Claws 10

R'j

I pace the length and breadth of the ready room, cursing under my breath. "I do not believe in coincidences," I snap at the screen.

"Rrueo does," Rrueo replies, over what we hope is a secure comms link. "But not at this level."

"We need to understand this. Is it a message? Aimed at Grau? Why Grau?"

"You need to understand this," says Rrueo. "It is clear to Rrueo that we are dealing with a reality manipulator, something of the order of the being Q. Any reasonable person would, therefore, be heading away from this whole situation at maximum warp speed. Sadly, you have never, even in the dimmest light, been mistaken for a reasonable person."

"S-s-s-s-s. You do not understand. This situation has arisen, it must be confronted. Should we leave it for others to risk their lives? Others who may be less capable than we are?"

"You and Grau," says Rrueo, "would seem to be sisters under the skin. Apparently, she took exactly that attitude towards the temporal anomaly known as the Stygmalian Rift. And, apart from the temporal displacement, the loss of all her personal relationships, the Borg assimilation and the serious psychiatric consequences, it worked out well for her."

"So," I say, "Grau has the most exotic background... perhaps that is how she has drawn this being's attention. What of the body? Do we have information on the USS Erebus?"

"A survey vessel, lost by Starfleet shortly after the Organian conflict. They lost a number of their long range explorers - it is a hazardous business. According to the records Shohl has made available, the Erebus went missing somewhere near Epsilon Orionis - but distance is, clearly, not a factor to our unknown adversary."

I sit down at my desk. The pieces of the Reflective Game glint, but I have long since lost track of which move it was. "No explanation is forthcoming, then."

"If the Feds know anything, they are not telling us," says Rrueo. "And why should they, after all?"

"S-s-s-s-s." Of course, there is much we are not telling the Feds - the fact that the entire arcology is nothing but a stage property magicked into existence by a superpower, for example. "Well, then. Turning to practical matters. How long now to Tiaza Zephora?"

"Thirty-six hours flight time. For us - the King Estmere could do it in a fraction of the time. Rrueo wishes they would. If King Estmere went on ahead, the two of us would be a match for the Falcon alone."

"I do not contemplate attacking the Falcon. Yet. As for the King Estmere...." I smile. "I have some hopes in that direction."

"Rrueo is glad you have hopes. Rrueo has only worries. For instance... the Feds hope to find a translator for the alien symbols at Tiaza Zephora."

"Wishful thinking. The symbols are nothing more than set dressing on the fake ruins. But it does no harm for them to chase phantoms."

"This is what worries Rrueo. Has it occurred to you that the entity's actions have had the effect of turning your lies into the truth? By the time we reach the planet, there may well be meaning behind those symbols, and a native capable of reading them."

"Useless to speculate. Though, if my lies are to be turned to truths... there is at least one reason why I should be concerned over that."

---

Tiaza Zephora gleams beneath us, a poison jewel of an M-class world, its blue oceans and verdant continents decorated with white swirls of cloud.

I should feel more secure - this system is, after all, nominally on the Klingon side of the border. But Shohl and Grau have the resources to fight their way out, if it comes to that... and in any case, the real threat comes from the planet.

In my mind's eye, I can still see those ships burning.

I recite a sutra, to clear my mind. I relax a little on the command couch, and signal for communications to be established with the other ships. A motley assortment we make, too, I muse: the rakish, sprawling lines of the Goroke contrasting with the spiky insectile look of Rrueo's Anar, with the malevolent crystalline bulk of King Estmere, with the traditional Starfleet design of Grau's Falcon. A more mismatched fleet would be hard to imagine.

Now, the three faces of my fellow commanders appear on the main viewer. "So," I say, "now that we are here, how should we proceed?"

"Have you detected anything new since the abortive invasion attempt?" Shohl asks. I could quibble with her phrasing, I suppose, but....

"Nothing that I can detect from high orbit," I answer. "I could go in for a closer scan, except... the Goroke might be remembered from the previous incident. I have no wish to provoke further hostility."

Shohl takes the bait with alacrity. "King Estmere is rated for atmospheric operations." Ah, she is proud of her ship - might that be her undoing. "An ionospheric pass won't violate that fifty-kellicam safe limit. Setting course now."

I refrain from smiling. A few creative edits were made in the recording of my trial, before Shalo gave it to the Feds... most importantly, the number "one hundred and twenty" being replaced by "fifty". On the tactical display, I watch as King Estmere points her needle nose towards the low orbitals.

Whatever happens, I gain data. And if King Estmere vanishes in an antimatter explosion, I need shed no tears.

Laska calls off the distances in an undertone. As if she fears Shohl will hear her. "Four hundred kellicams... three fifty... three hundred kellicams... two fifty... two hundred... one fifty...." Emphasis edges her voice as she says, "One twenty... one hundred kellicams... seventy-five. The Fed ship is holding in low orbit at range seventy-five kellicams."

And remains obstinately unexploded. So, I gain nothing but data. Never mind.

"I'm trying something," says Shohl over the comms link. "Hold on."

"Trying what?" Grau demands.

"Launching a type 8 shuttle on autopilot," Shohl says. "Programming a descent to fifty kilometers." About half what she believes is the critical distance - which may now actually be the critical distance. Is this entity determined to make a truth-teller of me? Perhaps I should thank it.

I cut in my own communications. "An unmanned shuttlecraft can hardly be regarded as a threat," I point out.

"King Estmere isn't a threat," Shohl says. "At least, not to the inhabitants of this world... at least, she's not meant that way."

"S-s-s-s-s. You think the entity is capable of reading hostile intent?"

"Could be. All we know about it is that it's got powers we don't understand. Launching shuttle."

The type 8 shuttle is a tiny dot beside the bulk of the King Estmere. Laska frowns as she adjusts the tracking scan, and resumes her monologue. "Seventy kellicams... sixty-five... sixty... fifty-five... fifty... forty-five... forty... thirty-five...." She stops. We watch in silence as the little craft descends to the point where its trail in the planet's atmosphere is clearly visible.

"All right." Shohl's voice. "Minimum altitude of fifty kilometres. Either the killing effect is turned off, or it's reading peaceful intent and letting harmless ships through - for the moment, at least." Her scarred face quirks in a brief smile. "I'm recovering the shuttle and returning the King Estmere to geosynchronous orbit. Just in case."

"All righty, then," says Grau. "The entity isn't in kill-on-sight mode. That's good news. So, I guess our next step is obvious." She grins, wildly and lopsidedly. "Obvious to us Starfleet types, anyway."

"And that obvious step is...?" I ask.

"Go down and introduce ourselves. Say hello."

Claws 9

Tylha

There is the hiss of my breath in the respirator, the dull clunking sound of my boots on the ancient stone. There is no other sound. This world is airless, barren, desolate. And yet -

I look up. The buildings of the arcology tower over me, great looming crags of masonry, curving and overhanging like talons against the black sky. They are so tall - even in the weak gravity of this planet, about a third that of Andoria, they are still at the limits of what's physically possible without antigravs or force-field reinforcement. The only place I've seen bigger building is inside the Dyson Spheres... and, of course, there, since there is effectively no gravity inside the sphere except that provided by local grav generators, the spires can rise to any height.

Inside, and around the bases, of the towers... are catacombs. There is no other way to describe the labyrinth of irregularly-shaped little rooms, linked by narrow meandering corridors. The science and exploration teams have spent hours, already, mapping only a tiny fraction of one of the megastructures... and they have yet to find any rhyme or reason to any of it.

There are no bodies, humanoid or otherwise. We hypothesize, based on the size of the rooms and corridors, that the inhabitants of the arcology were smaller than the average humanoid - but it's just a guess. There are no indications of the functions of the rooms. Odd things are missing - none of the rooms we've mapped seems to have any sort of plumbing connections, for instance. Did these creatures not drink, or wash, or excrete?

And there are no lights - except for the walls.

I stop to stare at one wall. It is covered with a sort of film, a thin but immensely durable coating... and on that coating, glowing symbols move. Each glyph is about the size of my hand, it glows with a soft blue-green light, and it drifts, slowly and randomly, across the surface. Sometimes, when two glyphs collide, they recoil away from each other - or, sometimes, they cross over each other, merging and then separating. There seem to be no rules governing them. I have yet to see two symbols the same, too, though they all share similar characteristics - looping and spiralling lines with feathery strokes around them. Every little room has at least one wall covered in the glyphs - most have several.

There is a slight change in the light; I turn. The space-suited figure before me would be anonymous, except that her faceplate is lit up by the targeting laser over her eye. "Hello, Ronnie," I say.

"Getting anywhere?" Ronnie steps up to the wall, stands facing it with arms akimbo, as if she's challenging it to a fight.

"Nothing yet," I say. "We've run about seventeen thousand of these symbols through King Estmere's linguistics databanks, with no real results. A few positive matches, but it looks like they're just pure coincidence."

"His first important invention was the Crispine alphabet," Ronnie mutters, "consisting of only one character which has not yet been deciphered." I think she's talking to herself, but the proximity comms on the suits let me hear her. "They look blurry, or is that just my eye?"

"The coating is an energized graphene," I say. "We think it draws ambient power from either solar or geothermal sources. And it's a little bit degraded. Graphenes are tough, but this coating has been in place a long time."

"Any idea how long?"

"Take a guess. Mine is... somewhere around a hundred thousand years."

"The words of the prophets are written on the subway walls." I think it's another quotation. Sometimes I wonder if Ronnie is actually human, or a Tamarian with a nose job. "Can't you get anywhere with the universal translators?"

I sigh loudly, loudly enough for her to hear. "Ronnie, do you have any idea how the universal translator actually works?"

"Well, of course not, that's the sort of detail I leave to the highly skilled and much appreciated technical types like you. You know how I work. Push it till it goes, hit it till it breaks."

"Right. There are basic components of linguistic thought - identifiable atomic propositions. I think it was one of your countrymen, Wittgenstein, who first came up with the concept, back on Earth. They're fundamental to the way a conscious mind reacts to the external world, and the patterns they create are identifiable in any kind of consciousness substrate - whether it's an organic brain, or a crystalline one, or even a pattern of pure energy. The universal translator's subquantum detectors pick up those patterns, relate their occurrence to the spoken word - or whatever sort of language production's going on - and generates utterances in our languages that correspond to the same patterns. With me?"

"Ah," says Ronnie. "Not entirely."

"The point is," I say, "there has to be mentation going on. Thought. The language has to be spoken by a conscious being whose brainwaves the UT can pick up. Written language, like here - there's no mind behind it, so we can't translate it that way."

"Um," says Ronnie. "So, the only way we're going to find out what this means... is if we can get someone to read it aloud? Someone who knows the lingo?"

"Unless we can find some match for the script in the linguistics banks, and that's looking less and less likely. Or do our KDF allies know different?"

"Buxton is sure as hell twitchy about something," says Ronnie. "It might just be that she has to walk around with her tail shoved down one leg of her EV suit, but I don't think so. Pretty much a given, though, that they've got something up their sleeves.... Gladys is running around trying to match patterns with whatever she's got stored on her datapads, and I think she's as baffled as we are. Patterns," she adds, in a thoughtful tone. "Sentient beings are awfully good at finding patterns that match. Sometimes, even if they're not actually there - remember the face on Mars?"

"Um. No?"

"Fair enough, then. Anyway." She turns to face me. "If we need someone who speaks alien-drifting-graffiti, there's only one place we might even stand a chance of finding one."

"Tiaza Zephora," I say.

"Right. Right. I'm seriously thinking this place is some kind of dead end. Or red herring. Possibly both."

"We've only explored an infinitesimally small fraction of the megastructure," I say. "All right, it's the part that R'j said might be relevant -"

"But we have no guarantee that Gladys is right," says Ronnie, "even if she's telling the truth. No, kiddo, I think we should leave this place as a fascinating riddle for future archaeologists, and be on our merry way to where the actual action is."

"Maybe." I stare at the enigmatic shifting patterns on the wall. "If this place really has any connection to Tiaza Zephora...."

"Don't see how it can't be connected," Ronnie mutters.

Then my communicator beeps. "Shohl here," I say, touching my wrist.

"Vice Admiral Shohl." A harsh rasping whisper: R'j. "We have discovered something - you should be made aware of it."

"What is it?"

"A body."

"One of the inhabitants of this place?" An alien corpse, now, that would be a start.

"No. I am transmitting coordinates to your transporter room, you should see this for yourself. Vice Admiral Grau should also be informed."

"She's with me now. What is this?"

"It is best if you see for yourselves."

---

The transport is disorienting. Normally, it is the sudden change in scene which confuses people - this time, though, the confusion comes because our destination looks so much the same. Another irregular room, another wall covered with shifting glyphs -

Only this one has more space-suited shapes inside it - all but one of them dark and anonymous in KDF combat gear. The hulking form that has to stoop beneath the low ceiling, that must be a Gorn science officer - Rrueo's body language is instantly recognizable as she prowls across the floor - and the one standing rigid and wary must be R'j.

The only different one... is lying on the floor.

The space suit is an antique design, the body encased in thick silvery material, the head enclosed in a tall, bulbous, box-like structure. A mid-23rd century Starfleet EV suit... personally, I like that design, it gives room for Andorian antennae, but most species found it inconvenient. The body on the floor appears to be human -

"Clearly, this is the corpse of a Federation citizen," R'j's voice rasps in my ear. "We thought you should see - should determine for yourself that there is no element of foul play on our part."

"He has been dead a long time," Rrueo adds.

The front of the EV suit is split open, in a savage diagonal slash that begins at the right hip and goes almost all the way to the left shoulder. There is dark staining that must once have been blood. A wound like that would have to be instantly fatal, even without the suit breach.... Ronnie kneels by the body.

"I do not know," R'j says, "when the Federation sent an expedition to this star system - or why and how it was lost. I presume it must have been lost, since no record of this structure is found in your data banks. I suppose this person's ship can be identified -"

"Yeah," says Ronnie. "His name was Eusebio Luis Moraes, if that helps any. Assigned to the survey ship USS Erebus last time I saw him."

Everyone turns to her. Even Rrueo leaves off her nervous pacing.

"What?" R'j says.

Ronnie stands up slowly. "First met Seb when I was retraining at the Academy in, hmm, must be 2263," she says. "We kind of lost touch, though... well, this would explain why." I hear her take a deep breath. "OK, so we're in an ancient alien ruin, and we run into a dead body here, and it turns out it's someone I used to know. Does anyone else think that's weird?"

Claws 8

Rrueo

My tail switches nervously as I watch the screen. The balance of power, if things come to a fight, has just tipped quite decisively in the Federation's favour. My Anar and R'j's Goroke are both fine ships... but they do not have the specialist systems, the advanced weaponry, that Grau's ship carries, making combat a chancy business at best. And now that Shohl's King Estmere has come crashing out of subspace....

The modified Tholian carrier is an ugly thing, a diamond-shaped main body gripped in the triple talon of its engineering hull. The whole thing is nearly half a kellicam long, and it glimmers all over with the reticulated web of advanced Federation shielding. As it approaches, it launches auxiliary craft; first one pair, then a second. Mesh Weaver frigates, adapted from Tholian designs, compact starships in their own right.

I have pride in my ship, pride in my crew, but I am also a realist. If it comes to a fight, now, we will lose.

Therefore, it must not come to a fight. "We will keep the deception going," I tell my exec, the Klingon engineer K'Rokok. "Rrueo will beam to the Fed ship alone."

K'Rokok has a permanent scowl, but it deepens now. "Standard protocol dictates that you should have at least one aide, or bodyguard, sir," he grumbles.

"Rrueo is General Bl'k''s mercenary security, or so we say," I tell him. "Rrueo is her aide and bodyguard, and therefore needs none herself." I yawn, displaying my fangs. "Besides, those Tholian carriers have a crew complement of only two and a half thousand - if things go wrong, Rrueo will not need help to kill them all."

That earns a reluctant laugh from the Klingon. "Signal the carrier," I order Shegithem, the big Gorn on the comms console. "Tell them Rrueo is ready for transport." I stalk off the bridge, towards the transporter room. My mind is filled with misgivings, my tail still twitching moodily.

The Feds are, at least, efficient. Only a few minutes pass before the transporter operator signals readiness, and my transporter room dissolves in red light, to be replaced by that of the Tholian carrier.

The lights are too hot and bright, the designs bleak and bare and functional. I step off the pad and turn to watch R'j materialize. She has brought one other with her, the Lethean, Nubir. In keeping with our deception, I offer her a formal salute, which she answers with a haughty nod.

Grau and Shohl are there ahead of us, the tall stern Andorian and the small, unhealthy-looking Borg woman regarding us with that tolerant, patient, indulgent look the Federation always has, the one that has probably stirred up more anti-Federation sentiment than the entire KDF propaganda corps.

"Welcome aboard, Lieutenant-General Bl'k', Lieutenant-General Rrueo," says Shohl.

"My aide, Commander Nubir," R'j says, in a casual, dismissive tone. Naturally, she wants them to pay no attention to Nubir. Naturally, the Feds will watch the Lethean very, very carefully.

"We've set up in the conference room," Shohl says. "This way."

She too has her - aides. Two in security uniforms, one in science; a Vulcan, a Betazoid, and a ghost-pale image of herself - an Aenar. Carefully, I open my mind to the sensations of the people around me.

R'j's mind-tone is familiar, though not comforting. Nubir is like so many Letheans, a mind like bloodstained clockwork glimpsed through veils. The heavy-set Vulcan is trained in basic defences, his mind is a simple shell of steel. The Betazoid's mind is shining and reflective, too, but it is not metal, it is a pool of still water, inviting one to dive in... and, no doubt, full of undertows and currents to drag an unwary swimmer to her doom. No, I will not choose to drown in those waters. The Aenar's mind is strange, coloured by her unusual senses, a blizzard in which dark shapes move.

And our hosts.... Shohl's mind is a fortress with many walls, and sentries set upon them that watch both ways, inwards as well as outwards. Grau's mind is bright and jangling, swirling with sudden patterns like a broken kaleidoscope, and all the while something cold and malevolent and mechanical watches from outside.

I fret as we tread the sterile corridors of the Tholian ship. I need to talk to R'j, to discuss with her... how her plans are going astray. And I must hide that concern, because I have no doubt that the Betazoid and the Aenar are sensitive to my mind as I am to theirs - and that their purpose is not merely defensive.

We enter another bright, angular room, with the spikes of Tholian data consoles set about the sides, and a Federation holo-display in the centre.

Grau touches her combadge. "Saval? We're ready, start playing the slideshow, will you?" Shohl goes to a console and touches a control crystal. The lights dim, and the holo-display springs to life.

"Data feed from the Falcon's astrometrics probes," says Shohl.

"And hoo, boy, have they been feeding some data," Grau adds.

The holo-display shows a simple rocky sphere - Duselva WX III, the planet which has been the target for their probes. A network of glowing lines marks out a third or more of its northern hemisphere. My tail switches again. Nerves. I fight to control myself.

"All four planets in this system are Class D," Grau says. "Big rocks, basically. But our long-range scans picked up refined elements and modified albedoes on the third planet. High reflectivity. Polished surfaces, generally taken as a sign of intelligent life. God knows why, I never clean stuff. Maybe I'm not intelligent life." Well, I think, you said it.

"So we bunged some probes in its general direction," Grau continues. "As you two know, unless you've been asleep at the switch. What we found... you can see on the display."

R'j leans forward. "Elucidate," she snaps.

"You do and you clean it up yourself," says Grau. "Oh, all right. What we're seeing is a network of construction. Not just buildings, big buildings. A complex arcology covering an area roughly the size of North America. If the inhabitants were humanoid, we reckon there might have been room for around a hundred billion of them."

"There are no life signs now," R'j says.

"Nope," says Grau. "Not that we've seen so far, anyway."

"Rrueo assumes you believe this to be the remains of an extinct native civilization," I say.

"Well, it's a bit big for a colonial outpost," says Grau. "Of course, that presents us with several other interesting questions, doesn't it? Dwarf Cepheid stars like Duselva WX aren't exactly favourable to the development of life... and there isn't much sign, apart from the arcology, that this planet has ever been anything other than a Class D slag pile." She stares hard at R'j, the Borg targeting laser an accusing line of red. "Unless, of course, you know different."

R'j consults a datapad in her hand. If she is discomfited by the way her lies have suddenly come true, it does not show on her face. "I have no specific information," she says. "Direct investigation may tell us more. We may find configurations of buildings, for example, which correspond to the landmarks on Tiaza Zephora. If we are fortunate, of course, we might discover an archive of some kind -"

"Direct investigation," Shohl cuts in. "You think we should go there."

R'j shrugs. "If it is under observation by the entity at Tiaza Zephora - your astrometrics probes will already have drawn its attention, I am sure. We gain nothing by remaining here."

"And we could find out a lot if we go take a look in person," says Grau. "Makes sense."

Shohl nods. The tenor of her mind is... unhappy. The sentries on the battlements of her consciousness seem to be perturbed. Grau's mind is still a welter of half-formed images.

And sparks are flying in the kindling of R'j's mind....

"Rrueo suggests we should make a temporary accord," I say. Everyone turns to look at me. I smooth my whiskers with one claw. "We should not waste time and effort sniping at each other, suspecting each other. That is all Rrueo has to say. We may be taken unawares by an external threat, if we spend all our time watching each other."

"Point," says Grau.

"So what do you suggest?" Shohl says.

"As Rrueo said. A temporary accord. We undertake to begin no hostilities, you do the same."

"You're in no position to begin hostilities," Shohl snaps.

"Neither are you," says R'j. "We have information you need." Clearly, this is one of her seven permitted circumstances. Perhaps she is in love with the Andorian and wants to prepare a pleasant surprise for her.

"OK," says Grau. "Buxton's got a point, we could waste a lot of effort watching each other like hawks all the time." I hiss at her. "All right, all right. Rrueo's got a point. And I guess the bickering and sniping hasn't."

"We will cooperate, then," says R'j.

"Up to what point?" Shohl is still suspicious.

"Once we know what we are dealing with," says R'j, "then we can decide. If the entity is neutral, concerned only with Tiaza Zephora, it may safely be left to its own devices. If it has other potentialities... then, we must decide how to progress."

"The truce holds until you start shooting?" says Shohl.

R'j sighs. "We will send you command codes for our weapons arrays," she says. "You can lock them down, make sure we cannot use them without your permission. I do not like this -" Nor do I, but I say nothing "- but it is obviously the only way to progress."

"Sounds reasonable," says Grau. "Of course, being Starfleet and upright, downright, forthright and all that, we should really make sure the playing field's level by giving you command codes for our weapons in exchange."

R'j smiles. "And will you do that?"

"Of course not. I'm not daft."

"S-s-s-s-s. You have an advantage: you wish to retain it. I can understand this."

"In which case," I say, "there are practicalities we must attend to. Rrueo will beam back to the Goroke with her employer; we will implement the necessary commands on both our ships, and then we will set out for the planet. In, say, one standard hour from now. Is this acceptable?"

R'j swivels one eye to look hard at me. I hope she will take the hint, realize that there is something I must tell her - out of Starfleet's hearing.

"All right," says Grau. "Do you have anything at all that suggests where we should start? That arcology is a big place to search."

R'j consults her datapad again. She steps forward, makes a great show of studying the holo-display, finally points with one bony finger at a spot on the planet's surface. "I can make no guarantees. But try there." She turns. "Now, my associate and I will return to my ship, and arrange for our weapons to be... neutered."

"See them back to the transporter room," Shohl orders her telepathic guards.

I keep my own mental shields up, as strong as I can make them, on our way back. The beam of the transporter takes us, the Tholian ship fades out... to be replaced by the equally alien interior of the Goroke. I wrinkle my nose. The Elachi ship smells... even R'j notices it, and her sense of smell is many times weaker than mine.

"So," R'j says to me. "What is so important? You were twitching like a nn'hrr-tg'hrr all through that meeting."

"Something you should know, and our new allies need not," I say. "Rrueo began in the science division, do you recall?"

"If I ever need to write your biography, that is where I will begin," says R'j. "So?"

"Rrueo is in the habit of running sensor scans, of making sure all available information is gathered and processed. And Rrueo's ship's sensors are at least the equal of Grau's. When we arrived in this system, Rrueo ordered all the normal scans to be performed. And we arrived here well ahead of Starfleet."

"So?" R'j repeats.

"So," I say, "this continent-spanning complex of ancient ruins on the third planet?" I look hard at her, holding the gaze of her silvery eyes. "It was not there yesterday."

Claws 7

Starfleet medical facility, Earth, 2263

Martin Hudson couldn't take his eyes off the skirt.

It was absurd, outrageous. This was supposed to be a military uniform? A Starfleet uniform? The doctor looked like - like a streetwalker. A cheap streetwalker.

Except for the ears, the pointed ears beneath the short-cropped black hair. And the winged eyebrows over level grey eyes. It was something else he could not adjust to. A Vulcan. Not only dressed like that, but comfortably working with humans, with Tellarites, with Andorians, even -

"Our analysis shows that your temporal displacement has had no significant physiological effects," the Vulcan said. Her name was T'Mev; she was a senior medic, assigned to the case of the Goshawk and her crew. "Immunizations are needed against some viral strains which have mutated during your - absence - but these are of little consequence." She paused. "The main problem confronting us, therefore, is your psychological adjustment to the temporal shift."

"I'm a Starfleet officer," Hudson said. "We're trained - we know about the risks. The dangers - unexpected dangers -"

"It is impossible to be prepared for everything. A degree of culture shock is inevitable, leaving aside the other matters which may affect your emotional state."

And what would a Vulcan know about emotional states? Hudson thought silently. He knew better than to speak.

"Your situation is - somewhat unprecedented," said T'Mev. "We are, naturally, anxious to assist you in every way possible. However, because of the unusual nature of the problem, we are to some extent learning by direct experience. We need to work with you, in order to discover the best way to help you."

"Or to study us," said Hudson.

"That is not our primary aim, though of course it is a necessary element of the process." T'Mev consulted the viewer on her desk. Another thing Hudson could not get used to: the simplified, almost blocky, lines of the twenty-third century's technology, the bright slabs of primary colours everywhere; the bland, blank walls of the doctor's office, enlivened only by a coloured play of indirect lighting....

"You don't know how to help us!" he shouted. "My God! You're as bad as that idiot Grau, just - just charging in, seeing what happens, never worrying about the consequences! That was how I got here! That was how -" He stopped. The Vulcan was looking at him with those calm, nonjudgmental eyes.

"It is, unfortunately, quite possible that you are correct," she said. "We must learn how to help you, though, and we will if we can. I submit, for your consideration, that there is no one else who can help."

She's right, Hudson thought helplessly. Everything I knew is gone. Everyone I knew is dead.

---

"Everything I knew is gone, and everyone I knew is dead," said the gaunt woman. "That's... not something you can get away from. It comes up and smacks you in the face, time and time again." She shrugged. "It's not going to stop doing that. So I have to adjust."

"It is finding that adjustment that concerns us, Captain Grau," said T'Mev.

"Do we have to be formal? Call me Ronnie, everyone does."

"I think a level of formality is appropriate... Captain."

"All right." Ronnie Grau narrowed her eyes. "So let me be a captain. What about my people? What about the state of my crew? I heard about Tasia Ferencz -"

"Yeoman Ferencz's suicide was... tragic," said T'Mev. "It is the third to date."

"I know."

"That is fewer than I had feared would happen. Your crew has shown, on the whole, courage, resolution, and adaptability in the face of this crisis. For that, as their commanding officer, you are to be commended."

Ronnie looked away. "As their commanding officer," she muttered, "I got them into this."

"You feel you acted wrongly?"

"Yes. No. Maybe." Ronnie's face twisted with emotion. "I can't think what I might have done differently. Knowing what I knew then. Maybe if I'd been half a minute quicker launching an astrometrics probe - we'd have seen it vanish, we'd have backed the ship away. Or not. I don't know.... Investigating the Rift was the right choice. We knew there was some sort of hazard, we needed to identify it and chart it. Leaving it for someone else to blunder into... that would have been a wrong choice."

"You and the crew of the Goshawk deliberately confronted the risks inherent in the situation."

"I confronted the risks. The crew didn't get a vote. I had command." Ronnie tapped her narrow chest. "The buck, as they say, stops here."

T'Mev nodded, slowly and thoughtfully. "You blame yourself, then."

Ronnie pursed her lips. "I take the responsibility. It's not... quite... the same thing."

"I see." T'Mev made a note with her stylus. "Turning now to practical matters," she said. "Some of your crew have expressed a desire to leave Starfleet."

"Can't blame them." Ronnie sighed. "It's supposed to be an adventure... but getting catapulted a century into the future, with no way back? Bit too much of an adventure for most people."

"Rehabilitation, guidance and counselling will be made available. We confront challenges in dealing with your situation, but we will do everything we can to help."

"Thanks. Seriously. Thank you."

"And you, yourself? What are your aims and goals, now?"

Ronnie smiled wryly. "I guess this is the right time to re-evaluate my career choices, yes? In the light of a new personal living situation?"

"Shorn of the jargon, yes."

"I made my career choice." Determination flashed in her eyes. "I'm young, yet, I can re-train, learn, adapt. Besides, I'm a tactical officer. The tools may change, the situations don't. They still teach Sun Tzu at the academy - I know, I asked around. I know I'm not ready to take command of one of those big white glossy starships - yet. But just watch me."

T'Mev made another note with her stylus. "I see."

---

Commodore Bregg turned the report over in his thick Tellarite fingers, frowning. T'Mev sat, patient and impassive, on the other side of his desk.

"So never mind this," Bregg growled. "What's your feeling on this whole business?"

"Most of the Goshawk's crew are young, highly trained, highly motivated, and resilient," T'Mev said. "They are, I suppose, typical of the early human Starfleet - typical of their time. The shock of their temporal displacement has proven too much for three of them... which is deeply regrettable. However, I am convinced that the others will overcome their difficulties and adapt."

"How many of them are staying with Starfleet?" Bregg demanded.

"Fifty-seven have requested this. In most cases, their counsellors have recommended the request be granted. You should consult the appendices for the specific exceptions."

"I can't be bothered with appendices," Bregg grumbled. "What about our two special cases? The CO and her exec?"

"Ah, yes," said T'Mev. "You will find their individual assessments in the appendices... or not, as you prefer. Both have expressed a wish to remain with Starfleet. Captain Grau, though she feels an additional burden of responsibility for the situation, is dealing with it - forthrightly. She is determined and adaptable. If I have a caveat, it is that her adaptability is a consequence of a certain... volatility... of her mindset."

"And Commander Hudson?"

"The Commander is dealing with the matter - less well. In my judgment, the situation has exacerbated some deep-seated resentments of his. He not only resents Captain Grau for causing the incident, he resents her very presence. He has not verbalized the sentiment, but I am sure he feels he should have had command in place of Grau."

"I see," said Bregg. He heaved a sigh. "Where are these damn appendices, then?"

T'Mev indicated on the datapad with her stylus. Bregg sat reading for a while, grunting occasionally. "All right," he said. "Grau. I see your point about volatility - but she's got talent, too. If she's got an attitude, at least it's the right sort of attitude. I'm inclined to take a chance on Grau. There's one of those induction courses starting soon, isn't there? For officers from newly contacted worlds, to get them up to speed on Starfleet technology?"

"You think that would be appropriate?" T'Mev considered, briefly. "The situations would certainly appear... analogous. There is a human saying, I believe, 'The past is another country'."

"Quite," said Bregg. "As for the other one, though.... We don't need officers with deep-seated resentments. Put him down for further counselling. Either get that resentment unseated, or counsel him into civilian life."

Claws 6

Tylha

"This whole situation," Ronnie mutters, "stinks worse than Paris in a heatwave on the thirtieth day of a sewer workers' strike. Tylha, do me a favour, will you? Look up those two in the Starfleet intelligence digests. Commanders that senior should have come up on Intelligence's radar at some point."

I check Tallasa's console. "That would be on file under 'Big Bumper Book of Klink Bastiches', right?"

"I've got to get my amusement somewhere," says Ronnie. "I figure Buxton and Gladys Pugh over there must be on the list."

"Why Buxton and Gladys Pugh?" I ask.

"Because if I keep pronouncing R'j Bl'k' properly, I'll wear out the Borg implant in my mouth, and I need that for opening bottles with. The way she talks, I figure she must be Welsh, so Gladys Pugh will do it."

"And Buxton?"

"Evil blue cat." Ronnie doesn't elaborate any further.

She's right, though - there are entries for both R'j and the Ferasan in the database. We read them together, with growing disquiet.

"Both Klingon Academy trained," Ronnie mutters. "Both distinguished themselves in the Fek'lhri incursion... commendations out the wazoo.... OK, they're mercenary commanders now, but only because they've made enough out of privateering on the side to buy their own damn ships. Privateering is a Klink tradition. Used to be part of Earth naval tradition, too... difference between a pirate and a successful admiral was only a piece of paper, sometimes. Look at Sir Francis Drake - hmm. Wonder if he's any relation?"

"To - ?"

"Our boy Frankie. He told me once, he knows you. Kindred spirits, anyway, if not blood relations." I decide not to ask how she knows Franklin Drake. "Anyway. These two. They might be rogue agents, but you wouldn't think it to look at this lot."

"Power shifts happen in the Empire. They're both members of minority species, they might easily fall from favour if their sponsors do."

"Yeah. Maybe. Or this might all be a big set-up." Ronnie gazes moodily at the tactical display. "I'm sorely tempted to say, well, it's a trap, kill the bait and let's go. On the other hand...."

"The Tiaza Zephora thing is probably genuine...."

Ronnie grunts. "If that turned out to be a second Organia -"

Sometimes I wonder what the original Organians are up to. I suppose, in the abstract, it's best if we don't place our destinies in the hands of questionably benevolent super-beings. But, in reality, everyone would welcome some Organian practical pacifism right now.

"Also," Ronnie continues, "I've been talking big, but a Monbosh battleship and a siege destroyer is a pretty nasty combination for one ship to handle. I could take them... I think. But if we can stall them till King Estmere gets here, I'd sleep a lot sounder in my little bed."

"You should get some sleep," I say. "You must be running on empty by now."

"Sleep is for tortoises."

"You've said that before. What is a tortoise?"

"Like a turtle. We called him Tortoise, because he taught us." I knew I shouldn't have asked. "Those Birds of Prey could still be out there somewhere, too. If this is a set-up... and it smells like a set-up.... Better get some proper scans going. Saval!"

The whiskery Vulcan science officer says, "Full three-sixty degree tactical scan in operation, tachyon pulsing for cloaked ships, all sensors on maximum readiness. Targeting lock on enemy vessels is confirmed."

"We can burn them whenever you want, sir," Jhemyl adds from her console.

"Mm," says Ronnie. "They flame-proof those Elachi battlewagons, though. OK. ETA for King Estmere?"

"Just over seven hours," I say, "assuming Anthi maxes out the subtranswarp drive, and they don't hit any difficulties."

"So in seven hours, we can stop worrying," says Ronnie pensively, "or start worrying about something else. Gahh. Maybe I should get my head down for a bit, at that."

"Sir," says Saval. "I have something on long-range scan... possibly of interest."

Ronnie twists round in her seat to stare at him directly. "Like what?" she demands.

"I am unsure at this time," Saval replies, "but... it appears that there is an artificial structure on the third planet of this system."

"Say what?" says Ronnie.

"Attempting to gather more data," says Saval. "The planet is at extreme range, and the irregular activity of Duselva WX itself is generating sensor interference. But, for this to be registering at all, at this range, it must be a structure of considerable size."

Ronnie and I exchange glances. There is no record of Duselva WX ever being used as a base, either by us or by the Klingons. But the chances of a native civilization seem incredibly remote. Life is surprisingly tenacious and inventive, it finds a way in the strangest locations, sometimes - but for a planet of an irregular variable star to develop not just life, but intelligent life, would be... unusual, to say the least.

Unless there's some factor at work we don't know about. Like, for instance, a super-powerful alien entity....

"Can't move off station or we'll lose targeting locks on Gladys and Buxton," says Ronnie. "So. Can we sneak a class II astrometrics probe out without them noticing? Get a closer look that way?"

"They are bound to detect a probe launch," says Saval.

"Yeah, probably," says Ronnie. "What the heck, launch one anyway. We need to get a squint at this thing.... How long till we get some data back?"

"At standard speeds - forty minutes for the probe to reach planetary orbit," says Saval. "Time to gather and relay data will depend on the parameters of the scan."

"Make it detailed," says Ronnie. "I'll take a look later on. Tylha's right." She stands up. "I'm going to get some kip. You guys play nice with the Klinks, now."

Claws 5

By the Twelve Virtuous Mysteries and the Nine Auspicious Cycles of the moons, I swear and attest this record to be mine: R'j Bl'k', Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Initiate of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom, honorary Lieutenant-General Klingon Defense Force, owner-master of the battleship Goroke.

"S'ss-tt'kkraa-hh'kkjiii!" I snarl, as I leap from my command couch, and have the added irritation of hearing the idiot translation computer say "[unpronounceable Mlkwbrian epithet]".
  
"Transponder confirmation received," my Klingon exec Laska says calmly from her science station. "USS Falcon, registry NCC-93057, commanding officer of record Vice Admiral Veronika Grau."

"Early," I hiss. "Why is she early? How is she early?" I pace the cavernous bridge of the Goroke, the odorous Elachi deckplates clanging beneath my booted feet. "So much for knowing Starfleet's capabilities! Comms, get me Brigadier-General Kaltak, now!"

"Falcon has raised shields and is powering weapons," Laska reports.

"Time to effective range?"

"Fifteen minutes at current relative velocities." Laska is imperturbable. It is a virtue of hers.

"I have Brigadier-General Kaltak," Nubir reports from the comms station. The Lethean's face is unreadable. Perhaps he too is imperturbable, perhaps not.

"On screen." The commander of the raider group appears on the main viewer. "The Feds have arrived ahead of schedule," I say. "Take your ships and depart for Imperial space, now."

The Klingon commander visibly bridles at that. "A single Federation cruiser is no match for the force we have gathered here -"

"The objective was to persuade the Feds that I am on their side. To achieve that, I would now have to open fire on you. Your ships would not survive the resulting encounter, and your death would be pointless. It is never a good day to die pointlessly. Go. Now."

"One Fed cruiser -"

"Is not the enemy today! The threat to the Empire is at Tiaza Zephora! Go now, and I may be able to salvage this situation!"

Kaltak glares at me. "I hope you know what you are doing," he snaps, and cuts the channel.

"Raider wings are coming about," Laska reports. I can see, on the tac display, the Birds of Prey wheeling around. Then energies flash about them as they depart at warp speed.

"Time to weapons range?" I ask.

"Ten minutes."

"Get me the Anar on secure comms. And try hailing that cruiser. The Feds should want to talk, it is a vice of theirs, talking -"

"Anar on screen." Rrueo's face appears.

"Change of plan," I tell her. "You are now mercenary security, hired to protect me."

"Rrueo would love to know her new pay scale," the Ferasan says. If she is concerned about the approaching enemy, she does not show it.

"I will arrange a bank draft on the assets of the House of Sinoom," I tell her.

"Wonderful. Why not throw in some prime beachfront property on Praxis as well?" Rrueo sighs theatrically. "Ah, well. It is not that Rrueo minds doing things purely for love of the ever-glorious Empire. It is just that patriotism pays only just enough to keep Rrueo in food and claw polish."

"I have communication with the Falcon," Nubir interrupts.

I take a deep breath, filling all my lungs, and rap out the K'h'dry-tk'r Sutra with my tongue, focusing my mind, calming me. "On screen. And link in the Anar." Rrueo, with her nose ring and her dangling earrings, her blue fur decorated with only one light stripe across her eyes, looks like a Ferasan mercenary. I am hoping her appearance will be enough to give Starfleet pause.

The screen changes, showing the bridge of the Federation cruiser. In the centre seat is a small, gaunt, pallid human female, dark-haired, with the turret shape of a Borg targeting implant covering her left eye. Beside her sits an Andorian female - I take a second look. Veronika Grau's first officer is an Andorian, but this is not her first officer - the collar insignia, and the scarring on her face, proclaim her to be Shalo's other Starfleet contact, Shohl. So. We are all gathered here, though not quite according to plan.

"Vice Admiral Veronika Grau, call me Ronnie, everyone does," says the gaunt woman. "On my right, Vice Admiral Tylha Shohl. You must be R'j Bl'k' -" she does a surprisingly good rendition of my name "- so who's the big blue pussycat?"

"Rrueo, owner-master of the NFV Anar," snaps Rrueo. "Your presence is not needed here, Starfleet."

"Why is no one ever pleased to see us?" says Grau, and laughs, inexplicably. "Anyway, here we all are... and just what were those Klinks doing, might one respectfully inquire?"

"There is no need for you to know," Rrueo snarls. She seems to be getting into her role as my protector. "Depart. Now."

"Keep your fur on, Buxton," says Grau.

"There is no need for conflict," I say. "Rrueo, stand down. The Anar is here for my protection - a private arrangement."

"And that's enough to scare off two squadrons of Birds of Prey? I'm impressed. Or I would be if I believed it."

I manage a thin smile. "I made another arrangement with the commander of those squadrons. A matter of personal honour - a debt owed by his house." These people are sworn enemies, I remind myself; this is a permitted circumstance.

"OK, so let's leave that," says Grau. "What are you doing in Federation space?"

"If you are here, you know why I am here. Let us not fence with words, Starfleet."

"Perfectly willing to fence with walloping great ray guns instead, you know," says Grau. "I just had this lot installed, I'm absolutely itching to give it all a test run."

"Try it," Rrueo hisses.

"Enough," I say. "Vice Admiral. You must know why I am in disfavour in the Empire. I am attempting to trace the origins of the - power, or entity - that now controls Tiaza Zephora."

"The thing that kicked your occupation force off that planet," says Grau. "You know what? I like it already. So, why don't I stop you bothering it? Few volleys from my forward beam banks should do the trick."

"You are a Starfleet officer," I say. "Starfleet officers are not short-sighted, or foolish. If you know what happened at Tiaza Zephora, you cannot help but be curious.... Let me also point out, I am currently at odds with the Empire over this matter. It would be preferable, from my point of view, for me to return to Qo'noS with a full understanding of this entity and a plan to defeat it. But there are other possibilities - I would be foolish not to entertain them. So, I submit, would you."

"You'd switch sides and take the information to the Federation?" Grau asks. "And what does Buxton there have to say about that?"

I do not know why Grau is giving Rrueo the wrong name. Shalo warned me that Grau's mentation was aberrant.... "Captain Rrueo is loyal to whomever holds her contract," I say.

"Though the Federation is not noted for favourable contract terms," Rrueo mutters.

"Let me also point out that the Tiaza Zephora entity might brush aside a Federation force as easily as it did a KDF one," I say.

"I fear all we have done is to awaken a sleeping giant and fill him with a terrible resolve," says Grau. "OK. Supposing I take your point. You want a temporary alliance to investigate this thing. Am I right?"

"I want to investigate. Your presence is not needed... but I would rather not fight you. So, I offer my services."

"Let me just run through another option, here," says Grau. "How about, I blast you into iron filings, and go to Tiaza Zephora and do some investigating myself? Or, better yet, get some dweeb from Starfleet's science division to do it. They're better at that sort of thing than I am."

I recite another sutra to myself. "You presumably have a transcript of the inquiry into my actions. You do not have the data that my vessel gathered at Tiaza Zephora... you do not have the information, for example, that led me here."

This is, of course, nothing more than a huge bluff. The original plan was to stage a battle at this star system, to have the Feds discover me apparently helpless in a damaged ship... to take me and a selected crew aboard their vessel, and thence to Tiaza Zephora, while the Goroke and the Anar followed under cloak. Kaltak's squadron was to provide convincing-looking warp signatures and other corroborating detail... and Duselva WX was nothing more than a convenient marker for a point that both I and the Federation could reach, given reasonable estimates of travel time. There was no information that led me here.

And I pray to the Eight Protecting Powers that they cannot read that, in my face or my voice.

"Keep talking," says Grau. Shohl has said nothing, yet. Her icy Andorian eyes are watchful. Grau is a grandstander, a braggart - competent, according to Shalo, but loud-mouthed. I fear the one who watches silently more than the one who threatens loudly.

"The positioning of certain landmarks on Tiaza Zephora's surface," I say, "corresponds to some extent with star charts of this location." This is, of course, true. If need be, I can review the geographical data and pick some landmarks to match. Such configurations are easy to find, after the fact. "I noted that our records suggest this dwarf Cepheid variable was not a variable star, perhaps as recently as three thousand years ago." And there must be inaccurate astronomical records I can cite here, too. "The coincidence... demanded investigation. I was about to begin detailed sensor sweeps, when General Kaltak's squadrons created a distraction. Now you are here, also creating a distraction." I glare at the viewscreen. "Let us hope it is not a fatal distraction."

Grau eyes me narrowly. Shohl's stern-featured face gives nothing away. "All right," Grau says. "I don't know yet how much of this I buy, but... all right. Let's meet and review your - evidence. My ship. One hour from now."

"Wait." Shohl speaks for the first time. "Make it eight hours, and we can do it on my ship." Grau turns her head to look at the Andorian. "Nothing personal, Ronnie," Shohl continues, "but I have more telepaths than you in my security teams."

"Point," says Grau. "OK. Eight hours. Then we meet on the King Estmere. Bring Buxton along, if she's house trained."

Rrueo hisses at her. She seems genuinely angry, which I do not often see. Grau's attitude is clearly needling her. "Eight hours," I say. "That is... perhaps... acceptable."

"Don't imagine for one second that we're dropping our targeting locks on the pair of you during that time," Grau says.

"You wish to take precautions. That is understandable. But do not let your caution get in the way of your good sense." That seems a good line to close on, so I turn to Nubir and snap, "Screen off."

"Shall I review the sensor data for our... evidence?" Laska asks dryly.

"I will attend to the matter. Tt't'tt'-ll'kkkyhhhi-krrr'rr." The translator says "[unpronounceable Mlkwbrian epithet]" again. Some day I must get that fixed. I stalk out of the globular shield that surrounds the command deck. "I will be in my chambers. Eight hours. I will find something to convince them with, in eight hours."

---

The room just off the bridge is... sparsely appointed. I do not know what the Elachi used it for - nothing good, I suspect. I use it as a private chamber, a place for thought, for planning.

Also, it houses my collection.

I have more than a hundred different game boards, from dozens of different cultures. I sit down at my desk and consider the ones I have placed on it today. The triangular klin zha board is set with the parti-coloured pieces for the Reflective Game, but I have no time for that now.

Beside it is a circular board, marked out in concentric rings and sectors in alternating grey and gold, with a black disc at the centre. The Andorian game, thev lin, the eighteen game pieces set around the outermost ring in the classic th'Varnis opening. Andorians.... The objective is to advance the pieces from the rim to the centre, scoring according to the value of each piece that reaches home. Some pieces have more freedom of movement than others, can reach that goal in a few moves - but the scoring value is inverted; the more mobile and powerful the piece, the fewer points it is worth when it reaches the centre. So, thev lin is a game of chivalry and self-abnegation, the strong protecting the weak, as all strive to a common end. A very apt game for a people who see themselves as ethical warriors.

The third board is plain and rectangular, white with black grid lines. The pieces are flat, blunt at one end, pointed at the other. They are marked individually with ideograms, done in delicate and beautiful calligraphy. This game is called shogi; one of many human games which fight an abstract formal war. This one, though, has an interesting variation.

I pick up one of the pieces. The ideogram on its flat surface tells me what it is, what its value and its powers are. What is not indicated... is which player it belongs to. In shogi, a piece that is captured from one side may be returned to the board - on the side of the player who captured it. Unlike chess or klin zha or thev lin, the pieces in shogi have no loyalties. Their opponent is - whoever their pointed ends point towards.

If thev lin is a game of chivalry, shogi is a game for opportunists, mercenaries, and turncoats.

I hold the piece between my fingers, and I wonder which way any of us will be facing, when this game plays out.

Claws 4

Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere, NCC-92984

Ronnie comes back onto the bridge, and stops dead in the turbolift door, staring at the screen.
 
"Hello, Ronnie," says Shalo, from the viewscreen. "Or would you prefer Vice Admiral Grau?"

"Ronnie's fine," Ronnie mutters. "Everyone calls me Ronnie."

Shalo smiles. She looks sleek and glossy and supernaturally beautiful, as she always did while we were hunting the Klingon renegade Klur after the massacre at Bercera IV. Of course, during that time, I saw her smiling just as sweetly as she cut a junior officer's head off. Ronnie and I worked with her... I hope that doesn't mean we'd make the mistake of trusting her.

"So to what do we owe the honour?" Ronnie walks over to the command chair and sits down with exaggerated nonchalance.

"Obviously, I need Starfleet's help," says Shalo.

"Obviously," I say, "we have a small problem with that."

"The circumstances are unusual," Shalo says, unperturbed. "They were unusual the last time we cooperated.... This time, we have a chance to contain a rogue officer before they do anything... dramatic. I hope that Starfleet will take that chance."

Ronnie and I exchange glances. "Keep talking," I say.

"Thank you. Some weeks ago, a KDF force attempted to secure a military position on the planet Tiaza Zephora. This was believed to be a primitive agricultural world - we discovered, somewhat too late, that it is under the protection of some powerful entity. I believe there have been similar incidents in Federation space - the case of the Edo springs to mind, for instance."

"Let me guess," says Ronnie. "This didn't end well for your mob?"

"Casualties were inflicted. The surviving ranking officer ordered a retreat. I am transmitting a recording of her subsequent court martial -"

"Il est bon de tuer de temps en temps un amiral pour encourager les autres," says Ronnie incomprehensibly.

"There seems to be a problem with the universal translator," says Shalo. Ronnie smirks. "In any case, the officer in question - a mercenary commander named R'j Bl'k' - was cleared of the charge of cowardice. As you will see from the recording, though, she has developed something of an obsession with the - presumed entity - at Tiaza Zephora."

"So what's this got to do with us?" I demand.

"R'j Bl'k' has taken her ship across the border into Federation space," Shalo says. "Her objective appears to be the star system Duselva WX in the Eta Eridani sector. I am unsure as to her reasoning - possibly she believes that system to be connected in some way to the entity at Tiaza Zephora. However, she is operating outside the High Council's authorization... and, although we are still at war, no one wants a repetition of the events of Bercera IV. It is best if this officer is... intercepted and neutralized."

"So intercept her," I say.

"We cannot commit sufficient forces to be sure of that without provoking a response from Starfleet. Our commanders are, naturally, not averse to battle - but, in the ensuing confusion, it would be too easy for Bl'k' to slip away and accomplish - whatever she has in mind. Obviously, from our point of view, the best solution would be to arrange for a KDF task force to enter Federation space and proceed unimpeded about the task." Shalo examines her fingernails. "I suspect you might raise some objection to this approach. Hence, this compromise."

"You give us the information, and we take down this - character - for you," I say.

"It is in everyone's interests," Shalo says. "Whatever Bl'k' has planned, it is likely to be an embarrassment for the KDF and a danger to the Federation. We do not wish to be embarrassed."

"How dangerous is this Madame Unpronounceable?" asks Ronnie.

"Oh," says Shalo, "your combined firepower will prove more than a match for her, I can be quite sure of that."

"Why not alert the Federation Council by normal channels?" I demand.

"And concede in public that one of our officers has gone rogue? Far better to arrange things... informally. Of course, you can tell anyone you like about this conversation." Shalo examines her fingernails again. "It will be disavowed, officially, of course, but you can tell whoever you like."

"Duselva WX," Ronnie says thoughtfully. "Don't know it...."

"It will take you some time to reach it, no doubt," says Shalo. "I can only hope that you decide to act - and act in time." She looks at something off the screen. "I must go. I am transmitting an encrypted subspace frequency signature to you - use it to let me know, please, whatever you decide. Shalo out." The screen goes dark.

Ronnie and I exchange glances. "She's up to something," I say.

"Well, yeah, duh," says Ronnie. "Trouble is... this is one of those situations, isn't it? Where you have to take the bait, to find out why you're being baited. Jhemyl, where the hell is Duselva WX, anyway?"

Jhemyl rattles off a burst of galactic coordinates. "Huh," Ronnie says. "Easily a week's cruise in this old bucket...."

"King Estmere could make the trip faster, then," I say.

"Yeah," says Ronnie, "yeah... hold on, though." She starts tapping at her command console, the Borg metal on her fingertips rattling against the panel. "Oh yeah."

"What?"

"Transwarp gateway. Duselva WX is within range of a secondary hub on the network. Forget a week's travel, the Falcon could be there inside six hours."

She sounds enthusiastic, all of a sudden. "Do you think we should?" I ask.

"Shalo can't be expecting us there that fast. We can scope out the lay of the land before Madame Unpronounceable turns up, even. Let's set it up. Tallasa - oh damn. Still on her hot date with Ysrip." I swear she pouts for a moment. "Tylha, would you mind taking the XO slot? It's getting so's I can't think without a pair of reproachful antennae in that seat."

Something tells me Ronnie's made her mind up. "All right," I say, "but let me pass a message on to King Estmere, first."

"Right. Right. Good idea. They can come in and back us up. And maybe bring Tallasa and Ysrip with them. Face-ache, umm, I mean Mr. Madena. Do the business, will you?"

While Ronnie's hapless comms officer is putting through the calls to King Estmere, I settle into the exec's seat and start work on the console. Ronnie's first officer has everything set up neatly, tactical systems, shipboard organization, all the details that a good exec should have at their fingertips. Of course, Ronnie would be bound to have a good exec. Ronnie desperately needs a good exec.

I tie the console in to my earpiece and start work, calling up the automated sequence to hail Spacedock traffic control and get departure clearance. Somewhat to my surprise, a "hold" icon starts flashing on the panel, and then a human male voice speaks in my earpiece. "USS Falcon?"

"Yes," I say.

"Requesting departure clearance?" the voice continues.

"Urgent clearance for a transwarp departure to the Eta Eridani sector, coordinates as transmitted." I check the console - I've got the coordinates right.

"Hold, please," says the voice. "Transferring you to Commander Maxwell."

There is a brief pause, and then another human male voice speaks to me. "USS Falcon? Requesting departure clearance?" Commander Maxwell, presumably. He sounds nervous.

"That's correct, Traffic Control," I say crisply. "What's the hold-up?"

"Ah," says Maxwell. "No... no problem, Falcon. We have you under observation, and we have a departure slot held for you... we always do, it's just.... You're requesting departure clearance."

"Yes," I say, as patiently as I can.

"It's just... you're requesting departure clearance. Is Vice Admiral Grau ill?"

I look at Ronnie, who quirks her one eyebrow at me. I explain. "Oh, right, yeah," she says. "Traffic control. I always take a sort of Jesuit view with departure clearances." She laughs.

"Jesuit view?" I ask.

"Easier to obtain forgiveness than permission. Right. Here we go then. Cast off, single up all lines, splice the mainbrace, all that good stuff." That leaves me to go through all the actual preparations to depart. From the helm, Jhemyl shoots me a sympathetic glance.

Still, it doesn't take long before Ronnie can lean back in her command chair and say, "All righty, then. Punch it."

And we're away.

---

The journey from the transwarp point to Duselva WX, as Ronnie expected, takes only a few hours. Along the way, we have time to sit down in Ronnie's ready room and review the data Shalo transmitted, including the recording of the court martial.

"Oh," I say, as we see the tall green-skinned woman take her place on the trial floor, "that explains the name. She's a Mlkwbrian."

Ronnie pauses the recording and stares at me. "A which-what-how-now?"

"Mlkwbrian. I remember reading about them in my linguistics classes. They have a weird vocal tract, they're an extreme edge case in phonetics terms. Continuous circular breathing through those tubules at the angle of the jaw - they find vowel sounds hard to produce, but they have super complicated tongues and palates, so they can manage a whole range of different complex consonants...."

"Sounds fascinating," says Ronnie in an utterly not-fascinated way. "Do you remember anything else about these Mulk... Mul-uk.... umm, Two of Twelve says they're species 10118, so I'm going to call them that, OK?"

"I'm trying to think." I study the image on the screen. "Those funny silvery eyes, that's because of a polarization-sensitive coating on the cornea. They have independent depth perception in each eye, and can move them individually. See the two weapon holsters?" The Klingons took R'j Bl'k's weapons before putting her on trial - obviously. "For you and me, dual pistols would just be for show - but she can hold two weapons and aim them both."

"Worth bearing in mind," says Ronnie grudgingly. "Anything else?"

"They're darn near impossible to strangle - you can close off all the respiratory tubules in their throats, but it's quicker and easier just to break their necks. Some of them have a limited psychokinetic ability - nothing sophisticated, they can just generate a sort of push. Culturally and galactographically, they're pretty much from the heart of Klingon territory - I think their home system is Phi Leonis in Earth astrography, and they have a highly structured society, ritualistic and militaristic. They assimilated into the Empire pretty seamlessly about three hundred years ago."

"Round about when militarism was getting fashionable in Klingon society," Ronnie comments.

"I thought they'd been warriors since, well, always?"

"They've always had a warrior caste. It got to be fashionable shortly before I was born... trouble is, of course, a warrior caste tends to resist going out of fashion. With guns." Ronnie shakes her head. "Explains a lot, doesn't it? Not so much the politics and the expansionism, but the - the posturing. All that emphasis on death and glory. The leather, the machismo... the relentless, unremitting opera...."

"Let's see how this played out," I say, and Ronnie starts the playback again.

We watch in silence as the grim-faced alien defends herself against the ranting prosecutor. "Now that guy was a poser, all right," says Ronnie, once it ends.

"Ch'Gror?"

"Typical Klingon armchair warrior. The chickenhawk tendency's one of the worst things about Klink politics. I suppose the Federation's got its own equivalent, mind... the hippy-dippy pacifist camp, the guys with the high ideals and no practicality."

"People like my parents?" I comment.

Ronnie looks at me. "Were they hippies? I didn't know Andorians had any."

"They had high ideals. It didn't count for much when the Nausicaans hit us... they had disruptors."

Ronnie nods. "Anyway," she says, "returning to the present... anything strike you about that lot?"

"For a Mlkwbrian, she sounded... pretty reasonable, on the whole."

"Yeah. Made more sense than I do, most days.... What was that Adept of the Seven whatsits bit about, do you know?"

"Oh, these quasi-religious sects run all through Mlkwbrian society... she's probably a member of half a dozen of them. Like I said, they're highly ritualistic."

"Things you kids learn in school these days," Ronnie mutters.

"Well, didn't you take any electives at the Academy?"

"Didn't really have Starfleet Academy in my day, not like it is now.... Anyway." Ronnie scratches at the skin around her Borg targeting implant. "This all seems very iffy to me."

"There has got to be something Shalo isn't telling us," I say. "And I don't know why she's let slip some of the stuff she has told us - the strategic position of Tiaza Zephora, for instance. Or the whole business with the - protecting entity, come to that."

"Yeah," says Ronnie, vaguely. "Yeah, we know this thing's kicked a Klink occupying force off its planet, right? So, logical assumption, we'd want to talk to it, persuade it to do a bit more of that kicking on our behalf. So...." She shakes her head. "There's little stuff that doesn't add up, too. Duselva WX, where the hell does that figure in? And the way the Klink carriers blew up - fifty kellicams is a lot closer than I'd let off an antimatter explosion, if I was protecting whatever was fifty kellicams away."

"Maybe - whatever it is - couldn't manage a longer range," I say.

"Yeah. Maybe. No." Ronnie shakes her head. "Then why didn't it use its other trick? Whatever wiped out the Klink ground troops, with no explosions at all?"

"We don't know enough to say."

"We need more information," says Ronnie. "And, like I said, the only way to get it is to take Shalo's bait. Dammit."

The intercom on Ronnie's desk chimes. "Sir," says Jhemyl's voice, "we have dropped out of warp at the edge of the Duselva WX star system."

"Right," says Ronnie. "Anything on scan yet?"

"Total of eight ships at extreme long range of tactical scan," says Jhemyl. "One energy signature possibly consistent with a Monbosh battleship... the others appear to be Klingon Birds of Prey, and one Nausicaan, possibly a Guramba-class destroyer."

"Anybody shooting at anything? At us? At each other?"

"No weapons activity," says Jhemyl.

"Curiouser and curiouser." Ronnie stands up. "No weapons activity? Well, at least I can fix that."