Claws 30

Ronnie

*/*almost there---
soon, very soon---*/*

The last line is in sight.
  
We've been plodding through space for what seems like eternity, slowly creeping along the path on this damned game board. After that one attack, there has been little or no sign of our... opponent; at one point, we had a distant sensor contact, and R'j launched a volley of subspace torpedoes at it, and after that... nothing.

And now we're coming up on the curving line that marks the inmost edge of the board, and beyond it is the safety, supposedly, of the dark centre, and I have no idea what comes next.

*/*end of the game---
pieces get taken off the game board---
put back in the box---*/*

Well, that sounds encouraging, thanks a whole heap. I stare at the viewscreen, trying to make out something - anything. A box would be good, even. A box would be something, at least.

"Middle of an Andorian chess board is just a black space, right?" I say.

"Thev lin," says Tallasa, "and yes."

I grunt. "Well, I suppose it's consistent...." Then something catches my eye, and I mutter to myself, "Maybe not," and lean forward to peer more intently at the screen.

In the distance, way past the rim of the game board, unknown stars are shining... but, in the empty space at its centre, there are other lights, slowly brightening. Dim, translucent, glowing falls of light, like an aurora frozen in the sky. As the Falcon crawls across the last line, they brighten into a complex labyrinth of light, filling the board's black centre, extending up and down... I don't know how far, I can't see.

"Well, that's different, anyway," I say. "Saval, get me a scan on that. And all stop, I'm not going any further until I know what it is."

"Sir?" Saval sounds puzzled. Vulcans don't often sound puzzled. I'm sure they often are, they just don't like to admit it.

"On the screen. Let me know what it is."

"There's nothing on the screen, sir," says Tallasa.

Now, that is enough to make me stop and stare at her. Then I glance quickly at Saval. He is doing the Vulcan eyebrow thing in my general direction. Puzzled, definitely puzzled, possibly with an option on bemused. And I know just how he feels. "You can't see that?" I ask Tallasa.

"I see the... board," says Tallasa. "And the stars. Sir, what can you see?" Her humour her and make no sudden movements voice is on.

"Uh," I say. "I'm seeing, um, a sort of...." I'm at a loss for how to describe it. "A sort of, um, like a column of lights. Or maybe a three-D maze. Sort of thing. All... flows of light. Curtains." I make vague gestures, trying to trace out the patterns I see on the screen -

- and listening to Leo Madena, who is saying very quietly, "Medical to the bridge, please, urgent."

*/*oh boy are you in trouble now---*/*

Can it, you.

Then I look around and realize I've done the out-loud voice thing again, which has really not helped the situation one little bit. Saval is standing up, and he is flexing the fingers of his right hand in a particular way, that suggests I'm going to get my neck pinched if I don't behave. Tallasa is standing, too, and her expression is troubled.

"Not you," I explain. "Two of Twelve is playing up, you know about that. But Two of Twelve is an auditory thing - I don't get visual hallucinations, you know that, too -"

"You haven't before, sir," says Tallasa.

"Look. I don't know what's going on here, but I'm sure I'm seeing what I'm seeing. All about me, remember? Q told us?"

"Q told you, sir," says Tallasa. And of course there was no one else in the ready room at the time. Oh, God, I do not need this right now.

The turbolift doors hiss open, and Zodiri comes in, tricorder in one hand and hypospray in the other. "Look, dammit," I say plaintively, "can we just consider the possibility that something is going on, here, before we strap me into a canvas jacket? Something weird? Something else weird, that is, because we have had plenty of weird already today?"

*/*keep talking---*/*

"She's seeing something on the screen," Tallasa says.

"Yeah," I say, "on the screen. If it was a hallucination, wouldn't it, I dunno, leak out around the edges or something?"

"How long since you last slept?" Zodiri asks, as she waves her tricorder in the direction of my head.

"I dunno. A while."

"Forty-two hours," says Tallasa. Well, she would probably know.

Zodiri grunts. "Be bloody peculiar if she wasn't hallucinating by now," she says. "But it's the usual story... her Borg implants are regulating her brainwaves and filtering her blood for fatigue toxins, so it's only when they give out that she's got real problems...."

"Any abnormal brain activity?" Tallasa asks.

"Well, of course there is," says Zodiri. "I'm not seeing anything worse than usual, though. Checking her visual cortex now."

"I'm right here, you know," I say pettishly. "I'm in the room."

"Funny spikes in the hypercomplex cells," says Zodiri. "Hmm...."

"Sir," says Tallasa, "if it is necessary to relieve you on medical grounds -"

"Don't know about that." Zodiri taps the harmless end of the hypospray against her teeth. She is evidently thinking things over. "It's possible.... What we see is largely a product of the visual cortex, it's the bit that handles all the processing. It's possible that her altered brain is processing something - some subtle cue, or some such - that the rest of us can't register."

A grouch, but a fair-minded grouch. "On the basis that I'm not off my head," I say loudly, "can we check this thing out, somehow?"

"How?" asks Tallasa. Good question. Damn it.

"I don't know," I say. "The Northern Lights are in my mind, they guide me back to you. Saval, can you, I dunno, run some multi-spectral scans or something, see if anything matches up with... whatever I'm seeing...."

"How can we know, sir?" Oh, Tallasa is just full of good questions today.

*/*need a clue?---
bottom right---
top left---*/*

I don't trust Two of Twelve when she's like this, but I look anyway. The sweeping immaterial curtains of light are taking on a more definite shape, now - to me, at least - and as I peer closely at the screen, I can make out something -

"Saval, scan grid coordinates.... three four eight by two seven niner. One degree radius."

There is something. Some kind of... discontinuity... in the star field. As if one tiny disc is showing a different shade of black.

"I am registering -" Saval quirks his eyebrow. "A spatial discontinuity at those coordinates. And beyond it, there appears to be... a different star field in view." He blinks. "I have a possible match."

"Signal from the Goroke, sir," says Leo Madena.

"Stall her. This might be important." I look at the other corner of the screen, now. It's as if... the curtains of light form a loosely wrapped cylinder, and one end of it is in the spatial discontinuity, so the other end must be - where?

And why can't anyone else see this?

*/*you must just be lucky I guess*/*

"Confirmed," says Saval. "There is a recognizable asterism beyond the discontinuity. Stellar cartography databases place it in the Delta Quadrant, some four thousand light years past the current location of the Jenolan Dyson Sphere. I am correlating with records from the USS Voyager."

"The Delta Quadrant," says Tallasa. "Not exactly home, but -"

"Scan another sector," I say. "One five by three zero. Same radius."

"Sir," says Leo, "Goroke is pressing us for a reply."

"Oh, lord. All right. Put her through."

The image in the viewer fades out, to be replaced by the charmless green face of R'j Bl'k'. "We were wondering," she says with an air of barely restrained impatience, "what suggestions you might have for our next step. Since we appear to have arrived at the end of the game -"

"And the prize is a free trip to the Delta Quadrant. Apparently." I fill her in. "So, one end of this thing is rooted in a gateway to the Delta Quadrant, and the other - Saval?"

"There is another spatial discontinuity at those coordinates," Saval says. "I am not able to determine its location."

"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "So. It seems we have a choice. I am cutting in Commanders Vihl and Oschmann on this channel - we should discuss this."

"There's nothing to discuss," says Tallasa firmly. "We have a way back - all right, a way back to the Delta Quadrant, but it's a way out of this situation, and in my judgment we should take it. Sir."

"Wait, though," I say. I'm trying to think. "What about the other one? The other end?"

"We don't know where it leads, sir," says Tallasa.

"It leads deeper into the mystery," says R'j. "S-s-s-s-s. Our opponent, it seems, is challenging us. Do we take the consolation prize, of a journey to the hinterlands of our own galaxy, or -?"

"Right. Right. Makes sense."

"We have to consider the safety of our ships and our crews." Anthi Vihl's voice, over the comms link. Good traditional Andorian military thinking.

"Yes, but -" Aha, thinks little Ronnie to herself, I have a lever I can use here. "Taking the exit to the Delta Quadrant means we have no chance of getting back to Tiaza Zephora in any reasonable time frame. Effectively, it means abandoning the teams on the planet." Including Tylha Shohl. Willing to take that chance, oh love-smitten Andorian zhen?

"It is a valid point," says R'j. "Besides... fleeing from the situation does not resolve it. It is my judgment that we should seek the next step in this... puzzle."

"Right. Yeah. Me too. And I guess, since we're the senior officers here, what we say goes, yeah?"

"That is certainly the normal procedure in the KDF. Starfleet may be more lax."

"Duly noted," says Tallasa. "Sir, should we follow - whatever it is you see on the screen? Or just drive straight for the discontinuity?"

"I've had enough of scenic routes," I say, slumping down into the command chair. "Drive on, and don't spare the horses."

---

Time passes, and I fret. Zodiri comes up beside me with that hypospray, and I look sidelong at her, and she eventually thinks better of it and puts the thing away. I turn to look at Leo. "'Medical to the bridge'," I quote at him. He cringes.

"Sorry, sir."

"So you should be. Put it on a console button, next time, one you can just press quietly without alerting me. There's no point asking for trouble."

"Uh." He looks confused. "Uh, yes, sir."

I turn back to the viewscreen. The light show is getting brighter - to me - as we approach the hole in space. I should sit back and enjoy it, maybe. Not everyone gets a whole aurora for their own private entertainment. Not without better hallucinogens than I can afford, anyway.

"Can you see anything through that hole, yet?" I ask.

"Continuing to scan," says Saval. "I have possible mass signatures. To be detectable at this range, I suspect the body or bodies in question would have to be very massive - on a planetary scale, perhaps."

"Well, we lost a planet, didn't we? Maybe we can find it again."

At least Falcon is taking the lead, on this one. R'j could outrun me, but since I'm the one who can see... stuff... she is content to follow me in. The Goroke is keeping pace with me, a few kilometres off my starboard bow, with King Estmere maintaining a similar position on the port side. The Anar is hanging back a little behind us. The siege destroyer could, actually, outpace all three of the heavier ships, but she took a fair bit of damage during the fight, earlier, and I can't blame Oschmann for being cautious. She will have some explaining to do, anyway, once she hands the ship back to Rrueo.

"Approaching the discontinuity, sir," says Jhemyl from the helm. Well, I can see that.

There is something on the screen, beyond the veils of light. Something big, and black, and dully gleaming....

"Contact with the discontinuity in three... two... one... now," says Jhemyl. I don't feel anything. Not even a shudder. But the lights are all behind me, now, and I can see -

I swallow, hard. "Child Ronnie to the dark tower came," I whisper.

It hangs there against a dim background of distant stars, and it is vast, vast. I've seen the Vault at Haakona, but that was nothing to this thing. It is made of something like black basalt, except there can't be that much basalt in all creation, and it rears up against the stars like, like - I don't have words for it.

"Scanning," says Saval. "The structure appears to be somewhat over two hundred thousand kilometres long, roughly cylindrical, with a diameter of some seventy thousand kilometres. Albedo and surface characteristics consistent with... worked stone. Obviously, that is not possible. Attempting further analysis -"

"Are those doors?" asks Tallasa.

"Oh, boy," I say. They are, indeed. There is a sort of gatehouse at the base, and it has doors, doors made of black iron, vast doors. "All stop," I order.

"Sir?"

I gesture irritably at the screen. "Remember that prophecy thing? The gates of Gre'thor? There's certainly room in that thing for Klingon Hell, and I am not opening it up if I can possibly avoid it."

The gateway continues to grow on the screen. "All stop," I snap irritably.

"All engines stopped," Jhemyl reports. "Thrusters at station keeping."

"But we're still getting closer." I don't like this. "Reverse impulse. Back us away a bit."

"Reverse impulse," Jhemyl confirms. She taps at the helm console, then taps again, harder. Her antennae droop. "Sir, helm is not responding."

No wonder she's wilting, this keeps on happening to her. My mind is racing, my mouth is dry. "It wants us here. It's bringing us in." For an instant, I shy away from the unwelcome conclusion.

"Confirmed," says Saval. "We are continuing to drift towards the object. Impact in twenty-three minutes, if current course and speed are held."

"And the gates of Gre'thor will open, and everything will change." I stand up. "Don't think so. Not on my watch, anyway. Leo, signal the Goroke."

I don't want to do this. I don't want to do this at all. But Q said it was all about me, and I don't see any other way out.

R'j's face appears on the viewer. "Got a job for you," I tell her. "Don't worry, you're going to love it."

"Yes?" She doesn't sound convinced.

"The Falcon's being carried towards that thing, somehow. Well, that's what it looks like, but I think the point is, I'm being carried towards it. And I'm supposed to open the gates of Gre'thor, right? I'm guessing that would be bad."

R'j says nothing, but there is a look in her silvery eyes which tells me she knows where I'm going with this.

"So I'm taking a shuttlecraft out of here," I say. "I'm going to take it about four kilometres ahead of the Falcon, and -" I swallow, hard. "Once I'm there, I want you to lock all your weapons on the shuttlecraft and open fire. Don't stop until it's completely destroyed."

Claws 29

Tylha

I'm not sure I've ever ridden on an animal that wasn't holographic. I try not to let any disquiet show, though, as we head out of the steadhold and towards the hills.

In any case, the riding beast is quiet, biddable, obedient. I mention this to Rrueo as we start up the slope.

"Naturally," she says. "Rrueo is applying a mind-hold to the creatures. Rrueo should have thought to do this yesterday - it might have avoided some difficulties."
  
"You can do that?"

"To animals." The Ferasan's jade-green eyes narrow. "And it requires concentration."

So I keep quiet, and ride, climbing the hill at a gentle pace. Mentally, I review our resources. Field rations for three days, water... the crossbows and mek'leths hanging by our saddles... and very little else. No phasers, no disruptors - not even tricorders. We don't want to carry power sources that might be turned against us. I was dubious, even, about wearing my combadge - but it seems a necessary risk. We need communications....

And our main asset.... We have doused ourselves liberally with the sweet-smelling black stuff; my hair feels matted with it, and the smell is strong in my nostrils. What it must be like to Rrueo's more sensitive nose, I can't imagine. More of the stuff gurgles in flasks carried in our saddlebags. If it is a weapon... if it is an effective weapon... we have enough of it. I think.

We reach the crest of the first hill, and I rein my riding beast to a halt. Rrueo stops beside me, and we both stare.

"That was not there yesterday," Rrueo says, eventually.

The tower stands there, black against the horizon. I shade my eyes, trying to gauge size and distance. It is perhaps sixty or seventy metres in height, perhaps a third as wide, fashioned of some black stone. There is what appears to be a gatehouse protruding from the base....

"Well," I say, "it's there now. Let's get to it." I apply my heels to my mount's flank, and it moves forward at a slow walk. Rrueo follows suit, a moment later.

"I suppose we're lucky to have picked this spot," I mutter, more to myself than to my companion. But she answers anyway.

"Several possibilities have occurred to Rrueo. One is, simply enough, that Dahar Master Juregh chose correctly when he identified the largest settlement he could as the planetary capital. The steadhold is not particularly prestigious, but it was the best that he could find. Another possibility is that the tower moves, or that there are many towers, which retract into the ground when not required. That would be partly consistent with what we have seen. Another possibility...."

"Yes?"

"Is one which Rrueo does not like. That we are at the overlord's tower because we have been - manipulated here. It would be a formidable job of manipulation - to fetch us all here, to this point in time and space, would require the management of many factors. You are here because Shalo chose you and Grau as a known quantity to deal with - that required that you and she should meet at Bercera IV, which in turn required that that atrocity should take place. The chain of causality is long and far-fetched - but Rrueo worries that it might not be beyond the ability of the sleeping giant to manage it."

"And that bothers you," I say.

"On many levels. Firstly, the power and intelligence of our adversary, thus revealed, is frightening in itself. Secondly -" Rrueo's mouth twists in a snarl, revealing her fangs. "Rrueo has no wish to be a pawn," she spits. "Rrueo is not a beast to be controlled -"

"Like these riding beasts?"

"Ach! These beasts - they are a case in point. Rrueo is no longer exerting her mental control. The habit of obedience is already inculcated in them, now. Just as the sleeping giant has made the inhabitants of Tiaza Zephora obedient to its will. As a matter of habit." She shoots a sidelong glance at me. "That bothers you as much as it does Rrueo, admit it."

"You know it does. Sentient beings shouldn't be - domestic animals."

"Rrueo is aware of Federation notions of freedom and self-determination. The Empire, too, has such notions - perhaps differently expressed, but they are there. Imperial citizens are free to seek out their own honour. These are not."

"The Empire imposes a number of restrictions the Federation doesn't, though," I point out.

"The Federation has its own forms of conformity. Do not attempt to deny it, you will only look foolish."

"Maybe. I don't think any of us sees the Empire as a simple despotism, anyway." It's my turn to shoot a glance at her. "Why are you a part of it, though? Do you believe in the Imperial ideals? Whatever they are?"

"Honour, glory, personal achievement - yes, these things drive Rrueo, they always have. The Empire provides a context in which they have meaning."

"You could have honour, achievement - even glory - in the Federation."

"Rrueo does not doubt it. Rrueo knows her own capabilities. But Rrueo was born Ferasan, and has no desire to change."

"Very Ferasan," I comment. The tower is getting closer. It is only my imagination, though, that makes it loom. "Even to referring to yourself in the third person...."

"It is not a universal habit of speech in Ferasan culture," says Rrueo. "It is, however, Rrueo's habit."

"Well, no culture is monolithic," I say. "You don't see me calling myself sh'Shohl, for example. That always struck me as a silly affectation."

"Useful, for those of us less able to discern Andorian gender."

"Anyone who can't tell the difference between a shen and a zhen, in my book, doesn't need to know." Are we talking about this because we don't want to talk about the tower, that grows closer with every pace our mounts take?

"Rrueo earned her name," Rrueo says. "I earned my name, if you would prefer it. Rrueo chooses to remind people of that. What name have you earned, Tylha Shohl?"

"Different culture. I was given my name. I earn... whatever it means." I look up at the top of the tower. It is ringed with crenellations like some mediaeval fortress. The gateway in the base is clearly distinguishable, now; a square structure with doors of what seems to be black iron, graven with abstract designs. "When people say my name... I want them to think well of it. I want it to mean something... honourable."

"You come from a warrior culture. Rrueo suspects there is less between you and the Klingons than you believe."

"We were a warrior culture."

Rrueo sniffs. "Rrueo has never yet heard of Andorian pacifists."

"My parents were."

"Really?" She looks genuinely surprised at that. "Rrueo fears you must be a disappointment to them."

"I'd prefer to live in peace. But I can fight."

Rrueo eyes the tower. "You may have to."

---

Nothing moves as we make our final approach to the tower. There is no sound of bird or beast in the wilderness; the only movement is ours, the only sound the hoofbeats of our mounts, the jingling and clattering of our riding harness. The tower stands there, dark and monolithic. It has no windows, and nothing moves at its top.

I frown as we reach the base. Rrueo's idea, that the thing retracts into the ground, isn't borne out by the state of the ground around it. There is no sign of disturbance. It looks as though the tower has always been there.

"Close enough," Rrueo says. "We should dismount."

I swing myself out of the saddle, becoming suddenly conscious of an ache in my thighs as I do. "What about the beasts?"

Rrueo rummages in her saddlebag, produces a thick wooden stake, sharpened at one end. She drives it into the ground with one fluid, powerful motion. I'm reminded of the wiry strength of those Ferasan muscles. "We will tether them. They will not stray - and enough of the compound clings to them that they should be safe."

I take my crossbow from the saddle, hang a mek'leth from my belt. The weight of the clumsy weapon on my hip is a slight reassurance. "Well. What do we do now?"

"Rrueo does not see a doorbell. Perhaps we should knock."

I take one step towards the door, then glance back at Rrueo. She seems irresolute, scratching one ear and frowning. "Rrueo is wondering whether it might be better to wait for nightfall," she says. "The sleeping giant appears, from what we know so far, to be nocturnal...."

"What? Oh, come on," I protest. "It can't be. Your carriers were destroyed on the planet's day side - and the rotation of this world can't be a factor in whatever it was it did at Duselva WX -"

"Probably you are right. Rrueo is just finding excuses." She squares her shoulders. "Rrueo freely confesses that she does not want to go through that door."

"Neither do I. But we're short on alternatives." I take a deep breath, and another step forward -

There is a faint grinding noise as the iron doors open, swinging inwards. Beyond them, I see very little - empty space, a roughly paved stone floor -

"I don't know if that's a welcome or not."

I take another cautious step forwards. It is dark in there, but I'm Andorian, I don't necessarily need light. My antennae twitch in anticipation. I hear Rrueo move behind me, following, just as slowly and cautiously as I'm moving myself. The entrance gapes in front of me. Darkness, and stone, and - something else.

"There's someone there."

"No," says Rrueo. "Not someone."

I move forwards again, and the dark shape comes into focus. It is as Rrueo described the overlord's servitors: a squat, humanoid figure in a cowled cloak. It stands impassively in the shadows beyond the open doorway. I nerve myself to take another step.

"Hello? Can you hear me? Can you understand me?"

It gives no sign. I take another step.

The claws extend from its arms with a soft, organic hissing sound. They glint in the dim light. Two monstrous blades, the length of my forearm, protruding from each arm. The creature makes no other movement.

Then there is another noise. Despite what you see in various cultures' adventure movies, bows and crossbows don't make any juddering, twanging, or whooshing noises. There is just a thump as the tension releases in the bow, and an answering thump as the bolt strikes the target -

The servitor staggers, and the whole surface of its body ripples, like water coming to the boil. It stands there, shimmering, for an instant or two, and then, suddenly, it is gone, as if it had never been. There is a clatter as Rrueo's crossbow bolt falls to the stone floor.

I turn to confront her. She is already working the lever to span the bow. "It wasn't making any hostile moves -"

"Those claws looked hostile to Rrueo." She slots another bolt into place.

"If you're right, it couldn't have harmed me -"

"It certainly cannot now. Besides, we needed to know." She gazes at me levelly. "It was not a living creature to begin with. Rrueo would know. Even if its mind was shielded, Rrueo would know."

There seems no point in arguing. I walk into the tower, over the spot where the - creature - stood. There is no trace of it. The crossbow bolt, black and gleaming with the chiral compound, lies on the stone floor.

I look around. The interior of the tower seems to be hollow; the walls rise up and up until they are lost in gloom above me. Ahead of me, though, there is a long rectangular gap in the stonework of the floor. I step forwards. Stairs, many of them, going down. I narrow my eyes. Is there a faint glow, coming from somewhere below?

"Only one way, then," Rrueo comments, and her voice echoes in the vast stone enclosure. She stoops to pick up the crossbow bolt from the floor. Then she squats down, and studies the stone pavement intently.

"What's the matter?" I ask.

"Perhaps nothing," says Rrueo. She stands up. "Well. Let us take the only path available, then."

We start off, down the stairs. My antennae are tingling, reading the air currents, tasting the feel of the space about me. There is a light, somewhere below, I decide. A dim, bluish light, coming from somewhere... somewhere far, far down. The stairway turns, forming a wide spiral, and I have the distinct impression that it goes deep.

We make one slow, careful circuit, and are about to continue, when Rrueo stops and turns. She looks upwards, and makes a savage spitting, growling noise which I think must be a Ferasan curse.

"What is it?" I ask.

Rrueo curses again. "Rrueo wondered when she picked up the bolt... but said nothing. If your eyes cannot cope with the darkness -"

"They can. Up to a point."

"Look closely, then. Here." Her clawed finger stabs out. I kneel and inspect the stone step, where she's pointing.

At first, I see nothing, but my eyes are still adjusting to the dimness. Then, I make it out. There is a slight but distinct impression upon the smooth surface... no, two impressions.

My eyes widen. Footprints. Mine and Rrueo's.

"We're leaving marks on the stone...."

"If only that were all. Look closely."

I look. The footprints are clearly evident, now - how could I possibly have missed them? Then the realization hits me.

The prints are getting more and more distinct. I run my fingertip over the stone, and I can feel the marks. Where our feet have trodden, the footprints are sinking into the stonework....

"The chiral compound," says Rrueo. "This place is the creation of the sleeping giant, just as the servitor being was. And contact with the compound is... cancelling it out. Instantly, when I shot the servitor... more slowly, with the mere touch of our bodies on the stone. But Rrueo sees no sign of the decomposition stopping...."

A faint creaking, groaning sound runs through the stonework. Rrueo's lambent green gaze meets mine.

"Rrueo thinks we have a time limit."

Claws 28

Ronnie

*/*you can run but you can't hide---
you can't even run---
better give up now---*/*

Oh, shut up, Two of Twelve. God, I preferred her when she was spouting Borg propaganda.

I huddle in my command chair and watch the lines on the screen. Insubstantial lines of light. Marking out spaces on a game board, a game board bigger than Jupiter.
  
*/*pawns in a game---
nothing but a pawn---*/*

Shut up. Anyway, R'j told us - at length - that "pawn" was the wrong translation. She is an enthusiast for her board games, it seems. Enthusiast being a fancy way to spell bore, if you ask me. Anyway. The better translation, she says, for my piece's name is the "merchant". Travels only on permitted routes, only at a permitted speed, but brings a precious cargo home at the end of the journey. King Estmere, apparently, is the "pilgrim", travelling a weary road and never looking back till the goal is attained. And the Klinks? Their pieces translate as the "guardian" and the "paladin". I think R'j really fancies herself as a paladin.

*/*a pawn---
expendable---
first to be sacrificed---*/*

"You should get some sleep, sir," says Tallasa, firmly.

"Can't sleep. Clown will eat me. What about this green line, then? When do we cross it?"

"Seven minutes, at current course and speed," Jhemyl reports. There is a dull annoyance about her voice at that last word, and I know why. My ship feels hobbled, crippled by this thing that is holding her to a snail's pace.

"Right. Right. So I have a nice refreshing sleep for another seven minutes, before whatever happens next... happens."

"Sensor scans are clear, sir," says Saval.

"There's no guarantee we will be jumped the moment we cross the green line, sir," says Tallasa. "If our - opponent - is playing thev lin with us, it will take time for them to set up an attack. It's a very slow-moving game, usually." She doesn't sound like she's a fan.

"I prefer games where there's a better chance to cheat," I quote, moodily. "What's the Goroke up to?"

"Scouting ahead," says Tallasa. "Coming about now, in fact - returning to our position." R'j has been using her battleship's unimpeded mobility to run constant patrol patterns around us. Like some sort of green, hostile, whispering mother hen. Now there's a mental image I didn't need.

*/*physical form of species is irrelevant---
any creature can be subsumed into the collective---*/*

Give me a break. I sit twitching in my chair, counting down the minutes, the seconds. The approaching line shows dim green through the yellow border of the game space. Somewhere to port and starboard are the red lines that say my ship's allowed to plod on down this route. The marker lines are holographic projections - we think, though we can't find a projector - and they have roughly the same diameter as Greater Manchester, and they're still so fine as to be barely visible, at the scale of this... board. It took us long weary hours to get this far....

The green line sweeps by, beneath us. "So," I say. "Enemy territory. Well, worse enemy territory. Look sharp, everyone."

"Sensors are still clear," Saval reports.

Yeah. Right. It took, what, half a microsecond for the entity to flick us clear out of the galaxy? Those sensors can fill up again any moment, I'm sure of that.

"Sensors clear. Maintaining constant vigilance and three-sixty degrees spherical scan," R'j's voice rasps across the comms channel. I don't think she's any happier about this situation than I am. Though how she expects to maintain constant battle readiness for the hours and hours it will take us to reach the centre of the game board, I don't know. Do */*species 10118*/* need sleep? Tylha didn't say. It's at times like this that one misses one's dependable Andorian sidekick. I suppose I've still got Tallasa and Jhemyl.

The Anar floats beside us, her weapons spines facing forwards, easily keeping pace with my hobbled ship. King Estmere follows a little way behind us. Since the carrier effectively can't reverse, our plan is to keep her back until we're damn sure we know which direction she needs to move in. Stupid damn game.

When it comes, the attack is instant. One second, space is empty but for our four ships; the next, the thing is there on the screen, on my tac console. I up the magnification, and the image leaps out at us. It isn't a starship, or at least it doesn't look like one. It looks like a dragon, long sinuous body and vast vaulted bat-wings, and golden light shining from its eyes and its mouth -

"It's emitting collimated high-intensity nadion radiation," says Saval.

"You could just say 'firing phasers'," I grumble. "Tallasa! Get me a firing solution! Leo - what the heck, we're supposed to be Starfleet, see if you can open a channel, OK?" Not that I think for a moment it'll do any good.

"Hailing on all frequencies, sir," says Leo like a good boy.

"Three minutes to engagement range at current speed," Tallasa reports. "Sir, Anar is moving forward."

The siege destroyer is not just moving, it's leaping. Cannon fire crackles from its disruptors, and light flashes from its forward torpedo tubes. At this range, the cannon fire is mostly for show, but the gravimetric torps mean business, all right. The Goroke is coming about. I'm not sure what R'j is up to, but I'd guess she means business too. Behind me, there are blips on the screen. King Estmere is launching her frigates. Previous experiments have shown us that the Mesh Weavers aren't restricted in speed like their mother ship, and now they're streaking forwards to add their firepower to the rest of the group's....

I don't like this. One - dragon - against four starships? Either it's a very powerful dragon, or it's some kind of set-up. Neither one's good news.

Then something else appears on the screen, and it's clear - set-up. For a moment, I'm not sure what I'm seeing - spines and tendrils seem to boil out of space, and at first it looks like an adapted destroyer or battlecruiser decloaking... but the tendrils stretch for kilometers, and there is no central warp core or main fuselage, just a writhing knot of what appear to be thorns - wrapping themselves about the Anar.

"What the hell are these things?" I wonder aloud. The Anar's shields flare, and the spines dig through them, tearing into the armour beneath. "Anthi! Commit your frigates to the dragon, and follow me in to cut the Anar loose!"

The Falcon turns, sluggish, crippled. King Estmere's frigates scream past us, tetryon beams and thermionic torpedoes slamming out at the monster before them.

"Some sort of biomechanical construct on a vast scale," Saval says. "I am unable to interpret these readings as yet. Sir, the spines are polycarbonate edged and vibrating at high ultrasonic frequencies -"

They will saw the Anar into chunks if we let them. Already, I am seeing air and flames spilling from gashes in her flanks. "Get me a targeting solution! Go for the roots of those things!"

Tallasa and Jhemyl cut in our weapons at maximum range. Tetryon beams glisten in the dark, striking at the impossible thorned tentacles, clawing at them. The Goroke is moving in, too, her Elachi crescent cannons sending scything bolts of destruction at the tendrils. Anar's own disruptors are hammering away -

"I think I see a weak point, sir," says Tallasa.

"Hit it."

The tetryon banks scream as Tallasa pushes the last erg of power out of them, trying to make them effective at this extreme range. Green fire blisters through space beside us as King Estmere brings her plasma arrays into play. The goat's-skull shape of the Goroke turns nimbly, her crescent weapons focusing in on the same spot. There is flame, and a haze of escaping air, and I'm sure it's not all coming from the Anar. Slowly, slowly, my ship draws closer.

Something gives. All of a sudden, the tendrils break apart and scatter, flaming fragments spraying through space. The Anar pulls clear, her armoured flanks sadly gouged and scored, but her disruptors still spitting defiance.

"Frigates are overpowered and must disengage!" Anthi Vihl's voice. "The dragon is turning to bear on the Falcon!"

I swear. Our turn in the barrel. "Reinforce forward screens, and put everything we can spare into the torpedo launchers!" The tetryon banks are in danger of overheating, but if we can feed this beast enough plasma torpedoes, that should keep it off us. Should do. I hope. I've never fought a dragon before.

The dragon plunges at us, seeming to knock King Estmere's battered frigates aside as it pounces. Golden phaser light sprays from its mouth. The Falcon shudders.

"Shields down to seventy-two per cent," Jhemyl reports.

"Fire!"

Tetryon beams stab through the dragon's breath. Plasma torps crash out of our launchers. The viewscreen is an abstract glare of coloured light - the tac console is sparkling with interference, too. The deck lurches beneath me, and there is the flash-bang of a transient overload on one of the consoles.

"Shields at forty-eight per cent."

"Keep hitting it!" It must be hurting worse than we are. It has to be.

It is. The interference suddenly clears, and the colours on the screen fade for an instant - then are wiped out in one dazzling glare of white. Apparently, dragons have warp cores. Who knew?

I try to take stock of the situation. King Estmere is moving to recover her damage frigates, the Anar is heading slowly towards her, trailing vapours from her hull breaches. The Goroke -

The Goroke is fighting something, and I don't know what. The battleship's crescent cannons are hammering out a constant barrage at something that looks like a cloud, a vast thunderhead blotting out the stars, illuminated fitfully by the green lightning of the crescent bolts. Something emerges from the cloud, a writhing ribbon of energy, something that clings to the Goroke's shields and tears at them.

"Steer three eight five mark four. Support the Goroke." I wipe my forehead. "Just aim for the middle of whatever the hell that is, and hope we hit something."

Fire lashes out from the tetryon banks again. The coolant is getting perilously close to the red line. The thundercloud is illuminated with lurid light now from both ships' weapons. I can't tell what's inside it, or even if there is anything inside. A line of light whipcracks against our forward shields, and my ship rocks.

"Fore shields down!" shouts Ahepkur from engineering. "Attempting to restore!"

"Hard about!" I yell. "Fire aft batteries!" I would drop web mines, too, but how do you capture a cloud?

The Goroke has deployed her auxiliary vessels, the two drone craft that nestle in her stubby forward wings. One of them is sending out a beam, some kind of sensor interference signal, into the centre of the cloud. I hit the tac console, feeding commands to the aft beam arrays, trying to target whatever that beam's aimed at.

Whatever it is, it blows up. One moment, dark cloud spitting lightning bolts - the next, a brilliant flash, and the clouds clear away, as if they had never been. Whatever we were shooting at, it's just a cloud of white-hot fragments, now.

"All ships!" R'j rasps across the comms channel. "Scan for an enemy inbound on vector six zero mark four! If I am right -"

She doesn't finish the sentence. "She's right," Tallasa reports. "Something coming in on that vector. Big, and moving fast."

"Get me a visual!" The main viewscreen blurs and judders. Oh boy. Get me a different visual, because I really don't like the look of this one....

The thing is round and glistening, and at least two kilometres across, and there is a dark pit in its centre that makes it look like a gigantic eye. Around its rim are shapes - distinctive shapes. An eye with antiproton cannon eyelashes. Heavy antiproton cannons.

"Come about!" I order, and "Get those forward shields back up!"

The thing is coming in hard and fast, on the line R'j predicted. I can see the dire glow of those cannons powering up. Scattered, battered and out of position, our four ships are going to have some trouble with this thing.

Then another voice sounds across the comms channel: Oschmann. "I've got this one," she says, almost casually, and the Anar moves forward as she speaks. Green light is flaring around the siege destroyer's weapons spines.

"Move in," I snap, "support the Anar." I can tell what she's planning - and it might just work; the giant eye is coming in fast, and that means its course is easy to predict -

Easy enough for Oschmann to get the Anar into position and fire the disruptor javelin.

Green light flows down the siege destroyer's spines and gathers into a bolt of searing intensity. It lashes out, spearing into the approaching monstrosity, hitting just at the rim of that dark pit that might be a pupil. The globe yaws wildly and veers off course, a yellowish cloud of something spilling from the impact point. Streamers of fire wrap around the Anar as she twirls back into her defensive configuration.

Our ships move forward. The enemy is damaged, but we don't know if the wound is mortal. Plasma torpedoes scream out of Falcon's and King Estmere's tubes; the bolts from the Goroke's cannons slash across space.

Scarlet light sputters back from one of the thing's cannons, splashing off King Estmere's screens, but the globe is already deforming and collapsing as our weapons pound it. There is an explosion, then another, as the antiproton containment in its cannons fails - and then it is all over, the globe breaking apart into flaming debris and a yellow cloud of matter spreading out across space.

"Scanning," Saval reports. "Nothing on screens except wreckage -"

"There will be no more, for the present," R'j announces over the comms channel. "The classic Shiran th'Kiv engagement - a risky stratagem, and costly if misjudged. Our opponent misjudged it," she adds with evident satisfaction. Well, aren't we lucky to have the resident chess nerd on our side? Bet she always got picked last for the netball team though.

"Anar has taken substantial damage," Oschmann's voice says. "If there is time to halt and make repairs -"

"There should be," says R'j. "We have eliminated our opponent's four most powerful pieces. The Shiran th'Kiv engagement is not often so one-sided - but, then, the game with live pieces is often different from the abstraction of the board game. Goroke, Falcon and King Estmere will be more than equal to the single mobile piece that remains. Make all necessary repairs."

"And then, on to the centre?" I say.

"On to the centre," R'j confirms.

*/*goal defined---
target specified and attainable---
bet you don't want to know what's in there though---*/*

Shut up.

Claws 27

Rrueo

The old man glowers at me from his throne. "The beasts are valuable," he says, "and already you have lost two."
  
"Rrueo regrets the loss," I say, as patiently as I can manage. "You will be compensated for it - you may have Rrueo's word on that."

"If you regain contact with your ships," the younger man, Tallaun, snaps at me.

"Other vessels are no doubt on their way," I say. "And if they are not, if we are trapped on this world... then we must come to some arrangement, which will include recompense for the riding animals. You have Rrueo's word." These people were Klingons, once, surely a pledge of honour must mean something to them?

But Steadholder Sharm merely sits on his throne and continues to glower at me. "Why should we help you?" he asks, eventually. "You come here, you bring with you the Grau, and that other one - you seek to meddle in our affairs -"

"Rrueo seeks to understand the nature of your - overlord - and to reach an accommodation with it." Though I do not believe this to be possible. The sleeping giant is too alien, too powerful... but I must not admit this, not here.

"Accommodation." Tallaun's voice drips scorn. "You seek military advantage, in a war which is none of our concern. And you would trample our people into the dirt, if the overlord did not protect us -"

"You're already trampled." A new voice: Tylha Shohl's. The Andorian stands in the entrance to the hall, her scarred face grim. All heads turn to her - my own included.

"What do you mean?" Tallaun demands.

Tylha walks forward at a steady, measured pace. "This overlord of yours controls you," she says. "Every detail of your lives. We've heard how your population is regulated, we know how your technology is limited - this creature holds your entire culture in a static mould, and it's not for your benefit. This entity owns you, Steadholder. Like one of your own riding beasts."

Is this Federation diplomacy? It does not sound like it. But, whatever Tylha is planning, I agree with her words - and will add my own. "It is true," I say. "You live like cattle, and you should not. You are Klingons."

"We were," says Sharm. "Our ancestors rejected the false militarism of Klingon culture -"

"And that took courage," says Tylha. "The courage to step outside of your culture, to reject its pressures and choose your own path. I know. My own parents once made a similar choice. Your ancestors had courage, Steadholder. Do you?"

The old man glares at her, and his hands clench on the arms of his throne. For a moment, it looks as though he is about to rise - then he slumps back.

"Courage for what?" he asks, bitterly. "Do you not know that the overlord cannot be defeated? When the servitors came as claws, they wiped out Juregh's forces in seconds - they screamed, I still hear them scream, as they realized their weapons were useless, and as the claws tore their flesh, and the servitors - fed. Now your ships have been swept from the sky. What can you accomplish, against a power such as that?"

"We don't know. Yet," says Tylha.

I move to stand beside her. "But we will find out," I add. "You have Rrueo's word on that, too. If you will not provide the riding beasts, we will walk to the overlord's tower. And if the creature beats us down, we will crawl towards it. But we will not stop, short of death."

"Death is the certain outcome of any challenge to the overlord," mutters the old man.

"Is it?" asks Tylha. "Let me ask you something, Steadholder. We've seen my friend's face, drawn in your book of prophecy. We know it predicts that a change is coming. Tell me - what is on the next page?"

Sharm glares at her. "You have seen it. You know."

Tylha nods. "Nothing," she says. "Nothing but blank pages. No outcome is certain, Steadholder. Your prophecies are all ended, now, and there is nothing left but the future we make for ourselves."

Sharm stares at her for a long moment. Then he says, "You are wrong... most likely. But if this is the death you seek - we will not impede you. And if you are right... though you are not... then, perhaps, a change should come." He turns to Tallaun. "Prepare two riding beasts for them."

---

Outside, in the hot midday sun, I say to Tylha, "Very eloquent."

"He needed persuading."

"Rrueo is no Federation legalist, but Rrueo has heard some talk of a Prime Directive -"

"It doesn't apply. Not in this case." Her face is thoughtful: behind it, the watchmen pace their courses around the battlements of her mind. "Starfleet doesn't interfere in the natural development of native planetary cultures - but this is a Klingon colony, and in any case, its development isn't natural."

"Rrueo concurs. The Empire cannot use the sleeping giant. And the Federation's ideals, it seems, will not permit any dealings with it."

"I suppose we might want to... understand it. Figure out how it works, what sort of being it is. But as for dealing with it -" Tylha shakes her head.

"Rrueo suggests that our first priority is escaping from it. Though, since its reach is astronomical, that may prove a problem. Still, if Rrueo may turn to practicalities -?"

"I've set things up in the processing building." Tylha stalks off towards the old building with the chemical plant. "The unwanted compound is caught in a sort of sump," she says, "and is destroyed by incineration. The tellurium-rich ash is collected up, and I guess it's returned to the soil around the khala plants at some point. You accidentally tapped into some sort of overflow line, and I've managed to draw off about twenty litres of the stuff from that." She pulls a face. "I am not looking forward to smearing it all over me."

"Better that, than having these servitors feed off us. How is Harley Haught?"

"Recovering. We've managed to hold off any bacterial infections from the wounds to the gut, and we've carried out all the surgical repairs we can. Ideally, I'd like to have him fully checked out in King Estmere's sickbay." Her mouth becomes a tight line. "If we get to see this overlord, that's one thing I'll be asking for."

We reach the door of the building, and Tylha pushes it open. Inside, it is cooler. Tylha gestures to the concrete floor, where equipment is stacked. Bottles of black fluid, whose cloying scent already fills my nostrils - and other things.

Tylha stoops and picks something up; a length of wood, basically, with a stiff metal strip as a crosspiece. "I figure the overlord can deal with energy weapons," she says, "but a simple crossbow - coated in the compound, shooting bolts tipped with the compound -"

"A good thought. You know how to use such primitive weapons?"

"My parents didn't reject all Andorian traditions. There were wild animals on my home planet - we needed some primitive weapons for hunting and self-defence." She lifts the bow to her shoulder, sights down its length. "I made two of them. And I borrowed a couple of those Klingon meat cleavers, too."

"We will not be completely defenceless, then. Rrueo is glad of that."

Tylha hefts the weapon experimentally in her hands. "I have to admit," she says, "if we're going up against something that makes starships disappear... this doesn't entirely fill me with confidence."

Of course, she is right. But what else can we do?

Claws 26

R'j

Is she mad? I ask myself, and then chide myself for a foolish question. Of course she is - but there may be method in her madness, and I see no other alternatives.
  
I turn to Laska. "Comply."

"Sir -"

"S-s-s-s-s. Comply."

She takes a deep breath. "Lower shields. Power down all weapons." I turn to my tactical display. The Falcon is already defenceless; as I watch, the symbols for King Estmere's shields wink out, followed by the Anar's.

"Well," the Andorian Vihl comments over the comms link, "at least, whatever happens, it will be quick."

I do not have the heart to disabuse her. But this offers the best chance for the Fek'lhri to take us alive, and if that happens - well, it will be many things, but quick will sadly not be among them.

"Movement in the Fek fleet," M'Rel reports. The fresh scar on his cheekbone is angry, inflamed.

"Details?"

"Still closing. Weapons range in three minutes... but...." The Klingon frowns. "One of the dreadnoughts has altered course...."

I study the display. M'Rel is right, one of the black towering shapes is moving at an angle to the rest... as I watch, another, too, seems to shift position. I mutter a mantra under my breath, trying to clear my mind -

"The first dreadnought's course now intersects with that of one of the carriers... the carrier is changing vector...." M'Rel's voice becomes a shout. "It's turning the wrong way!"

I can see it. On the screen, the nightmarish shape of a Kar'fi carrier blunders inexorably towards one of the smaller escorts - which veers off, suddenly, only to find itself directly in the path of the dreadnought -

- and the carrier changes course again, and lesser ships scatter wildly as it veers across the sky -

- and suddenly, the wall of Fek'lhri ships is in confusion, vessels darting this way and that - and failing to escape.

The first collision is between a K'Norr escort and a Kar'fi, the smaller ship crumpling as it rams into the carrier's armoured flank, the dull red fires of the Fek'lhri drives abruptly paling into invisibility as first the escort, then the carrier, dies in the blinding flash of a core breach. Frigates and fighters flee from the radiation and the expanding cloud of debris - and there is no safe path for them to flee along; all of a sudden, space is alive with lesser collisions, ships exploding or caroming off one another, a sudden chain reaction of crashes and explosions.

Space grows blindingly bright with the eruption of broken warp cores. I can barely see the first dreadnought die, as the chain reaction spreads throughout the Fek'lhri fleet. Even the destruction of those massive vessels is lost in the spreading, seething mass of flame. It is... almost beautiful, in a way. The way so many of those ships seemed to choose exactly the wrong path to take... a ballet, almost, of self-immolation.

My ship trembles, just a little. I check. The navigational deflector is registering minor impacts, scattered fragments of flying debris from the death of the Fek'lhri armada.

Where those ships were, there is now a cloud of cooling flame and shattered wreckage.

The organic parts of Grau's face are radiating smugness. "What was that?" I demand.

"I remembered a chat I had with an old friend," says Grau, "about no-win scenarios. He told me about some of the scenarios he'd planted for the Kobayashi Maru simulation at Starfleet Academy. I remembered the activation code for this one. I don't think it was the one he actually wound up using. Too obvious. Too deus ex machina. But, I figured, it was a no-win scenario all right, so this one was worth a shot."

"S-s-s-s-s. Because it is all about you."

"I had to guess, and I guessed right. So, then, what's our next move?" Vihl and Oschmann are both lost for words, staring at her. I do not know if they are more appalled by her arrogance or her luck.

"Our situation has not materially improved," I say. "I suppose we should examine the wreckage of the Fek fleet, to see if there is useful information to be gleaned. But if it is just some sort of game...." My voice trails off, because something is happening, on the viewscreen.

Lines of light are glittering across the void... insubstantial lines, some a brilliant golden hue, some a pale white, insipid, almost greyish by comparison. Lines spear through the cloud of debris that is all that is left of the Feks... lines surround us on every side... and some of them -

"Are those curved?" I ask, dubiously. "They look curved...."

"Confirmed," says Laska. "It appears to be... a radial grid. Rings and sectors... and each sector is at least ten thousand kellicams across...."

Something is bothering me. I have seen something like this before... I recite another mantra to clear my mind, and then I notice a light flashing on the command console. The Anar is requesting a private comms channel.

I swivel one eye to look at the communications viewscreen. Both Vihl and Grau seem to be preoccupied by something; they are looking off-screen, and Grau's smug look has been replaced by one of worry. The sudden appearance of the glowing lines, perhaps? I cut them out of the audio channel, and turn my attention to Oschmann. The human renegade looks worried, too. "We are experiencing intermittent malfunctions on our drive systems," she says.

"Details?"

"Hard to be certain, sir." Her mouth tightens a little at that. Oschmann is one who does not like uncertainties, and likes even less to admit to them. "Preliminary diagnostics show no problems... but, as we turn onto certain headings, drive output suddenly drops to zero. It is as if... we were being prevented from moving in some directions."

"S-s-s-s-s." Something clicks inside my head. "Perhaps you are." I turn one eye over to the helm station, and the hulking Gorn shape before it. "Talash. Are we experiencing any drive problems?"

"No, sir."

"Test that. Bring us about, in a full turn. Oschmann. Transmit details of the directions in which the power loss occurs." My fingers move on the tactical console, setting up a map. "S-s-s-s-s. I begin to see." I superimpose the glowing grid lines. "Science. Any analysis as yet?"

"Insubstantial," Siowershoe reports, "and low-energy... holographic projections, I believe, sir, though we are at present unable to determine the location of the projector."

"Extend your visual scan. You should see some lines in other colours - green, blue, red."

"Sir?"

"If I am correct, that is what you will see." I cut the audio channel to the Starfleet ships back in. "Grau. Vihl. Are you, by any chance, experiencing difficulties with your engines?"

On my console, the vectors from Oschmann's data appear. One more confirmation.

"How did you know?" Grau demands.

"You are not the only one who can guess right. What is the nature of your problem?"

Grau's thin lips grow thinner. "We're restricted to something under ten per cent of impulse power," she says, "and even that only on a limited range of headings."

"We have similar power losses," Vihl says, "and are completely immobilized if we're turning to... roughly a ninety-degree arc -"

"On you current heading -" I consult my display "- you are unable to make headway between marks two two five and three two five, am I roughly correct?"

"What the hell is happening now?" Grau demands. "If you know something -"

"I am awaiting final confirmation," I say. I look at Talash.

"Turn completed. No unusual activity, no power drains, helm responding normally," the Gorn reports.

"And that is what I needed." I lean back on the command couch. The new cushions squeak and rustle beneath my weight. "The next move. And yes, this is some sort of game. A particular game - Commander Vihl will know it."

"I will?" Vihl looks nonplussed.

"Thev lin, Commander Vihl."

"Waitaminute," says Grau. "Andorian chess?" That comment earns her a dirty look from Vihl.

"Played on a circular board divided into rings and sectors," I say, "in alternating colours of gold and grey. What do we see on our viewscreens? And our ships are, it seems, restricted... so that their abilities correspond to the moves of some of the game pieces."

"What?" says Grau.

"I think I see," says Vihl.

"In the most common translations of the terminology," I say, "my ship is, it appears, the queen, with movement unrestricted in all directions. The Anar is a rook, able to move normally along rank and file - ring and ray, in the terms adapted to the circular board. But her helm will not answer if she attempts to move on a diagonal."

"What about us?" Grau demands.

"Our ships appear to be the two most mobile pieces on the thev lin board. Yours appear to be the two least mobile. The King Estmere is the lesser pawn, able to move only one space, and able only to move around the ring, or inwards towards the centre of the board - the lesser pawn can never retreat. And you, Vice Admiral, command the greater pawn. You may move one space at a time around the ring, and you may move towards the centre along specific sectors - the first and the tenth rays of the thev lin board. On a conventional board, those rays are outlined in red."

I shoot an enquiring look at Siowershoe. "Confirmed," she says, slowly. "I have visual on... red lines. Patching them through to your tactical board now, sir."

I glance down. "We appear to be on the fourth ray... a weary way to go, before we can advance inwards. Well, no matter. Blue and green?" I demand of Siowershoe.

"Two of the - rings - are so marked, sir."

"The blue ring indicates that we approach the centre of the board - we will all find our movements restricted after that point. All pieces advance only one ring at a time after the ninth ring. Commander Vihl, will you enlighten Vice Admiral Grau as to the meaning of the green ring?"

Vihl swallows. "The three outermost rings of the board are... a safe zone," she says. "Pieces in that region can't be attacked. The green line marks the point at which we become subject to attack."

"Commander Vihl is of course correct," I say. "I wonder what form the opponent will take... though I am convinced that an opponent will be provided."

"And we have to fight them, crippled like this?" I did not think it possible for Grau to look any paler or less healthy, but she has managed it.

"You will have assistance, naturally," I say.

"Big of you," Grau mutters. Oschmann stares at me.

"A natural consequence of the rules of the game," I say. "However this variation plays out... we must assume the objectives remain the same. To bear the pieces of the highest value to the safety of the centre." I smile, rather enjoying the lecture. It is obvious that I am alone in this. No matter. "The highest scoring pieces are the ones with least freedom of movement. If this is a game, we must win it - and to do that, Vice Admiral, my ships must work to protect yours." My smile widens. "You may be comforted, Vice Admiral Grau. This remains, as you said - all about you."

Claws 25

Tylha

As soon as dawn breaks, I am at the window, opening the heavy shutter and swinging it back, looking out towards the east. I squint into the sunrise, across the fields, and eventually I spot movement - a toiling figure descending the slope of a hill.
  
One figure. I shoot a worried glance at Zazaru, standing beside me. "I'm going out to see what's happened," I say.

She consults her tricorder. "There's no sign of the, umm, whatever they are, sir," she says, "but I'm reading two non-Klingon life signs."

"Two? I guess that's a good sign - all right, I'm on my way." I check my phaser. I doubt it will do me the slightest bit of good, but the weight at my hip is a reassurance. I head for the door.

Outside, the air is fresh and clear, and the main buildings of the steadhold are starting to stir with life. The child, Nejje, gives me a cheery wave as I lope off across the fields. The stumps of the khala plants look a little taller, already.

I run towards the figure on the hillside, quickening my pace as I make out the details.

Rrueo has rigged a sort of travois, a framework of branches lashed together with some sort of vines, and she is using it to half-carry, half-drag the inert shape of Harley Haught across the ground. She is moving slowly, with immense care and deliberation, her wiry feline frame almost vibrating under the strain. She bares her teeth in greeting as I approach.

"About time," she says. "He is heavy."

Haught's face is pale and waxy, his eyes half-closed, his breathing harsh and irregular. I stand next to Rrueo, and she shuffles sideways to let me take some of the burden. "What happened?"

"We were attacked, by the servitors. Little cloaked shadows, with blades on their arms. No minds, or nothing that Rrueo could touch. Harley Haught was stabbed. Rrueo has done what she could with her field medkit, but there are deep penetrating wounds, and he requires more care."

"How did you escape?"

"Rrueo has thoughts about that. Rrueo will explain, once we are done here."

We drag the travois together, down the hill and across the fields, and I try to close my ears to Haught's groans as, no matter how careful we are, we jostle him or jolt him on some unexpected obstacle. Rrueo's breathing hisses beside me. The Ferasan is tense, and tired... and, from her body language, very, very angry.

Zazaru and the KDF medic Siowxayer are waiting for us. "Two deep stab wounds, in the abdomen," Rrueo snaps at the Lissepian. "Take precautions for bacterial infections, and do what you can about the loss of blood." As we hand Haught over, she leans close to him, her face close to his. "Harley Haught," she says, "listen to me. You are not going to die. You do not have my permission to die." Haught's lips twitch in a ghost of a smile. We watch as the medics take him into the building.

"Rrueo needs water," Rrueo says. Her tail cuts the air as it switches to and fro. I pass her a canteen, and she drinks, greedily.

"We tried to kill you," she says, once the canteen is empty.

I stare at her, hard. "What?"

"Rrueo tells you the worst first, so that you will know Rrueo speaks the truth now. We tried to kill you." Her lip curls in a feline sneer. "You are, after all, still the enemy." Then her expression turns sullen. "Or you were. We have other problems now."

I fight down a rising anger - she is right about the other problems. "Do you want to explain?" I snap at her.

"We doctored the record of R'j's court martial. The carriers exploded at a distance of one hundred and twenty kellicams. Not fifty."

"I see." My nostrils flare. "So you got me to take King Estmere in past that safe limit."

"We did not know if it would work, and in fact it did not." Rrueo strokes her whiskers with one claw. "There were other edits - little things. The names of the lost carriers, for instance. It does no harm for Starfleet Intelligence to think some ships are destroyed when they are not. And, of course, it helps that Mlkwbrians are impossible to lip-read." She pronounces the name of R'j's species with ease.

"What else-?"

Rrueo sighs. "The plan was to stage-manage Federation involvement in Tiaza Zephora. Initially, we wanted to infiltrate R'j aboard your ship or the Falcon, pretending that she was a potential defector - she would then have been in a position to guide your investigations and report on them. Your sudden arrival at Duselva WX rather derailed that plan - we have been improvising ever since." Her tone suddenly sharpens. "The important thing you should know - is that Rrueo scanned the Duselva WX system before your arrival. Rrueo scanned it thoroughly. There were no ruins on the third planet."

My anger fades as the implications of that wash over me. Bits of Rrueo's behaviour suddenly start to make sense to me - "No wonder you've been tense," I say slowly.

Rrueo nods. "The sleeping giant is a reality manipulator on a prodigious scale," she says. "Rrueo's suggestion, to be honest, would be to leave it and hope it continues to sleep - but that is not R'j's way. Rrueo takes it, by the way, that there has been no sign of the ships?"

"No. And we don't have a subspace transmitter capable of reaching Starfleet -"

"We are thrown upon our own resources, then. Fortunately," she adds, "there is hope. You wondered how Rrueo survived the night intact?"

"I did."

"So did Rrueo. Rrueo has a high estimate of her own capabilities, but she does not believe she is more formidable than Juregh's entire assault force. The question arises, then, what makes Rrueo so special that the sleeping giant's servitors do not dare to attack her? Rrueo had many hours to contemplate that question."

"And?"

"What is different about Rrueo? What happened to Rrueo, that did not happen to Harley Haught? Let Rrueo give you a clue: Rrueo can still smell it on her fur."

My eyes narrow. "The chiral compound?"

"It plays some role in the sleeping giant's... biology, for want of a better word. The mirror image version is necessary for it in some way... this version, though, is - noxious, perhaps. That is why it needed the colonists and their chemical processing machines. The extensions of the sleeping giant's will - the hands, or the claws, of the overlord - cannot interact with it directly."

"So," I say, "we have a potential defence, then."

Rrueo grins, exposing her fangs. "Yes. And a potential defence - is a potential weapon."

---

Inside the guest house, they have laid Haught down on a table, and the medics are clustered around him. Zazaru looks up at me briefly, flashes a thumbs-up sign, and turns back to her work.

I walk to the little office, sit down, and start to think. We need to investigate the chemical plant more thoroughly - to discover how the waste compound is processed, once it is extracted - to get as much of it for ourselves as we can -

And there are other things we must try to discover. If we can work out how the entity - the sleeping giant - distorts the molecule of the tellurium compound... then maybe we can work out how it affects space-time itself, how it manipulates reality... and maybe we can defend ourselves against that.

I shake my head. We are dealing with a being that can materialize a continent-spanning artifact at a range of several parsecs - and all we have is our paltry few pieces of field equipment -

There is a knock at the door. I look up. It is T'Shomep. "Sir," she says.

"Yes?"

"I have been engaged in study of the colony's history," she says. "I have discovered something which may be of interest."

"What is it?"

"I have established the date of the overlord's arrival on the planet," T'Shomep says. "In converting it to standard Federation stardates, I became aware of a coincidence. In the circumstances, I believe it may not simply be a coincidence." She pauses. "The date of the entity's arrival is the same date that the USS Jayhawk, under the command of then Captain Grau, entered the temporal anomaly known as the Stygmalian Rift."

Claws 24

Ronnie

Q. Starfleet's self-appointed omnipotent gadfly. Well, this is just what I needed. This Q appears as a human female, short, with fluffy blonde hair and a wide smile. I'm not fooled. Whatever this being is, she makes a Fek'lhri horde look cuddly by comparison. As seems to be usual for the Q, she's wearing a Starfleet admiral's uniform - because the Q Continuum does so like taking the mickey.
  
"So all this is your fault, then," I say.

"Oh, Veronika." Q pouts. "What a dreadful thing to say."

"Yeah, well. Dreadful things. I say 'em, you do 'em. Mind telling me what this is about, at least? I suppose putting us back in orbit is out of the question."

Q steps forward, putting her hands on the desktop and leaning across it. "It's all about you, Veronika."

"Oh, great. And knock off the 'Veronika', will you? Call me Ronnie, everyone does."

"But it's so rough and un-feminine, Veronika." Q smiles and half-closes her eyes. "You should let yourself be feminine, you know, once in a while. In fact," she adds in husky, breathy tones, "you and I could explore femininity... together...."

There is another brilliant flash, and instead of a uniform, Q is wearing a filmy baby-doll negligee, and - I'm relieved to note - a thong. She pouts and wiggles.

"You can knock that off, too. I'm too old and too Borg-ified, and anyway, I'm not interested. Now maybe if you were the original Q, the one Picard met -"

"Could be arranged." Another brilliant flash. Q has changed appearance, to the dark-haired, middle-aged, exopthalmic male form Starfleet first encountered. The outfit, however, has remained the same. I shut my one eye tight.

"Jesus wept!"

"Sorry," says Q, with a complete lack of sincerity.

"I may never be able to unsee that."

Another flash, visible even through my closed eyelid. "I said I was sorry." The female voice again; I risk opening my eye. Q is back to being female, in an admiral's uniform - actually, looking at the collar tabs, I put her three or four grades above Admiral of the Fleet. Never mind. It's an improvement.

"So what's it all about, anyway?" I ask irritably.

"I already told you, Veronika. It's all about you."

"No, it isn't," I snap. "I might have been any one of a thousand Starfleet officers -"

"Who are mentioned in the Tiazans' book of prophecy? Do please try to think, Veronika. I know you mortals find that difficult, but do make the effort."

"So how'd I get into any prophecy, then?"

"Not just any prophecy." Q's eyes narrow at me.

"All right, one you thought up for them -"

"No. I promise you, this is not my work, or the work of anyone in the Q Continuum."

I don't know whether to believe that or not. "OK, so it's someone else's big idea. So spoil it for them. That's what you're good at, right? Messing things up? Mess up this prophecy rubbish, send us back to reality."

"Oh, Veronika, Veronika." Q shakes her head in mock sorrow. "I am doing everything in my power - which, I might note, is quite beyond your limited comprehension. And the best thing I can do is provide you with that key insight, which is that it's -"

"- all about me. Right. Got it. How is it -?"

"Whoops, is that the time? Must dash. You know how it is when you're an omnipotent superbeing - places to go, people to be -" Q stands up straight. "Take care of yourself, Veronika, and please remember what I've told you." And she blows me a kiss.

Then she is gone, in a flash and a hiss.

I sit at the desk for a moment or two, trying to make sense of this. Trying, and failing. The Q Continuum never seems to give you information you can use straight away... if you're lucky, and still alive, their actions make sense in hindsight, and that's the best you can hope for.

At least the sight of Q seems to have scared Two of Twelve into silence. I stand up, and march back onto the bridge. "Set me up a channel to the other ships," I tell Leo. "Any news?" I ask Tallasa.

"No developments, sir."

"Oh, you are so wrong there." Faces are appearing on the main viewer; R'j, Vihl, Oschmann. I take a deep breath. "Just had a visit from Q."

"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j - which, come to think of it, sums up my feelings quite neatly.

"Apparently," I carry on, "this is not some prank of the Q Continuum, and it is all about me. Q was surprisingly emphatic about that. What it means - well, your guess is as good as mine."

"If we have not been brought here by the Continuum," says R'j, "then it must be the work of some comparable power. Have you offended any such beings, lately?"

"Not that I know of," I mutter, irritably. Why do people keep blaming me for things? I didn't write that damn book of prophecy. "Anyway. Anything turned up from the stellar cartography databases?"

"Very little, sir." Anthi Vihl sounds sullen. "Going by radiation emissions from extra-galactic black holes, we may have a positional match somewhere in the Pinwheel Galaxy - about six million parsecs from home. Commander Oschmann claims to have a match on local bright stars which would put us somewhere in the Greater Magellanic Cloud, but I consider her spectrographic data to be suspect."

"The Anar's science libraries are precise and detailed," Oschmann snaps.

"It's a warship, not a science vessel," Vihl retorts.

"Let's not fight," I say. "We've got enough troubles already. I take it, from either position, we're not going to be home for supper any time soon?"

"Not unless your ship is capable of quite unprecedented turns of speed," says R'j. "You are correct, though, we should not quarrel amongst ourselves." Oschmann and Vihl both look sullen now. Oh, God, I don't need this.

"Sir." Saval's voice. I suspect something else I don't need is coming my way. "I have a possible sensor contact at extreme range."

"How extreme?"

"At the limits of scanning range. Bearing one seven three mark six two."

"Come about." Whatever it is, I don't want it sneaking up behind me. "You guys coming with me to take a look?" I say to the faces on the viewer.

"We should stay together," says R'j.

"All righty, then. Ahead one half impulse."

"Anar will take point," says Oschmann. "We have superior speed and sensor capability."

"Fair enough," I say, loudly, before Vihl can argue. There is clearly no love lost between those two.

The Anar slides out in front of us, weapons spines bristling forwards. I repress a shiver. We are four state-of-the-art warships, thousands of highly skilled, highly trained, highly motivated crew aboard them.... In this alien sky, we are very small and very alone.

Images form on the console screens as the Anar relays data back to us. There is something out there. And, for a few precious seconds, it's not clear what.

"Tt't'tt'-ll'kkkyhhhi-krrr'rr!" says R'j, as the images come into focus.

"Scanning." Oschmann's voice is dead calm. "Fek'lhri battle force. Confirm sixteen Drek'hi dreadnoughts, each with three Kar'fi carriers and six K'Norr escorts in attendance... multiple smaller units, I don't have a count on those, but I suspect it doesn't matter."

"Too right," I say. "Hard about, maximum warp, in the general direction of away."

"I concur," says R'j. Her silver eyes are wide.

Our four ships turn, quickly, away from the approaching wall of demon battleships. "Maintain sensor locks on all consorts," I order. "We've got to run, but we don't want to lose each other while we do it. Right?"

"Confirmed," says R'j. Vihl and Oschmann both nod assent.

"OK, let's make like a tree and leave. Warp speed." Jhemyl hits the helm controls, and -

Nothing happens. "Guys," I say, "I really think we've worn out our welcome in these parts. Warp speed."

"Trying it, sir," says Jhemyl. "Warp drive is not responding."

"I think we're all getting the same, sir," says Vihl. R'j says something else unpronounceable. I know how she feels.

"Fek'lhri battle force is in pursuit, sir," says Saval. "Closing at high impulse speed. I estimate ten minutes to weapons range."

"Anyone got any idea what's up with the warp drive?" I ask.

"Unknown, sir," says Ahepkur. "The warp field simply will not initiate. Diagnostics show no mechanical failures, but -" She shrugs, helplessly.

Warp drive out, and a massive Fek fleet closing in. If this is all about me, I think my concluding chapter is about to get written, because I really do not see any way out of this. This one, I'm afraid, is your classic no-win scenario -

Wait.

That phrase is enough to set a few neurons misfiring in my brain. "Got an idea," I say. Three faces regard me from the viewer with rather less hope than sheer disbelief. "You're not going to like it," I add.

R'j finds her voice. "In this situation," she rasps, "I will take any alternatives I can get."

"OK, but you're really not going to like it." I take a very deep breath. "I'm chancing everything on what Q said, about this being all about me. Leo. Transmit the following on subspace channel delta two one: Backdoor niner two seven, authorization Juliet Tango Kilo." Everyone looks mystified. Then they just look stunned, as I add, "And all ships. Power down all weapons, and lower shields."