."

"Yes, sir."

"It seems to me," I say, "that there are lessons to be learned from this incident. I will summarize them. Firstly, this difference in cross-sectional profile should have been spotted immediately, on a visual check. It is important to make these visual checks. Secondly, low-power testing would have caught the problem, before the heat build-up reached the point of causing damage. It is important to carry out adequate low-power testing. Thirdly, and perhaps most significantly, Vice Admiral Shohl is a member of the Experimental Engineering Group, and I am not. It is important - I would suggest, it is of prime importance - to leave her engineering staff to detonate parts of her ship, rather than experimenting with mine. Do you have any comment to make on this summary?"

"Sir," says Karas, "no, sir."

"Excellent. I am glad that we are in agreement. Now, to specifics. This ship is currently without main impulse power. This is due to your actions. It is therefore appropriate that you should remedy that situation, and expeditiously."

"Sir?"

"Start repairs, gentlemen. In person. Now."

They exchange glances again. "Yes, sir," says Karas, and salutes.

"Sir," says Vasque, "I'm sorry that -"

"Apologies are unnecessary, Lieutenant. Dismissed."

And they go. Twosani watches them leave, with a slight smile on her face. "So," she says. "Further action?"

"Disciplinary? I see no reason. They are, essentially, capable officers."

"They are radiating relief right now," says Twosani.

"We have been here over two weeks. Science division is busy, attempting to interpret the data from the facility. Operations and engineering are at a loose end. I am, in a sense, gratified that they have found a potentially productive outlet for their frustrated energies."

"I've seen the state of the engine room," says Twosani. "It wasn't that productive."

"An error was made. Errors happen, despite our best efforts. There were no injuries, or I would have had to take a sterner line. Their intentions were good - laudable, even."

Twosani nods. "No argument, sir. For whatever it's worth, I think you handled them pretty well."

"Thank you." I turn to my desk console. "I believe it is time for the command conference call. Please remain. You should be cognizant of all relevant decisions."

"Yes, sir." Twosani steps discreetly to the side, though, as I set up the viewscreens and open the channels.

On the bridge of the Falcon, Ronnie Grau looks bored: on the station itself, Tylha Shohl looks tired. "Let's face facts, guys," Ronnie says. "This is a bust."

"I'm starting to think the same myself," says Tylha. "We've gathered a lot of data, but I can't see that we're getting anywhere with it." She looks hopefully towards me. "Unless you know any different."

"Regrettably," I say, "I do not. We are still processing the salvaged data, but as yet no significant correlations have emerged between Dr. Tamik's experiments and the records of the Stygmalian Rift."

"Right," says Ronnie, "right." She takes a deep breath; evidently, there is an emotional charge associated with her next utterance. "So, the next step, I guess, is - back to the Rift. Take the data we've collected here, and see if anything matches up with the state of space around the Rift's site, as it currently stands."

I believe I can understand her reluctance. The Stygmalian Rift constitutes a chapter of Ronnie's life that she must, surely, prefer to think of as closed. However, that is not relevant. "I believe you are correct," I say. "We must make preparations for departure. Tapiola, unfortunately, is temporarily disabled due to an accident in engineering."

"I can send teams -" Tylha begins.

"There is no need. Thank you. Repairs are in hand. In the meantime, I will start to beam up my science teams on the station."

"Makes sense," says Ronnie. "Let's bring our people back and be on our way."

"I'd like to keep hold of your Commander Saval for a little while," says Tylha. "There's some, well, clearing up I'd like to do before we leave."

"Clearing up?" asks Ronnie.

"First," says Tylha, "I want to make one last sweep of the available databanks, to be sure we haven't missed anything. Saval knows the setup well enough to spot any details.... Then, I want to do a proper security lockdown of this facility. I do not want someone coming along after us and getting a hold on Dr. Tamik's plans. I'm going to keep Klerupiru here, to do a low-level data wipe of the computer cores, and Mr. M to handle the physical security. That should be enough to -" A chirp comes from her combadge, and she taps it. "Shohl."

A new image appears in a separate window on the viewer; the blue face of King Estmere's Bolian communications officer. "Sorry to interrupt, skipper," he says, "but we've got a situation. Distress call out towards the NSS-8762 nebula."

Everyone becomes instantly more alert. "Details?" says Tylha.

"Commercial vessel SS Makela," says the Bolian. "They say they struck a subspace inversion at the fringe of the nebula, and had a warp field imbalance that blew out sensors and sent them on an out-of-control spin through the gas clouds. They've dropped to sublight and are making repairs, themselves, but while they were zooming around, several of the passengers panicked and launched shuttles and escape pods. So -"

"So now there's a bunch of civilians scattered all over that nebula in lifeboats," Ronnie interrupts, "and someone's got to go out and gather the lost sheep into the fold, am I right?"

"That's pretty much it, sir, yes."

"Oh, brother," says Ronnie.

Tylha's face is calculating. "We'd need multiple ships for a wide area search," she says. "The obvious thing to do is... send T'Pia's frigate groups. I guess Tapiola would be ideal for coordinating the operation, but if her engines are down.... F'hon, tell Anthi to take King Estmere out there to handle the search. Our sensor arrays are pretty good, and our own Mesh Weavers can back up the frigate groups."

"I concur," I say. "I will expedite repairs and join the search group as soon as Tapiola is fully mobile."

Ronnie makes a face. "I'd better keep Falcon on station for the present, then. Best to have one fully operational ship here, and besides, kiddo, you will need a lift out when you're finished with what you're doing."

"Logical," I say. "I do not expect my repairs to take long. I will issue appropriate orders to the frigate commanders." I glance at Twosani. "Signal Commander Trukh on the Vauxhall to make preparations."

"All right, then," says Tylha. "We'll speak again once Tapiola's ready to depart."

And she cuts the channel. After a moment, Ronnie does the same. I consider for a few seconds, then touch the intercom panel. "T'Pia to Commander Karas."

"Karas here, sir." His tone sounds guarded.

"A distress call has been received, and we must make ready to answer it. Please expedite your repairs, as much as is compatible with safe practice."

"Uh, yes, sir."

"Please indicate an approximate time for completion, if you are able."

"Uh - going by the book, sir, maybe three, four hours. If we cut some corners -"

"Negative. We will proceed with urgency, not with panic. There is a fundamental dictum of emergency response situations - we help no one by becoming casualties ourselves. Carry on the repairs according to protocols." I have already had one explosion in the engine room today, I neither need nor desire another.

"Yes, sir." Twosani, meanwhile, has already made contact with the frigates. Everything seems to be going well, then.

---

The repairs are completed in three hours and twenty-four minutes - a very creditable figure, for a rough estimate requested at short notice. I request standard tests to be run before we engage full drives, naturally.

King Estmere and the two frigate groups have already departed, travelling towards the nebula at maximum warp. Falcon is some little way from us, barely visible with the naked eye, turning in a protective tight circle around the Delta Gracilis station. I look down at my readouts. The power values for the impulse engines are nominal. All is well.

"Signal King Estmere via subspace that we are preparing for departure," I say. "Then contact Vice Admiral Shohl and ask if she is ready to be transported from the station."

"Yes, sir," says Twosani. I return to checking the state of the impulse drive. I do not wish there to be any more faults -

"We have a problem, sir." I turn to Twosani, who is frowning. "I can't raise King Estmere on subspace radio - there seems to be a lot of interference -"

"Let me check." I call up the requisite data on the command interface. The layout of the Tholian bridge helps, here, I think; the centre station is designed so that the ship's captain has access to all systems at his or her fingertips - or its claw tips, in the case of a Tholian. It takes only a moment to confirm that subspace is riddled with interference, sufficient to blank out communications.

"I am puzzled," I say. "This interference could only be created by some high-energy event that affects subspace. Sufficiently violent radiation or gravimetric discharges could generate vast amounts of radio noise... but I do not detect any other signs of such violent events. Curious."

"What do we do now, sir?"

"Signal the Falcon via laser link." At this range, light-speed lag is not a factor. "We will travel outwards, in case this disruption is only localized... and we will endeavour to ascertain its cause."

Tapiola turns, her drive functioning smoothly and efficiently, and points herself towards the stars. I consider the data readouts again, and repress a frown. This is genuinely unusual. The interference is blanketing local space, and it is peculiarly uniform in intensity and regular in frequency.

"Signal from Falcon, sir."

"On screen." The image is not visibly degraded, compared with conventional transmission methods. At this distance, the laser link is more than adequate. Ronnie Grau's face shows an expression of concern.

"We're showing the same as you," she says. "Subspace is swamped with interference, covering most of the immediate volume."

"Quite," I say. "I am at something of a loss as to how to account for it."

"Yeah, well," says Ronnie, "I've had an idea or two. I'm not so green as I'm cabbage looking, you know. I can tell a hawk from a handsaw when the wind is southerly, and I can smell a rat when someone shoves one up my nose."

It takes me a second or so to divine her meaning. "You suspect our communications are being deliberately jammed."

"Got it in one. So listen. I'm going to red alert, suggest you do the same, and start scanning carefully in the direction you're going in. Meantime, I'll try and get a message through to Tylha on the station somehow...." She scratches her head. "Dunno how, right now. Her combadge is probably tuned to subspace frequencies. Never mind, I'll work something out." She cuts communications abruptly.

"Her hypothesis would account for some of the available data," I say. "Red alert."

Alarm sirens sound. I dismiss the readouts from the comms station, call up the tactical display of local space instead. It is empty, at first sight, apart from the icons for the Tapiola and the Falcon, the station itself, and the scattering of asteroidal debris. As I lean forward and inspect it more closely, though, a fugitive spark of - something - catches my eye.

"Raise shields," I say. "Alter course, one five mark seven. Active scans on that vector."

Tapiola turns, slightly, onto the new heading. The sensor contact - whatever it was - flickers back into life, steadies, is replaced by the icon representing a solid contact. The actual nature of that contact, though, is still undetermined.

"Scanning," says Pascale from the tactical console. The android's voice is mechanically calm. "Positive contact confirmed. Power sources, metallic composition, no life signs - Sir, it's moving."

The icon on the display springs suddenly into life, accelerating towards us at a rate no living creature could possibly tolerate. "An automated mine," I say. "Target it and destroy it. If we cannot hit it in time - All hands. Brace for impact."

There is a deep, distant grunting sound as the tetryon banks discharge. The dot on the screen suddenly expands, is replaced by a cluster of markers indicating debris and an expanding radiation cloud.

"A transphasic mine, sir," says Pascale. "Trying to get a match for its emissions profile on detonation -"

"Hard about," I order. Where there is one mine, there must be more.

"Incoming hail from the Falcon," says Twosani.

"On screen."

Ronnie Grau's face is grim. "Saw the fireworks from here. What's up?"

"We intercepted a transphasic mine. It is logical to assume that it was one element in a minefield. We must determine how best to sweep for mines, clear a path, and depart. Have you established contact yet with the station?"

"Got an automated transmission going on radio frequency. It'll show up on the station's scans, it's just a matter of how long before Tylha notices it."

"Very well. We are running analyses of the explosion pattern and debris now, in an attempt to determine the mine's origin -"

"Oh, don't worry about that. Now we've stepped on one, the owners will be showing up in person pretty darn soon."

"If they have deployed mines without our notice, they must have been operating from cloaked ships -"

"Well, duh," says Ronnie. Evidently her emotional response to the situation has overriden her - already limited - capacity for tact.

"She's right, sir," says Twosani. "I have sensor contacts -" She whispers something under her breath, and her face is suddenly very pale.

"Seeing 'em myself now," says Ronnie. The rash of new icons on the tactical display is, indeed, very obvious. "The Gorn. Of course. The Gorn do so love their minefields."

"Reading one Zilant class battleship," Pascale reports, "three Varanus and four Draguas support vessels, four Phalanx science vessels, twelve Tuatara cruisers -"

"Incoming hail on subspace," says Twosani. Her expression indicates emotional turmoil. I am trying very hard to ensure that mine does not.

"Let's hear them," says Ronnie grimly.

A new image forms in the viewer. It is that of a large Gorn with blue-grey scales and very brilliant yellow eyes. Gorn emotional states are not easy for mammals to read, but this one certainly appears to be confident and assured.

"Federation vessels in the vicinity of the Delta Gracilis research station. This is General Ssurt, aboard the battleship Zo'ar. You are englobed in a minefield, your communications are cut off, and you are heavily outnumbered. It is necessary that you surrender to me the person of Vice Admiral Veronika Grau. Comply with my requirements, and no harm will come to you. Fail to comply, and the results will be... distressing."

The Three-Handed Game 13

The official headquarters of Imperial Intelligence was a massive fortified block near the heart of First City. The seedy-looking warehouse on the city's outskirts was not - apparently - fortified, nor did it bear any outward marks of Imperial ownership.

Inside, it was different, the warehouse space being filled with consoles, computers, communications and sensor arrays - the apparatus of a galactic intelligence agency, watched over by armed guards who maintained a ceaseless vigilance.

K'Men's face gave no more away than the facade of the building, as he said, "Status report."

His subordinates were nowhere near as impassive. Dzourog, the Nausicaan, was hunched over his console, his tusks bared as he muttered to himself. His Orion companion Vallagh-Doan turned his haggard dark-green face to K'Men. "We lost contact just over an hour ago. Working to get it back... with luck, our operative on Halectis VI is working at it too."

"Halectis VI." The Klingon spymaster frowned. "Not a major world... not habitable.... Remind me of the details."

"Class L, marginal," said Vallagh-Doan. "Mining concerns, Klingon and Orion mostly, in habitat domes on the surface. One standard orbital fortification, class three, and a satellite defence grid. At last report, two cruiser squadrons and five frigate wings in system, plus cargo vessels and an indeterminate number of privateers. Source of topaline and dilithium -"

"I have something," Dzourog interrupted. He punched commands into the console. "Bringing it up. Channel is not encrypted."

"On screen," K'Men ordered.

The image was blurred, riven with static interference. It showed a heavy-set, bearded Klingon, apparently in some dark room. "D'Gol reporting. Home base, is that you?"

K'Men stepped forward. "This is K'Men. Report."

"The planet is under attack," D'Gol said, and there was something like wonder in his voice. "It started... eight hours ago. Frigates moving in-system, firing on the orbital station and the ships."

"What is the status of the space forces?" K'Men asked.

"Destroyed. It's incredible... destroyed. We got a positive ID on the frigates, they are Siohonin... but the Siohonin do not have weaponry like - Sir, the destruction is -"

"Specifics," said K'Men. "I need specific details. Be precise."

"Sir." D'Gol was visibly struggling to keep control of himself. "The Siohonin frigates appear to be armed principally with a heavy kinetic lance. Somehow - I don't know how - it bypasses shields completely, and does massive structural damage to anything it hits. A Bird of Prey stands no chance against it, a single shot is all it takes. The starbase... the starbase took over twenty hits before its core breached. They were trying till the end, sir, cycling the shield frequencies, overloading their deflector dishes - nothing worked, sir, nothing."

"What of the cruisers? And the satellite grid?"

"The grid is down. A single shot from the kinetic lance is all it takes to destroy a battlesat, and the Siohonin use their lances freely. The cruisers - sir, the Siohonin frigates assume a specific formation, lining up on a cruiser in a group of three - when they do that, they generate an effect which completely obliterates the target ship. I cannot be more specific, sir, I am sorry - the effect, whatever it is, creates massive sensor interference. There is some other effect, too, which - which somehow turns our own ships' weapons against themselves. Again, sir, I regret, I cannot give specifics." D'Gol swallowed hard. "I have telemetry from our battlesats - what remained of them after the first pass - but I cannot transmit it. I do not have data channels accessible - I am working through a commercial network, and that too is heavily damaged -"

"What is the situation on the ground?"

"The ground-based disruptor emplacements are targeted by the Siohonin. Their frigates have standard light disruptor arrays, and they begin with those - but if there is heavy resistance, they use their special weapons. Governor Jakura refused to submit, and they - they lanced the main habitat dome. They are working from dome to dome - they have modified freighters, they are using them as troopships."

"They are landing Siohonin troops on the planet?" K'Men demanded.

"They are. The main dome is breached, it is in chaos, and Siohonin troops have moved in. I have -" D'Gol's voice wavered. "I have no word on the level of resistance being offered by our ground forces. It seems - it seems that the Siohonin are able to take whatever positions they want."

Vallagh-Doan and Dzourog exchanged incredulous glances. K'Men's face was granite.

"They breached the dome above me," continued D'Gol. "I do not know if they intend to occupy it, or if they just plan to - to let us freeze. If they are coming for us - several of us have found this refuge in the mining tunnels - if they come for us, we will fight and die as Klingons!"

"Listen to me," said K'Men. "You have records of this telemetry you mentioned, yes?"

"Yes," said D'Gol, "but this transmitter lacks capacity to -"

"Then you will bring that data to me some other way," said K'Men. "It is very well to die as a Klingon, but I must have that information. We are at war, it seems, and intelligence of the enemy is paramount in importance. Those recordings must reach me, D'Gol. Once they are in my hands, then you may die. Not before."

On the screen, D'Gol stiffened. "It - it will be difficult - " Then he stood straight, and raised his fist in a formal salute. "But it will be done. As you order, sir!"

K'Men raised his arm, returned the salute. "Qapla', D'Gol."

"I will not fail you, sir." D'Gol looked to one side. "This transmission may have been noticed. I will continue my report, sir, in person - or by - by whatever means I can find." He reached out to something out of the camera's field of view, and the screen went blank.

"Make preparations," said K'Men. "Alert ships, safe houses, allies in the area. We will smooth D'Gol's homewards path, as much as we are able." His eyes narrowed slightly. "The Siohonin. They have come to my attention already - a matter of refusing tribute. And the punitive expedition did not report back. If they have some source of exotic armaments, we must learn more. Even as things stand... I do not relish the thought of reporting this situation to the Chancellor."

"One system of backwards primitives?" said Vallagh-Doan. "They cannot hope to prevail."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not. We shall see."

"Sir!" All three men turned to face the speaker, a young Klingon woman at another communications console. "I have a message from the agricultural colony at Xi Herculis - they report an attack by light ships, identified as Siohonin frigates."

Vallagh-Doan and Dzourog stared at her, aghast.

"Yes," said K'Men. "It seems we have a situation. Indeed."

The Three-Handed Game 12

The office of the High Magister was spacious and gracious. The walls were panelled with wood, from trees now almost extinct on the Siohonin homeworld; tinted windows filtered out the yellow polluted look of the sky; tasteful ceramic artworks stood on pedestals around the walls. Sivetalin Aun had something of a reputation as a conoisseur of pottery. In all this subdued good taste, the rainbow robes of the First Pontiff seemed gaudy and out of place.

If Aun himself felt this, he gave no sign of it; he was the soul of courtesy as he ushered Glavelecun Dir to a seat, offered him refreshment, enquired after his health, and - finally - seated himself behind his imposing desk, steepled his hands, and let the Pontiff bring up the actual reason for his call.

"I am concerned," said Dir, eventually. "I might even say, gravely concerned."

Aun waved one hand airily. "It seems we live in interesting times, Your Holiness. Also alarming, perhaps... but certainly interesting."

"I am inclined more to alarm than to interest," said Dir. "It is not so much the war with the Klingons... though that in itself is cause for the gravest concerns... but there are the implications of other actions by the Grand Marshal... and by Enteskilen Mur."

"Ah, yes. Mur. For a man of religion, he seems remarkably influential in the Grand Marshal's strategic plans." Aun picked up a ceramic globe from his desk, a small white thing pierced with holes in an intricate design; he raised it to his nose, inhaled deeply, and set it down again. "But, then, our brave warriors have always gone into battle with the full support of the priesthood, have they not? How better to demonstrate the righteousness of the cause?"

"It is one thing to give blessings," said Dir. "But the god Sebreac Tharr is giving, well, practical support - not that all the gods do not give practical support, in a very real and meaningful sense," he added hastily. "Still, Sebreac Tharr seems to be...."

"More overtly involved?" Aun suggested.

"Yes. Yes. It is... of course, it is not for mere mortals to question the will of the gods... but it is... well... it is unseemly. In a god. And it is giving rise to, well, discussions. Discussions of a disquieting nature."

"Oh?" Aun raised one eyebrow.

"Quite disquieting," said Dir. "They relate to, well, to the binding compromise which has governed the priesthood for more than a century - to the benefit of everyone, I might add."

"Ah, yes," said Aun, "the compromise."

"A matter of necessity, of strict necessity," said Dir. "Historical records show, show with great clarity, the dismal state of confusion which existed in the priesthood prior to the settlement. Cults clashed with each other in the streets, vying with each other for converts, accusing each other of misrepresentation, of inflating membership numbers.... There was unrest. There was bloodshed, even. The civil authorities must bear that in mind."

"You fear that similar situations might recur, if the compromise were to be... modified?"

Dir nodded emphatically. "This is a matter which affects all of us. There are moves afoot - it has, at the very least, been mooted - that the voting rights of each sect in Conclave should be based once again on active membership. On the number of devotees who actively affirm their affiliation. Sebreac Tharr is gaining in popularity, almost hourly... and Ceamag-Tai -"

"May we hope one day to prove worthy of his blessing," murmured Aun, politely.

"Quite so. Quite. Ceamag-Tai's devotees outnumber everyone, that was the point of the compromise. It ended all competition, all uncertainty, all conflict.... The devotees of Ceamag-Tai are the great majority. But they are not, they are not active. They are in no position to affirm their devotion."

Weary of internecine strife among the religious sects, Aun recalled, a final Conclave of the cults had decided that the god of death, Ceamag-Tai, automatically counted all dead people among his worshippers. To Aun, it had always seemed a neat, almost elegant, solution. He stirred a little uneasily in his seat.

"The civil authorities cannot control the affairs of the religious caste," he said. "That would be unacceptable."

"Of course," said Dir. "I am glad to see that you realize that."

"But we may guide and advise," said Aun. "I do hope it will not be taken amiss if we offer guidance and advice. We would certainly advise against any modification of the compromise, and for the reasons you have stated."

"I am gratified to hear it," said Dir, "but it may not prove enough. There is a groundswell of opinion out there, among the religious as well as the drabs. It would be preferable if some way were found to - to rein in the Grand Marshal. His innovations - putting drabs aboard starships -"

"The military has... accepted this, in principle," said Aun. "At least temporarily. Tal needs manpower for his fleet... and, since we have thrown down the gauntlet to the Klingons, we need that fleet, and desperately."

"But it is not right," said Dir. "They are drabs, their function is to labour, it is the function the gods have allotted them, and they should be grateful. And Tal's fleet... it is effectively a means of evangelism for the cult of Sebreac Tharr. Every drab who joins it is initiated into the cult."

"Enteskilen Mur claims this to be necessary," said Aun. "The special weapons... apparently... depend upon the goodwill of the god."

"It is not right," Dir repeated. "Sebreac Tharr is an anachronism, a relic, an outdated god... a god of fire, from the days before science, from the days when people believed the gods were - well, of course, the gods are real, no one could deny that, but what I mean is - is -"

"Overt?" said Aun.

"Yes. Yes. Quite."

"Well." Aun steepled his hands again. "You have given me much to consider, Your Holiness. I must confess, I too am... concerned... about these developments."

Dir nodded vigorously, setting his elaborate headdress shaking. "I am relieved to hear that you share my misgivings."

"And yet," said Aun, "I am inclined, as ever, to take the long view. Fads, fashions, these things come and go... the broad tide of history moves on and sweeps them, eventually, into the past. The popularity of Sebreac Tharr may wane as quickly as it has waxed, you know. Besides...." He sighed. "The fact is, Gamariden Tal and his new weapons have been successful. They may very well continue to be successful. I am constrained by political realities, Your Holiness, and one such reality is... that it is very, very difficult to argue against success."

The Three-Handed Game 11

Tylha

Delta Gracilis is... much as I remember it. The research facility looks intact enough.

The station is at the centre of an asteroid cluster - some proto-planet, I think, destroyed by gravitational perturbations half a billion years ago. The scattered fragments are gradually drifting back together; another hundred million years, and there will be a single rocky planet here. In the meantime, it's an ideal place for risky high-energy research - everything within light-years is already destroyed.

Our readings show life support still functional over most of the station, so we beam over... with emergency life-support belts for backup, because I'm not ready to take chances.

The station's reception area is cool, bland and anonymous - except for the scars on one wall: marks of plasma fire, left by an unexpected squad of security holograms. I see Klerupiru wince a little as she remembers the incident, too. The Ferengi computer expert knows the station's systems better than anyone.

"It all seems secure," T'Pia observes. Klerupiru scurries round to the reception desk, starts tapping on a console. Her face wears an abstracted scowl of concentration.

"Let's see what we've got," I mutter. "EV control is... one level down, and over that way." I point.

"No need, sir," says Klerupiru. "I still have the command codes... never know when you're going to need things like that... can hack the system from here." She tugs at here collar with one finger.

"Efficient," T'Pia says.

"Indeed," says Saval.

We've put together a team from all three of our ships; me and Klerupiru, T'Pia and a Trill medic named Lishin... and Ronnie has sent two science officers, Saval and a mask-faced Rigelian named Haloy. Saval's bewhiskered face is impassive as any Vulcan's as he looks around.

I stroll to one side of the room, and look up through the transparent dome of the roof. At first, there is nothing to be seen but stars - then, a shape comes into view, the rakish triple-dagger shape of the Tapiola. I find it vaguely reassuring. The Tholian science vessel might not have the raw power of the King Estmere or the Falcon, but it makes up for it with its range of sensor arrays and exotic weapons... Orb Weavers are dangerous ships, and I'm glad this one is on my side. The phaser pulsewave slung across my back, too, is a comforting weight, even though I'm sure it won't be needed. Fairly sure.

My combadge chirps. "Shohl."

"How's it going, kiddo?" One thing Ronnie hasn't learned in two hundred and eighty years, apparently, is patience.

"Still getting into the main computers. We'll call you when we've got anything," I say.

"Right. Right. Make it soon, though, huh? I'm not getting any younger out here." She closes the channel before I can reply. I shrug.

"Vice Admiral Grau is often anxious for results," says Saval.

"So I've noticed," I say. I study Saval's emotionless face. "I've sometimes wondered why you put up with her. Why you don't get a transfer somewhere else. She must be difficult to work for."

If I was hoping for a reaction... well, I knew better than that, anyway. Saval simply says, "I feel a certain responsibility to the Vice Admiral due to the circumstances of her final encounter with the Rift. I cannot help but feel that, if my settings on the main deflector had been correct on the first attempt, we might have avoided some undesirable consequences, such as the encounter with the Borg. Besides that -" He actually does blink, a couple of times - it's an emotional display by Vulcan standards. "I have always felt a certain curiosity about the Rift, and about how Vice Admiral Grau perceived her encounters with it. Logically, one would assume that the temporal dislocation should have passed unnoticed by those caught within it - I certainly was not aware of it myself - but the Vice Admiral seems to have sensed something, somehow."

"And you want to know what, and how," I say.

"Yes," says Saval simply.

"Scientific inquiry into an anomalous phenomenon," says T'Pia. "It is a logical motivation."

"So it seems to me," says Saval.

I nod. "It even makes sense to an Andorian," I say.

"One notes that you yourself associate freely with Vice Admiral Grau, sir," says Saval. "Are your motivations an issue?"

"Me?" I'm taken aback by that. I have to think for a minute. "Well, we worked together well enough during the Bercera business... and she was, umm, kind of on the spot when the Hegemony thing blew up... and, well...." I think harder. "She's interesting company. Maybe not restful company, but... things happen around her."

"That is undeniably true," says Saval. I suspect this, very strongly, of being Vulcan humour.

"Got it," says Klerupiru from the console. "That is, umm, I'm in, sir. We have control."

I stride over towards her. "All right. Let's see what we've got."

Klerupiru enters a sequence of commands, and a schematic of the station appears on the console screen. "Power systems." Lines of white describe a labyrinth around the bulk of the station modules. "Looks like two of the backup fusion plants have full generating capacity," says Klerupiru, "and the EPS system is intact... within tolerances. Life support." Sections of the station appear, blocked out in green, yellow, and red. "Nominal in the green sections... um, about forty per cent of the base as a whole. Yellow is borderline, support is marginal or non-operational there, but there are no active hazards. Red is uninhabitable due to temperature, radiation hazard, or depressurization. Not as bad as we thought, only, umm, about fifteen per cent of the sections are red."

I frown and lean in to peer at the display. "There's... what's that little spot of red right there?" I point.

"Let me get the map coordinates," says Kleripiru. She taps out some more commands. "Oh. It's Dr. Tamik's lab. Wouldn't have thought... I mean, the surrounding systems are operational...." Her voice trails off, and her fingers dance on the interface again.

"Perhaps the system has marked Dr. Tamik's device as a hazard?" says T'Pia.

"I doubt it. It's not the sort of thing internal sensors should look for... and, anyway, I disconnected Tamik's machine. Pulled the power supply. It was dead when I left that lab," I say authoritatively. I hope I'm convincing myself, though.

"Huh," says Klerupiru. "Looks like if you hadn't left the lab quick, sir, you'd have been dead too. Tamik engaged some sort of lockdown - disconnected the data feeds, locked the doors, and depressurized the lab."

"An extreme precaution," says T'Pia. I'm rather inclined to agree.

"Does that imply that the raw data from Dr. Tamik's experiments is not available over the computer network?" asks Saval.

Klerupiru tugs at her collar. "Holographic systems are still up," she says, "I could maybe backdoor into the lab's server nodes through that... maybe...." She starts muttering to herself.

"We will, presumably, need access to that data," T'Pia says.

"Well, before we start talking about backdoors in the holographic systems," I say, "let's go and have a look at the problem. There should be a simple way to reset the security lockdown from the outside, right?"

"That is logical," says Saval.

"Huh?" says Klerupiru. "Oh. Oh, yeah. I guess so."

---

It's quite some distance from the reception area to Tamik's lab. The security doors all open at Klerupiru's magic touch, though, and life support is functional all the way. Sometimes, there are marks on the walls or the floors - relics of the unreal battles that were fought in the station's corridors. Otherwise, though, the place is bright and bare, sterile, functional... the lights still burning, even though no one is home.

Tamik's Laboratory Alpha is... I can't say I remember it with any great clarity. There is a transparent aluminium panel in the sliding door, and I can just about see the columnar shape of Tamik's machine through it, but the tricorder scans confirm Klerupiru's readings - the lab is in hard vacuum.

"This need not present a problem," says T'Pia. "There must be a manual release for the door; all that is needed is to engage that."

And stand well clear as the air rushes in from the corridor... I check the schematics. "Something isn't right," I say. I study the wall. "There should be a panel here, and an emergency override lever...."

But I'm pointing at a stretch of blank metal. Saval steps forward and scans. "Intriguing," he says. "The hydraulic line for the door is there, but there is no sign that the manual override has ever been connected."

"A result of Dr. Tamik's reality tampering, evidently," says T'Pia. "A structural inconsistency introduced when the world-lines merged."

"Whatever it is, it's not much help," I say. "I guess we'll have to cut our way in with phasers."

"Actually, sir," says Klerupiru, "I've got an idea." She, too, has a tricorder in her hand. "I can see a release lever on the inside...."

"Is it somehow accessible from here?" asks T'Pia.

"No... but, well, the holo-emitters are online. Now, the matrices for the station's own holo-programs are all corrupted - crashed from data reduplication - but, well, if we can bring one of ours over -"

"I think I see." I hit my combadge. "Anthi, Amiga. Prep Mr. M, will you, and brief him for transfer to the station's systems."

T'Pia quirks an eyebrow at me. "MACO holographic reinforcement package," I explain. "We call him Mr. M. Actually, he could come in pretty handy here."

T'Pia nods. "A photonic officer would have certain advantages, at least in those regions not actively hazardous."

"Right, yes. Too much hard radiation or thermal effects can damage his matrix. But a little thing like vacuum -"

"MACO Holographic Reinforcement online," a new voice interrupts. The hologram's voice is quiet and mild, a contrast to the military brutalism of his appearance. "I am in a depressurized laboratory. Please advise."

"Mr. M. Welcome," I say. "You need to look for a manual override lever - Klerupiru can guide you in."

"Receiving telemetry on my tac visor now," says Mr. M. "Interesting setup we have here. Looks like plenty of room in this holo-network, once we've cleared all the junk out. I have the manual override. Stand clear, there will be turbulence as the pressure equalizes."

We step back. There is a creak, and then the unmistakeable shriek of air being sucked into vacuum - a sound calculated to send shivers down the spine of any space traveller. Mr. M has cranked the lab door open just a crack, and air is screaming in from the corridor. I feel the wind whistling past my antennae, ruffling my hair....

"Pressure is equalizing," says Mr. M. "It will take a few minutes for the process to complete. This place is interesting. I don't recognize most of this equipment. There's a cylindrical thing with an inscribed plaque -"

"'Ex uno plures'," I say, sourly. "Someone's idea of a joke."

"I don't understand," says Mr. M.

"I guess it's a bit recondite. There was a federated nation-state on Earth, once, that adopted a motto from a dead human language - e pluribus unum, one out of many. Tamik's device works the other way round. Many out of one." The shrieking of the air seems to be dropping in pitch and volume; the pressure is equalizing.

"Rather abstract intellectual humour," Mr. M comments. "I believe it is now safe for me to open the doorway further." Slowly, the door panel slides back. The screaming drops to a soft sigh, the rushing of wind slows to a gentle breeze, finally stops. The air is very cold - I find it pleasant; T'Pia and Saval obviously don't. I walk through the open doorway, into Tamik's lab.

Mr. M is standing by the wall, one hand still on the manual release. He is a grim, massive figure in silver-grey MACO armour, his face - if he has a face - perpetually hidden behind the reflective dome of his helmet. "Please come in, sir," he says graciously.

"Thank you, Mr. M," I reply.

"None of the items in this room seems to be sensitive to vacuum conditions," Mr. M continues. "I have not verified that the computers are still functional, but there is no reason to suspect otherwise."

Klerupiru bustles past him, starts to work on the consoles. "Looks fine," she says after a while. "Most of the running logs will have been copied to Tamik's main console anyway... just a matter of capturing the last set of updates...."

While she works, I turn to regard the cylinder: Tamik's machine. T'Pia, too, seems to be studying it intently. "A possibility has occurred to me," she says.

"What?" I ask.

"Q's purpose in sending us here," says T'Pia, "remains unclear - if, indeed, we are correct in interpreting Q's phraseology to indicate this location. However, this device is clearly the only significant feature at issue here. I am inclined to speculate -" Her blank Vulcan forehead creases in a slight frown. "Q's purpose may be, somehow, to require us to reactivate this device."

I shake my head. "That would be a spectacularly bad idea."

"From our viewpoint, yes. From Q's, who knows? Especially as Q's behaviour suggested some cognitive impairment."

"Well, then," I say, "at least we've got a remedy to hand. Klerupiru, have you downloaded everything?"

"Huh?" Klerupiru looks up. "Oh, yes. Done and dusted. Sir. All data records fully up to date."

"In which case -" I unsling the phaser pulsewave from my back. "Stand well clear, everyone."

I left an inspection cover open on the machine when I pulled its power supply. Now, I take careful aim at that, work the action of the gun... and trigger the grenade launcher. The photon grenade flies true, through the open panel, rattling into the bowels of the device.

There is a brief pause. Then there is the thunderclap sound of the grenade's detonation, and the metal casing of Tamik's device bulges and splits open. The plaque with the Latin motto comes loose with a ping, and clatters to the deck. The broken cylinder sags, listing to one side, a thin haze of smoke rising from its demolished contents.

"Problem solved," I say, with feeling.

The Three-Handed Game 10

General Klin scowled. "There is an error in this data digest," he said.

Klextlan, his Nausicaan flag captain, turned his head. "If that is the figure for the system's population," he said, "it is, though unbelievable, correct."

"Six hundred and fifty billion?"

"At the last census. It is their social structure. There is an aristocratic class, ruling over a vast mass of labourers. The labourers have few outlets for recreation, save... reproduction. It does not help, I suppose, that the Siohonin females lack reproductive rights. Or, indeed, any rights."

Klin settled back in the command chair of the IKS MupwI ta', feeling the comforting power of the Negh'Var warship's engines rumbling beneath him. "How do they live, with such a mass of them in one system?"

"The third planet is their homeworld," said Klextlan. The Nausicaan was precise in his speech, punctilious and well-informed, an intellectual by his people's standards. "It is class M, though it has suffered some ecological degradation. However, planets one, two and four in the system are rich in minerals - especially planet four, which approaches the Horta homeworld of Janus VI for its supply of heavy metals. With plentiful materials to hand, the Siohonin have constructed many orbital habitats, and have even made terraforming experiments on the moons of their gas giants, planets five, six and seven in the system. The bulk of the population, now, lives in orbital cylinder colonies. Spaceborne arcologies."

"It still seems incredible," said Klin.

"They have benefited from contact with the Empire," said Klextlan. "We have introduced many modern techniques - mantle convection engines to improve the yield of their mines, modern terraforming devices and replicators - the taxation which the Empire imposes is quite modest, for the benefits it brings them in return. Their population has more than doubled since they were brought into the Imperial fold."

"And yet they are unhappy with us," said Klin thoughtfully.

"Efforts have been made at integration," said Klextlan. "The sheer size of the population makes for difficulties, though, as does the rigid social structure. The labouring caste is not permitted any changes to its circumstances. The aristocrats are divided into civilian administrators, a self-described military, and a quite baroque religious priesthood, devoted to a huge range of mythical gods. The civil administrators are of little use to us, the priests none at all. An attempt was made to include Siohonin military officers into KDF training. It did not end well. The Siohonin had a high opinion of themselves, were reluctant to take orders from other species... would not accept orders from females at all...."

Klin frowned. "Are Siohonin females unintelligent, then?"

"No more so than the males, " said Klextlan drily. "It appears to be an ingrained cultural prejudice. In my opinion, it handicaps them."

"They seem to have a number of cultural handicaps," growled Klin. "Well, we are not required to address them."

"They are capable of recognizing realities," said Klextlan.

And the MupwI ta' and her battle group constituted quite a significant reality, Klin mused. The Negh'Var warship was accompanied by three Vor'cha battle cruisers, each of those flanked by two raptors and two wings of Birds of Prey. It was a substantial force, substantial enough to show the Empire's power... substantial enough to become a very real punitive expedition, if the need were to arise.

Still... six hundred and fifty billion, Klin thought. Four thousand throats may be cut in one night by a running man... but how long and how far would a man have to run, to deal with so many?

He turned his attention back to the datapad. At least the opposition, however numerous, would be of poor quality.... Siohonin frigates were spindly things, a slender cylindrical body carrying deflector, armaments and warp drive, while the crew accommodations were in a ring encirling it. The design evidently dated back to the days before grav generators, when the ships would be spun to create an illusion of gravity in the living quarters. Feeble things.... But they have killed one cruiser with these feeble things, Klin reminded himself. Never underestimate one's opponent.

"Coming out of warp, sir," the helmsman announced. Klin looked up.

The warship shuddered briefly as she dropped back into normal space-time; the flying streaks on the viewscreen shrank and slowed back into stars. A single brilliant point of light glared in the centre of the screen. Klin's gaze dropped to the tactical display on his command console.

"It seems we have a reception committee," he said.

"Confirmed," said Klextlan. "We are reading... some seventy-five Siohonin frigates, and... one other vessel."

"Do we have a visual?"

"Coming up... and patching through scan data."

The starfield in the viewer blurred, shifted, steadied again. In the centre now was a ship, a massive cylinder flanked by four warp engine nacelles in an unusual cruciform arrangement. The front of the ship - a full quarter of its overall length, in fact - consisted of a huge domed structure with a shallow depression at its centre. A hugely oversized deflector dish? Klin looked at the raw data feed on his console.

"Power utilization curves... deflector field densities... that thing is a warship, no question of it," he said. "And that is a clear treaty violation. So. All ships to battle stations!"

Alarms shrilled across the bridge. "I have the Siohonin on hailing frequencies," the communications officer announced.

Klin bared his teeth. "So, then, we will hear what they have to say... before we chastise them. On screen."

A face appeared on the viewer; horned, bearded, with a worrying smile on the thin lips. "I am Klin, son of Turogh, of the House of Turogh," Klin announced before the other could speak. "I am here to require that treaty provisions are honoured. Explain yourself, Siohonin."

"I am the Grand Marshal Gamariden Tal." The thin-lipped smile widened. "We no longer recognize the provisions of the treaty which your Empire forced on us, Klingon. You are ordered to depart this system, immediately - or face the wrath of the Siohonin people, and the true god Sebreac Tharr, whose devotee I am."

"You challenge us, then." Klin found his pulse racing at the closeness of battle.

"Challenge you?" said Tal. "In the name of Sebreac Tharr, we rebuke you."

On the tactical display, the closest wing of Birds of Prey to the Siohonin fleet... winked out, their icons replaced after a fraction of a second with the symbols for debris and explosions.

Klin cursed. "Close channel! All ships, evasion pattern seven! Battle cloak and return fire!"

The MupwI ta' slewed around, unleashing a volley of torpedoes from her launchers. Birds of Prey and raptors scattered and vanished into cloak.

Damage warning symbols were sparking around one of the Vor'cha cruisers. The tac board was not displaying whatever was hitting that ship - "Get me Captain Kh'tal on comms!" Klin shouted.

The cruiser captain's face appeared on screen, image riven with interference, fires burning on the bridge behind him. "They have some kind of pure kinetic lance," he snarled. "It went right through our shields - I am cycling shield frequencies, they will not catch us like that again -"

The image dissolved into static, then blankness. On the tac board, the cruiser's icon blinked out.

"Engage from battle cloak, interdiction pattern nine," Klin ordered. "Strafe those frigates from all directions until they are out of my sky!" It was a risk - as the Birds of Prey and the raptors fired, they would reveal their positions, and attract return fire from those kinetic lances. But the Siohonin ships were individually weak and flimsy, and with suppressing fire from MupwI ta' and her surviving cruiser consorts, the Klingon ships would show their superiority -

Then Klin saw three Siohonin frigates move together on the screen, holding a steady triangular formation... and something came out of the centre of the triangle, something that showed on the scans only as a line of sparkling interference.

And, when it had passed, one of Klin's remaining cruisers was gone, without even debris icons to mark its passing.

"Harass and interdict those frigates!" Klin shouted with a curse. "Prevent them from taking that formation!"

But that made it hopeless, he realized in horror. His few ships were trying to do too many things at once - oh, yes, if one slipped out of cloak and fired, it most likely blew a Siohonin ship to flinders - but the return fire from the enemy's consorts turned his ships to wreckage. He was trading almost equally, vessel for vessel, in deaths with the Siohonin... and the enemy had more ships to start with.

There was only one chance. "Cut off the head and the body dies," Klin snarled. "Helmsman! Weapons officer! Bring me in close to that flagship! We will give Grand Marshal Tal a taste of Klingon firepower!"

His pulse was pounding hard in his temples, now, as his ship turned to face the enemy. "Close as you can! All weapons to maximum power!"

"Firing solution locked," the weapons officer reported. "Ready at your command."

The Siohonin warship loomed large, filling the viewscreen.

"Fire!"

The MupwI ta' shivered as her weapons discharged... and then the bridge was filled, for just an instant, with an intolerable burning brightness that destroyed all it fell upon. Klin did not even have time to be astonished, before he died.

The Three-Handed Game 9

There was a scream from the challenge floor, drowned out immediately by a roar of triumph. No one in the First City bar, apart from the spectators already at the balcony, paid any attention.

The tall Gorn walked through the crowd at the bar as if they did not exist, and did so with such assurance that no one thought to challenge him. His scales were a deep blue-black, his draconian eyes a brilliant yellow-green. Behind him stalked another figure, a Ferasan warrior, his face dramatically marked with clan tattoos. The Gorn wore anonymous civilian leathers, and carried no weapons save a ceremonial knife at his belt... but he moved in a way which left onlookers in no doubt that he himself was a weapon.

He found a vacant table and seated himself. The Ferasan stood beside his left shoulder, teeth bared and whiskers bristling. The Gorn accepted a mug of raktajino from a waiter, and sat in silence, sipping occasionally, the gaze of his brilliant eyes roving over the other patrons; scantily clad Orions of both sexes, Klingon warriors drinking and brawling, a group of Ferengi clustered at one table and cringing out of the way of everyone....

"General Ssurt. Greetings."

The speaker wore leather clothing every bit as undistinguished as the Gorn's, and his face, too, was a leather mask in which red eyes smouldered. The Lethean pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. Ssurt inclined his head slightly.

"I am glad to see that I have your interest," the Lethean said smoothly. He put a datapad down on the table. Ssurt glanced at it, but made no move to pick it up.

"You are an intermediary," the tall Gorn said.

"Of course," said the Lethean. "My principals wish to remain discreet. It is, I think, in everyone's interests that they should not be identified." Some expression crossed his mask-like face; it might have been anger. "There is really no need, nor point, in your bringing another telepath to this meeting. Your Ferasan will not be able to glean anything of value. I do assure you of that."

"R'kirr is here to protect my mind," said Ssurt, "not to probe yours. Your principals have an interesting proposition, I will grant that."

"You have, of course, verified their financial status?"

"I have. A princely sum. It commands my interest... but not, as yet, my cooperation."

"Payment would be in dilithium and pergium ore. Not only princely, but effectively untraceable."

"So I notice. Who has such quantities on hand, though? It is a question I must ask myself." The Gorn leaned forward in his seat; one clawed hand came down on the datapad. "As a matter of simple self-preservation, it is best for me to understand the situation fully before I commit myself."

The Lethean sighed noisily. "As a matter of self-preservation, General, there are areas where you should cherish a deliberate ignorance. The mission is one which, technically speaking, violates the armistice - and my principals are, technically speaking, at odds with the Empire to some extent. The nature of the mission, you must know; the nature of your employers, it is best not to."

"I doubt very much," said Ssurt, "if your employers have sufficient dilithium and pergium to pay me to act against Imperial interests."

The Lethean made a dismissive gesture. "Today's interests are one thing," he said, "tomorrow's could be quite another. Besides, do the interests of the Empire and the Gorn Hegemony... entirely coincide? Take my offer, General, and the Hegemony could earn itself a powerful friend. Through you. The gratitude of King Slathis might be worth a whole system full of pergium."

"I am a loyal servant of King Slathis and the Empire," said Ssurt.

"Of course. Who could doubt it?" The Lethean made to rise. "I take it that this interview is concluded, then?"

He reached for the datapad, but Ssurt's hand still rested on it. "The sum is... substantial, though," said the Gorn.

The Lethean settled back down into his seat. "Then may I, at least, outline the nature of the task?"

Ssurt gave a minimal nod.

"It is simple in concept. My principals desire the companionship of a particular Starfleet officer. You are to obtain her for them. We imagine she might object, hence the necessity to... quash her objections."

"And that requires the services of my full battle group?" said Ssurt.

"Your resources should be more than equal to any contingency," said the Lethean. "My principals merely wish to be... entirely sure... of success. They desire her company most urgently. Most urgently indeed."

"And they offer money," said Ssurt.

"And, General, with the armistice, your raids into Federation territory must be curtailed. I offer a replacement source of income."

"A substantial sum," said Ssurt, "but, when reckoned against the operating expenses of my entire flotilla... not perhaps as substantial as one might think, at first glance."

The Lethean sighed. "I have some authority to negotiate," he said.

"You have named a sum," said Ssurt. "Double it, and that may prove... acceptable. Subject to my review of your target, of course."

The Lethean winced. "It will be - difficult," he said. "My principals' resources are not inexhaustible."

"But they desire this officer most urgently," said Ssurt. "How urgent is their desire, compared to their resources?"

"It... may be possible," said the Lethean. "I will seek my principals' approval."

"Do that," said Ssurt. "I will be interested to know who the target is. Admiral Quinn himself?"

"My principals do not aim so high," said the Lethean. He stood. "Also, Quinn is not, I believe, a female."

"Ah, quite," said Ssurt. "They desire her companionship. I am intrigued, I will admit it. For the sum you mentioned, they could have bought whole continents full of Orion slave females...."

"I do not believe desires of that kind figure in my principals' considerations." The Lethean shook his head. "I will obtain approval from them. If the price is acceptable, I will transmit in the agreed code, on the agreed frequencies. You can then signal your acceptance - or refusal - in the same manner. I hope you will accept, General."

"I will consider the matter carefully." Ssurt plucked the datapad off the table, and turned his yellow eyes towards it. The Lethean waited a moment, then turned and walked away.

"Scum," said R'kirr.

"Naturally," said Ssurt. "Did he try anything? And, if so, did he succeed?"

"Of course," said the Ferasan, "and of course not. Your mind is safe from his prying, General."

"Good," said Ssurt. He turned his head slightly, looking towards the group of Ferengi. One of them caught his gaze, and made a sketchy gesture with one hand.

Ssurt made a satisfied noise. No Lethean telepath could read a Ferengi mind... and the Ferengi had succeeded in planting a tracking device. Telepaths, thought Ssurt. They are so confident in their own skills... they forget, or they disdain, the simple physical arts of espionage.

If R'kirr read the thought in his master's mind, he did not speak to contradict it.

"So," Ssurt said aloud, "soon, we shall be better informed. That is good. It is always best to know exactly who the players are, in any game."

He turned his gaze back to the datapad, to the image of a human female's face. A pale, gaunt face, with one eye covered by a Borg implant.

The Three-Handed Game 8

T'Pia

With Admiral Stroffa's approval, I have detached two frigate groups from the Stellar Survey section to accompany our force. I do not know how effective they will be, since we have no idea what awaits us at Delta Gracilis.

Tapiola has neither the King Estmere's subtranswarp engines, nor the Falcon's advanced transwarp capacity. Our speed to Delta Gracilis, therefore, is restricted to that of my ship. If the others object to this, at least they do not say so openly.

At least, during the journey, we have time to confer. We meet aboard the Falcon, to take advantage of its more standard Starfleet conference facilities. It is helpful to review the data we have, concerning both the Delta Gracilis incident and the Stygmalian Rift.

"The Rift," says Ronnie Grau. "Ah, yes. My own personal white whale, from hell's heart I stab at thee, yadda yadda. What do you need to know?"

"Background, I suppose," says Tylha. "I mean, the data is on file, but... that doesn't give your personal impressions."

"What is the origin of the name, for instance?" I ask.

"Oh, right," says Ronnie. "Well, you know stellar nomenclature, basically it's an unholy mess. We've got a mix of native names for places, names given by explorers, names based on old star charts from all the Federation founding worlds, names made up by people who felt they couldn't do without constellations and invented new ones for the planets they landed on... hmm, we're going to one of those now, aren't we? Delta Gracilis? Fourth brightest star in the constellation of, umm, the Graceful One, as seen from some planet who the hell knows where. Gets confusing."

"This is true," I say. "I prefer to refer to stars by the catalogue numbering devised by the Academy of Sciences."

"Yeah, well, great," says Ronnie. "So where are we going by that reckoning, then?"

"Our destination is one dash four comma two seven eight sub one six four seven three," I inform her.

"Oh, the poetry of it, it sings to my soul," says Ronnie. I believe this to be the human sociolinguistic construct known as sarcasm. "Anyway," she continues, "some bright spark with time on his hands - and oh, did you have time on your hands, back in the days when you could only get to warp four with luck and a following wind - sorry, I'm rambling - anyway. Some guy was naming stellar features after the labours of Hercules. Only the names got garbled in transmission back to Earth. 'Stygmalian' really ought to be 'Stymphalian'. I think. Maybe."

"But you said it was a Tellarite who alerted you to it?" I ask.

"Right. Yeah. The Tellarite name translates loosely as 'stay the hell away from this, something weird is going on'. But they put that name on a lot of anomalies anyway. The Rift was part of the old Tellarite Commercial Preference Zone, you see."

"The what?" says Tylha.

"Well, you know," says Ronnie. "Founding of the Federation, mutual ideals, high-minded union of civilization, all that... only, behind the public appearances and the pledges of eternal brotherhood and suchlike guff, a hell of a lot of horse-trading went on. Technology exchanges, mutual defence treaties, commercial agreements.... The Tellarite mercantile interests wanted a region where they'd have guaranteed preferential trading rights. The Denobulans backed them quid pro quo for something, I forget what, it doesn't matter now, the Andorians and the Vulcans had no particular interests in that area, the human commercial traders just had to suck that one up."

She takes a deep breath. Clearly, the memories have some emotional resonance for her - I suppose this should not be surprising. "But, it turned out that the CPZ contained this - patch of space - where sensor readings went all skew-whiff. If you'll excuse the technical jargon. We know, now, that some of the sensor pings they sent into this area didn't ping back until roughly a hundred years in the future. At the time, no one had a clue. So muggins here went in to investigate."

"Repeatedly," Tylha observes.

"I wanted to know," says Ronnie. "First I wanted to know what it was... then, I wanted to know how to fix it. Which we did, in the end. Saval's chronometric beam... rotated the rift, so that it was still, well, a tunnel in space-time, but instead of leading a century or so through time, it became a wormhole leading about thirty thousand light years through space. Into the Delta Quadrant. Into, as it turned out, a bit of a rough neighbourhood in the Delta Quadrant."

"And you concluded, after that, that the Rift was destroyed?" I ask.

"It acted like a normal wormhole," says Ronnie, "subject to the normal, well, wormhole decay that all wormholes get, if they're not stabilized somehow, like the Bajoran one. Of course, the Bajoran wormhole has the help of the Prophets... and, well, it turns out the Rift had its own prophets, or at least one prophet-like entity."

"Possibly two," says Tylha, softly, "if Martin Hudson's last words mean anything."

"Maybe," says Ronnie. "In any case, the records from the Merlin's saucer section seem to indicate that the wormhole underwent typical... wormhole decay... and collapsed on schedule. I didn't see it myself, of course. I was kind of busy."

"I have asked for a science team to be diverted to the vicinity of the Rift," I say, "to observe and report if there have been new developments."

"Mmm," says Ronnie, doubtfully. "I suspect I would have heard if there'd been any new activity there - I do try and keep my ear to the ground where the Rift's concerned. Mind you, after so long on the charts as a major navigational hazard... people sort of got into the habit of avoiding it."

"I can confirm that it is not a heavily trafficked region of space," I say.

"Even so," says Ronnie, "if it was active again... I'd know. I mean, I'd have heard." Her gaze seems to be focused on something very distant. "Anyway," she says, "that's one thing. What about the other? Delta Gracilis, the mad scientist and his infernal machine? What's your story?"

"Dr. Tamik's device was a quantum-state superpositioner on a large scale," I say, "created with the intention of temporarily imposing abnormal quantum signatures on macroscale objects."

"Essentially," Tylha adds, as Ronnie takes a deep breath to say something, "it put things into a temporary state of unreality, phased out of the normal universe and normal timelines. Anything affected by Tamik's device could move through normal spacetime unseen and undetected, because it literally wasn't there any more. Until Tamik turned the field off, and it came back."

"The problem was unanticipated interactions in the altered quantum state," I continue, "leading to fractally branching event structures in a multiplicity of quantum-fractional substrata."

"Things in the altered state were affected by stuff in the alternate reality they were now a part of," says Tylha, "and the results of that couldn't be predicted, and fed back into the overall area of Tamik's device, to create an out-of-control proliferation of realities and subrealities."

"Thank God I've got an Andorian to translate for me," says Ronnie. "So what went wrong?"

"Tamik's hypothesis was that a superordinate meta-causality structure would enable him to retain control of the overlapping quantum realities," I explain. "This hypothesis was not borne out in practice."

"He thought he could control it, but he couldn't," says Tylha. "We ended up with multiple overlapping realities in the station - in the course of which, a whole bunch of the station's staff got injured or killed when something that might have happened, did happen - for them. When I pulled the plug on Tamik's machine, the different quantum realities all merged back into the real world." She shakes her head. "Or, at least, into this world. Sometimes, I still wonder if I actually succeeded or not - if this is the real universe, or just one sub-reality that spun off from my actions. I don't know for sure if I'm real or not."

"Well, welcome to my world," says Ronnie. "I feel that way most days. What's it got to do with the Rift, though?"

"Beats me," says Tylha.

"Unknown at this time," I say. "We will need to make a careful investigation of the records left by Dr. Tamik, and compare those with your own data recordings of the Stygmalian Rift. Perhaps a correlation will then become apparent."

"Sounds like lots of work for the science division," says Ronnie, "which I will unhesitatingly leave in your highly capable hands. What's the catch, though?"

"We can't be sure what state the station's in," Tylha says. "When the realities merged, bits of it came back with all sorts of exotic damage. The computers crashed from multiple conflicting inputs... basically, we evacuated the surviving staff and got out as fast as we could. So we'll have to go back in... very slowly and cautiously."

"And that sounds like work for the highly skilled and redoubtable engineering division," says Ronnie, "which means you, kiddo. So, what's in it for me?"

Tylha and I exchange glances. "The facility is currently abandoned," I say, "so we do not expect any tactical challenges."

Ronnie nods pensively. "So tactical division stands around and gets bored," she says. "You know what? I like the sound of that. It's always a good day when tactical division is bored."

The Three-Handed Game 7

To human eyes, it might have seemed a gathering of devils.

The Siohonin were humanoid, similar in most details to a human being... except for their slit-pupilled eyes, and the harsh, exaggerated, angular look of their faces, and of course the horns. All the Siohonin had a pair of horns growing from their foreheads; the style varied from individual to individual, as did hair and beard. All the Siohonin in the triangular Council Hall were male, and wore beards.

The hall illustrated the tripartite nature of Siohonin government. On one side sat the military, in sober ranks of field-grey and bronze uniforms. On another were those administrative and mercantile caste, severe in garments of black and white. The last side of the triangle was a riot of colour, with the representatives of the religious caste, each one in the raiment of his particular sect. Between them all lay a wide expanse of marble floor, illuminated by the great windows high in the ceiling, through which the lowering polluted sky of the homeworld could be seen.

A single man stepped forward onto the expanse of empty floor, a man of medium height, with neatly groomed dark hair and horns filed down to two small black nubs. His clothes were entirely white. From somewhere at the sides of the hall, an usher intoned in a high falsetto voice, "The Council heeds the words of the High Magister, Sivetalin Aun."

Aun paced to the exact centre of the floor, and stopped. When he spoke, his voice was mild, almost diffident. "There is only one matter which concerns us this day," he said. "We have, it seems, thrown down a gauntlet to the Klingon Empire. We must determine how best to proceed."

A faint frown crossed his brow. "I, myself, have always taken the long view of our situation. I would be content to wait, to bide our time until galactic politics should loosen the grasp of the Klingons on this region of space. We know that theirs is an unstable, destructive society, so unlike our own. It seems, to me, reasonable to wait for it to collapse of its own inefficiencies. However, it appears that others disagree. I now call," he raised his voice slightly, "on the Grand Marshal to inform us of the exact military situation." He stepped back, one pace, then two, then three, and looked towards the military's side.

The man who stepped forward was massively build, his hair and beard iron grey, his horns capped with steel spikes. While most of the military wore tunics with bronze-coloured front panels, his uniform was the real thing, his chest covered by fine bronze chainmail links. "The Council heeds the words of the Grand Marshal Suhanaluk Var."

"First, the facts." The Grand Marshal's voice was a deep bass growl. "Our forces, comprising the Seventy-Fifth Defence Squadron, two observer ships, and three special vessels, intercepted the Klingon's tax vessel on its approach to the system. The squadron was under the direct command of the Second Marshal Amenalet Durn. As the Klingon cruiser approached, the special vessels, under the direction of their religious advisers, engaged their experimental systems." He grimaced. "The cruiser was damaged, its warp drive rendered inoperable. Seventy-Fifth Defence Squadron engaged and destroyed it. However, in the process, we lost seven ships from the squadron, and five more suffered irreparable damage. In addition, the two observers and two of the special vessels were destroyed. Second Marshal Durn was aboard one of the observers, and perished with it."

"It seems a high price to pay," Aun observed in his mild voice. "The Klingons have many cruisers."

"And we will, no doubt, be seeing them," Var said. "In my opinion, this adventure of Durn's was... ill-judged. If he were not beyond our judgment now, he would answer to me for it. We must expect a Klingon punitive task force, and soon. We would be unwise, in my opinion, to offer resistance." His face fell, and he looked down at the stone floor. "There will be heavy penalties to pay," he muttered, "but we may be able to pass it off as the unauthorized act of a rogue commander...."

"And if we cannot?" a new voice demanded.

"The Council hears the opinions of the Second Marshal Gamariden Tal," the falsetto usher intoned. Var turned around to glower at his subordinate. The freshly promoted Second Marshal stood his ground. He was a younger man, with sleek black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and horns of polished ivory.

"We took losses," Tal said, "heavy losses. I mourn the deaths of my gallant comrades and my late commander. However, the important thing is, the special weapons work. We have replicator facilities, we have the mineral resources for which the Klingons tax us. We can build, even in the short time before a task force arrives, a hundred vessels to replace each one lost. We can refine the special weapons and our tactics for employing them. If it comes to a fight, we do not need to lose."

"To destroy one tax vessel - amends might be made for that," said Var. "But what you suggest, Second Marshal, would be rebellion against the Empire. We would need to be very sure we could survive that, if we were to attempt it. War with the Klingons, on the basis of one arguably successful skirmish?" He shook his head, decisively.

"The matter seems to hinge," said Aun, "on the - forgive me, I am no military man - but it seems to me that the issue is the efficacy of these special weapons, no? I understand they were developed with the help of the religious caste? It seems strange to me, but perhaps the First Pontiff may enlighten us...."

"The Council heeds the words of the First Pontiff Glavelecun Dir."

Portly and resplendent in his rainbow-coloured robes, the jewelled staff of office clutched in his right hand, his elaborately carved horns almost blending into his ornate high headdress, the leader of the religious caste took only one step forward. "The priesthood as a whole," he said, "was not party to this. The priesthood as a whole defers to the military in all, well, military matters. But the cult of Sebreac Tharr, now, I understand, is involved, deeply involved, in the project... and I call upon its High Priest to inform this Council."

"The Council hears the opinions of the High Priest of Sebreac Tharr, Enteskilen Mur."

The man who stepped forward now was old, thin and gaunt, his grey hair and beard wild, his horns overgrown, cracked and seamed and unpolished. While most of the religious leaders wore rich and colourful robes, Enteskilen Mur wore a simple floor-length tabard, in vertical stripes of red, white and black, decorated on the chest with a stylized golden flame. A similar device tipped the slender gold wand he carried in his right hand. He advanced onto the floor, and glared from under bushy brows with the eyes of a fanatic.

"The military came to Sebreac Tharr for aid," he said, and his voice was strong and deep and powerful despite his age, "and the god answered them. Second Marshal Durn desired weapons capable of destroying the Klingons. With the god's aid, we provided one. We can provide more... and the god will ensure that all our enemies will fall to their might. To his might. I have communed with the god Sebreac Tharr in my soul, and I know his power. No mere temporal agency can withstand it. With our faith and our god, we will overcome all that oppose us. No more need be said."

"A great deal more need be said," said Var. "Before deploying forces, I need an exact military assessment of the relative weapon strengths of our troops and the Klingons. So far, the Klingon military might is - overwhelming. Convince me that your weapons will tip the balance."

"Conviction is to be found only in the soul," said Mur.

"I need more than platitudes if we are to fight the Klingons!" snapped Var.

"While of course we respect your religious beliefs," said Aun smoothly, "you must understand that, to those of us who do not share them - who worship, for example, other members of the Great Pantheon than Sebreac Tharr - something more is needed -"

"No more is needed!" Mur's voice rang across the chamber. "Sebreac Tharr is a true god, and I who am his servant speak truly! Put your trust in Sebreac Tharr, and you will certainly conquer!"

"And the special weapons do work," Second Marshal Tal added, much more quietly.

"Even if they do," Var turned on his subordinate, "how can we field enough of them to matter? Oh, yes, we have the industrial replicators, we have the mines to feed them - but where will you find enough men to serve the fleet we would need, to fight the Empire?"

"Use drabs," said Tal, shortly.

"What?" Var was aghast. A murmur of disapproval ran around the outer ranks of the assembly.

"To use members of the labouring caste," said Aun, "in a military role - it would be, well, it would be an unprecedented break with the traditions of our forefathers -"

"They would push buttons," said Tal, "and carry out basic menial shipboard duties, under the direction of a military caste commander. Is that such an affront to tradition? If it gives us victory and freedom? Perhaps we should consult the drabs' representative."

"Perhaps we should," said Aun. "Let him be brought forward."

"The Council deigns to hear the representative of the labouring caste, Homorochol Nin."

He wore clothing of dull beige, and his horns were filed down to flat discs on his forehead. In accordance with tradition, he came no closer than the outermost edge of the floor, and looked down, making no eye contact with any of his superiors. "What do you say to the Second Marshal's proposal?" Aun asked.

"We will serve as we are directed," Nin answered in a low voice. "If the Second Marshal directs us to serve on ships - I do not deny, many of us would love to know... even a little bit... to know the privileges of the higher castes. But we serve. We serve as our masters direct us, always."

"Prime military material," sneered Var.

"They can carry out the necessary functions," said Tal. "It is wise to use every resource we have."

"If it comes to a fight," said Var, "we may need such desperate measures. But it is my belief that an open conflict can yet be avoided."

"It can be won," said Mur, unexpectedly, "if you but trust in the god Sebreac Tharr."

"It is possible, sir," said Tal.

"There would seem," observed Aun, "to be a division in the opinions of the military on this matter."

"No!" shouted Tal. "I - present the options, nothing more. I am subject to the Grand Marshal's orders, and I will serve as he sees fit."

"Very well," said Var. "I believe a war with the Klingons is not winnable at this point. My recommendation to this Council is that we stand ready to make what amends we must."

---

The Council hall was surrounded by a veritable warren of suites and offices and private chambers. Gamariden Tal made his way, slowly and uncertainly, along a corridor, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor that twisted and turned, until he came to a sliding door marked with a stylized flame. He took a deep breath, and knocked.

The door slid open. "So," said Enteskilen Mur, "you found us. Come in."

Tal stepped through the door. "I am not so familiar with the offices of the religious caste," he said.

The room within was small and sparsely furnished. There were three chairs, and one was already occupied, by a thin, sandy-haired man in the red, white and black of Sebreac Tharr. Mur took a chair himself, and waved the Second Marshal to the last one.

"So," he said, "the Grand Marshal flinches from the thought of war."

Tal bridled at this. "He is my superior officer," he snapped. "And any sane man would flinch from the Klingons."

"Commendably loyal," said Mur. "But, nonetheless, you would act differently, in his position."

"Perhaps," said Tal. "But I have studied the battle reports from our surviving ships. The subspace disruption effect was too slow, too loosely focused. A Klingon Bird of Prey might evade it completely - a larger vessel might well weather the blow. It is not enough to be effective."

"With the god's help," said Mur, "it can be made so. I, too, have studied those reports." He raised one eyebrow at the Second Marshal's startled look. "I have my sources. There are true believers among the military. My associate, here, has been hard at work -"

The sandy-haired man held out a datapad. Tal took it, even as his gaze searched the other's face. "You," he said, his back suddenly stiffening, "I know you - you are -"

"Nyredalit Amm," said the sandy-haired man.

"The apostate," said Tal.

"An over-dramatic term," Amm replied with a chuckle. "The military simply did not offer enough opportunities for a man of science... so I discovered a vocation for the religious life."

Tal's stiffness relaxed, a little. "It is true that the science division has fallen from favour in the military...."

"For understandable reason," said Mur. "I am old enough to remember when the military developed the warp drive. They promised us the stars, unlimited room for our population to expand. We were all, naturally, disappointed when they brought us Klingon taxation instead."

"They could hardly have known that local space was under the control of a militaristic empire!" said Tal.

"No, true," said Mur, "it was not their fault, but they were blamed anyway.... So, military research languishes, and my friend here sought the aid of my church... my true god. See, now, how he has used his fine mind to develop and express the wishes of Sebreac Tharr."

"In practical terms," said Amm, "a new version of the weapon, with replicator-ready schematics for units capable of being installed on a single standard frigate. In addition, a secondary weapon, perhaps more potent for the sort of dog-fighting that Birds of Prey imply... and a defensive system whose possibilities may intrigue you."

"Replicator ready?" Tal frowned. "I am concerned over that... my people still do not have a clear idea of how the special weapon works - how it generates its effects."

"Do they need one?" Mur asked.

"If something should go wrong," said Tal, "with this - this black-box technology - then we would be helpless to repair it, without understanding its principles."

"Have faith in the god," said Mur. "I know, you think I am reciting a mere rote phrase... but I am not. Sebreac Tharr is a true god, Second Marshal. I have communed with him in my soul, and I know. Have faith in him. He will bring you victory."

Tal swallowed hard. There was a long moment's silence.

"Touching on other matters," said Amm. "The god's help is bought with faith alone, but other offerings would be acceptable in his service." He held out another datapad.

Tal took it, and read with widening eyes. "That is... a substantial sum," he said, after a while.

"In the service of the god," said Mur. He gestured at the bare walls of the small room. "We do not ask for our own material comfort. But the god has his ends, and wealth may serve them."

"My personal estates could not cover so much refined dilithium and pergium," said Tal.

"We do not ask it of you," said Amm. "The discretionary budget for military projects could cover it many times over... and it is, sadly, needed. Some people will not act for love of the god alone."

"I do not have such control over military budgets," said Tal.

"No," said Mur, "but, were the Grand Marshal to - retire, for example - you would naturally take his place, would you not?"

"I am next in line for promotion," said Tal. "But the Grand Marshal shows no signs of retiring."

"So it seems," said Mur. "He will not fight the Klingons, he will not fund our projects, he will not accept the weapons the god brings to him...." He picked up the slender gold rod, tipped with the stylized flame. "It seems to me that the Grand Marshal Suhanaluk Var is... an obstacle. And for that, in the name of Sebreac Tharr - I rebuke him."

---

Suhanaluk Var sat behind his desk at Command Headquarters, and swore under his breath.

First Durn, now Tal... some people needed to stop listening to priests, and concentrate on the military. He was not going to let some unbalanced cultist lead them into war with the greatest military power in space - nor would he countenance Tal's absurd idea of conscripting the drabs. Military power lay with the military caste, and always would, while he, Suhanaluk Var, had breath in his body....

Breath. He tugged at his collar. The air in the office seemed hot and close, all of a sudden. Irritably, he stabbed a finger at his intercom. "Orderly," he growled.

The door of the office slid open. "Sir?" the orderly asked.

"Air conditioning," said Var, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. "Something's wrong with it. Fix it, will you?"

The orderly crossed the floor to a wall console, studied it, frowned. "The thermostat seems normal, sir," he said. "I can run a diagnostic -" He turned towards the Grand Marshal, and stared, open-mouthed.

Var was clutching at his throat with both hands, his face congested and purple. As the orderly gaped, he saw wisps of smoke rising from the Grand Marshal's hair and beard - and then Var gave a single immense scream, and burst into flame.

By the time the firefighters arrived at the office, there was very little left of the Grand Marshal, save a blackened skeleton. The bronze chainmail of his uniform was now oxidised, and fused to his bare ribs by the heat.