Deep Gate 4

Personal log: Carayl Quon, owner-master of the raider Beauregard

I weigh the pole in my hands, and stare up at the wall.

The wall is just over three metres high. Every ten metres, a pylon protrudes, another metre above the top of the wall. The security force field is generated from the tips of the pylons. There is, therefore, a one metre gap. The wall itself is monitored, of course - it will respond to close contact.

There are no visual monitors, which is lucky. T'Khrem does not want accidental visual records of the things that happen in his private estate.

I weigh the pole in my hands again. Well. Nothing to be gained from further delay -

I start the run-up, my limbs moving with smooth precision and regularity. This will take skill, and strength, and precise calculation. Fortunately, I have all of these.

I ground the pole at exactly the right point, and I leap, my body tensing, the pole flexing as I use its leverage, and I straighten out and release my grip at just the right moment, and I am through the gap. Vegetation flails at me as I crash to the ground and roll, but the slick impact-gel bodysuit cushions the impacts. The pole will collide with the wall, of course - but it is the sort of random impact that might draw no notice, that might be accounted as a random bird strike or some such. And if it is not, no matter. When I let go, I exposed the oxidizer patch to the outside air - and that triggered the cascade reaction from the catalysts embedded in the pole's graphene structure, and by now the pole is nothing but a breath of carbon dioxide, burned away in an instant. A forensic team might eventually, detect a trace of platinum ash from the catalysts....

Nothing to worry about now. I look around. It is twilight, this section of the grounds is not frequented - but a patrolling guard will find me eventually, unless I move now. I lope through the undergrowth, taking a zig-zag course, not towards the main house itself, but to the outbuilding that houses the distributor for the local EPS grid.

It will be guarded, of course. This is good. I need a guard.

The outbuilding is long, low, concealed from view behind an ornamental hedge. There is one guard, a bored-looking Nausicaan, at least seven feet tall and armed with a wicked-looking disruptor rifle. This is good. I watch him from the bushes for a few seconds. He does not spot me, until I move.

It feels good. I am past the stage of identity confusion, of wondering if I am Carayl, the Trill athlete, drawing on the library of Quon's knowledge, or Quon, the symbiote, using the limbs and muscles of Carayl's magnificent young body. I am, now, Carayl Quon, a very strong, very limber young woman who happened, in another lifetime, to study the Earth martial art of taekwondo. As I demonstrate, now, by breaking the Nausicaan's neck with one terrific kick, before he has time even to twitch the muzzle of his gun in my direction.

It will not be long before he is discovered. I grin, behind the blank glass faceplate of my helmet. It will not be long before everything I am doing becomes... noticeable.

I finish the preparations at the outbuilding, and move off, zig-zagging this time towards the main house.

The house is tall and stately, built to the standards of the Klingons of three or four centuries ago - I remember, or one side of me remembers, when it would have been new and daring. It is not so stately that it is not a fortress, though - the ground floor walls are high and sheer, the windows narrow lancets through which light can pass, but not a body. A walkway runs around the upper storeys, though, and guards patrol along it. I smile again, and draw the weighted line from around my waist.

A solitary guard paces his way along the parapet - and I swing the line. Coordination of effort, that is the key. Quon provides the calculations, the precise planning; Carayl supplies the physicality, the grace and dexterity, that turn the plan into action. The weighted line loops around the guard's neck, goes taut as I throw my weight on it - and the guard is down, and I am swarming up the line, clambering over the parapet, in a matter of seconds. I search the guard's corpse, take his security keycard. I do not take his weapon. I need no weapons but myself.

I let myself into the building. Now, I must be ready to improvise - I need to bring my two targets together, and I do not know where one of them is, and I have scant minutes remaining, at best. I make my way along a corridor, past hangings of silk that recount the past honours of T'Khrem's house. I pause at a doorway, peek through -

And I smile once more, because fortune has favoured me.

The room holds T'Khrem's trophies, among them the one I seek, and T'Khrem himself is there, his thick hands caressing a sculpture in Dissulian marble that is worth a not inconsiderable fortune in itself. That, though, is not what I am here for.

I slip into the room and am behind T'Khrem before he can react to the intrusion. He was a mighty warrior in his day, but his day is past. Now, he can only whimper in pain as I strike with scientifically exact blows, breaking jaw, elbows, knees. My instructions are that he should live - and suffer.

I let momentum carry me forward, dragging T'Khrem's bulk with me, to the display case. My hand forces his down on the biometric panel. With my other hand, I trigger the wrist comm which is the only powered item I dared carry. A voice says "Override. Open casing." It is not quite T'Khrem's voice - it is a composite, based on many hours of recordings - but it, and the handprint, are good enough.

The display case is made of transparent aluminium and graphene mesh, with a force-field backup. It would not yield quickly to anything short of high explosives. Now, though, it folds open, and the light of the security field dies away. I drop T'Khrem and pick up the sword. The ceremonial bat'leth of Astigas - I can admire its sparkling tines, its elaborate platinum inlay, without even considering the weight of history, of Klingon tradition, it represents. It is all that remains of a noble line, a whole Klingon nation - its value is near incalculable.

There is a distant commotion outside - sounds, as of someone finding a body. T'Khrem's thick lips are twisted. Despite his pain, he is trying to smile. He thinks I am trapped.

He is still smiling when the lights go out. A fraction of a second later, the sound of an explosion rumbles through the building. I could bring no explosives, no spatial charges - but a Nausicaan guard's disruptor rifle, short-circuited for a force chamber explosion, was quite enough to take out the EPS substation. I hit the wrist comm.

Transporter interdiction failed when the power did. In the red glow of my departure, I can see the smile fade from T'Khrem's face, as I fade away myself.

And I am back in the Beauregard's transporter room, and Rissmo smiles at me from the console, where she has been keeping constant watch, waiting for the power failure. I pull the helmet off my head, shake out my long chestnut-coloured hair. "All done?" the Orion asks.

"As you see." I lift the blade. "And T'Khrem got to watch me take it."

Rissmo's smile grows broader, and she gives me a smouldering look through half-closed eyelids. "Celebrating tonight?" she asks in a sultry voice. She is tall, wide-hipped, bosomy - a notable contrast to Carayl's lithe, athletic frame - but our two bodies have fitted together before in... interesting... ways.

"Maybe. Let's contact our principal, first. And then I'll need a shower." Perspiration is literally pooling inside the impermeable bodysuit. "I stink."

"I'll scrub your back," Rissmo offers. She follows me to the bridge, where Morak is already at work on the comms console. Morak is Klingon, with a powerful build, a craggy, good-humoured face, and unusual light-coloured hair. He, too, offers... interesting possibilities. Some, I have explored; others, I look forward to.

"I have the encrypted channel," he says, as I enter.

I nod. "On screen, then." And I settle myself, and lounge insolently in the command chair. Insolent lounging is one more of the pleasures this body was built for....

The round green face of Suldus appears on the screen. The Syndicate enforcer's eyes glitter in their fleshy setting. I raise the bat'leth. "Mission accomplished."

"And T'Khrem?"

"Alive. And in pain, and humiliated. As you requested."

Suldus purses his lips. "I should ask for details... but I do not think I need to. You have proven reliable to date. A courier pod will arrive to take the artifact. I am transmitting rendezvous coordinates on your data subchannel now." His lips twitch. "The pod will carry the agreed payment."

"Naturally." There is a datapad by the command chair; I pick it up and activate it.

"We should discuss your official entrance into the Syndicate. You have performed well. A sponsorship from Matron Delfin -"

"Perhaps later." I smile at him. The datapad intrigues me. "There are advantages to remaining a free agent, too. I can continue to be useful to the Syndicate... while also picking up some interesting external commissions."

Deep Gate 3

Record of Battle, to the glory of Surella, daughter of Magar, of the House of Tragh, officer commanding USS Amphicyon NCC-3071

"It is a relic," I snarl. "An antique."

Lieutenant Niquoeb's keratinous headcrest rattles as he turns his cheerful purple face towards me. "Indeed so, most valiant Captain! How gratified we should be that Starfleet entrusts us with this prestigious exemplar of its historic mission!"

I stare at him. But he is serious. The Jolciots of the planet Magamba have made many inventions and discoveries - flowery language, temperature-invariant metal alloys, outrageous fission-powered warp drives - but they have never discovered irony.

I sit down in the big, boxy command chair, and contemplate the antique's bridge. The USS Amphicyon is an Atlas-class battleship, based on designs from the twenty-third century... it resembles nothing so much as a Constitution-class cruiser that has let itself go and put on weight. I study the tactical repeater screen, on the chair's left armrest. It is almost too small to be readable.

The Atlas-class warships were a dead end, a design blind alley. Starfleet built them, but had no idea what to do with them. Apt, then, that they should give one to me. Starfleet frequently has no idea what to do with its few Klingon officers.

"The assignment orders from ESD are overdue," I mutter. "Comms." Lieutenant Bloxx turns to face me. She is Bolian, reasonably competent. "Any word from Admiral Kavanagh?"

"Nothing yet, sir. I'm listening out."

"Relax, boss, they've not forgotten you." The light, good-humoured voice is also Bolian; it belongs to my alleged executive officer, Commander Glathaw Thala. He is overweight and impossibly cheerful, a researcher with Science Division, appointed to counterbalance my Klingon martial instincts by some cretin at Personnel. He is poring over some tedious detail at the science station, accompanied by my science officer, a human named Kali Lillian. She is small and dark-skinned and timid in disposition. Kali, I am told, is a goddess of destruction in some human pantheon. It is rather like having a pet mouse named Slayer.

"We should already have been cleared for departure." I stand up, pace across the deck. The interior of ESD's docking bay shows on the main screen; the bay doors are open, ships are leaving, ships are arriving. My ship is going nowhere. "Comms. Signal command. Ask for confirmation of our assignment."

"Aye, aye, sir." Bloxx is as mousy-looking as Kali Lillian, in her way, but she can do her job. I must learn to be content with that. I have had to learn to be content with very little, over the years.

"I'm just getting a routine hold-station order, sir," Bloxx reports.

I am studying the weapons consoles. "Pulse phasers. Are those even in period, for this particular antique? - Never mind. We should have heard something by now. Alert the transporter room. I am beaming over to Command."

---

Normal custom is for personnel to go unarmed about ESD, but I am not comfortable with being unarmed. I cannot carry a full range of weapons without attracting undue comment, so I compromise by wearing an old phaser pistol. It is almost as old as the Amphicyon herself, but it is well-maintained, in perfect condition, and its weight at my hip is a comfort as Lieutenant Commander Pascoe sorts through her files.

"I'm a bit at a loss," she says, eventually. She is pale and red-haired and plump, the sort of person who sits behind a desk all day, losing captains' movement orders. Starfleet officers are not permitted to kill bureaucrats. Some KDF captains think Starfleet has it easy; they need to contemplate that fact.

"I've got assignment orders here for all our category K6 command officers," she says, "and your name just isn't on them. Bit of a stumper, really."

"What is category K6?" I ask, with a sinking feeling.

"Well, officers like you. You know, the KDF exchange programme. You're all in category K6."

"But I am not a part of any exchange programme," I say. "I am a Starfleet officer. An Academy graduate. I have never been a member of the KDF."

"Oh?" She looks more puzzled. "But you're - Well. Never mind. I mean, though, in that case, you'd be in one of the A categories, wouldn't you? There's a lot more of those." She purses her lips and types on her console. I try to control my face.

"Captain Surella," she says, after some minutes. "There we are. Category A17. USS Amphicyon, yes?" She frowns. "But I've no assignment orders for you at all. I'm not even sure you're here. Well, officially, that is. Obviously, you're here, it's just -"

"I was assigned to Task Group Origen," I say, "as part of Seventh Tactical Wing, under Admiral Kavanagh. James Kavanagh. Please check that." I remembered to say please. Obedience to duty brings honour to the House, however galling that duty may be.

"Task Group Origen." More typing. "Oh. Admiral Kavanagh reviewed your assignment himself...."

This is not going to be good news. "And?"

"He sent a security downcheck. You see, his task group is operating in a sensitive area, and it's not cleared for K6 category personnel."

"But I am not category K6. I am category A17." And I must control the urge to kill.

"Yes, it is a bit of a mix-up, isn't it? The Admiral must have thought you were K6. And when he downchecked you, you went back into the K6 pile for automated reassignment. Only, of course, you're not a K6, are you? So the system just ignored you, I'm afraid."

"Contact Kavanagh. Inform him of his - misapprehension. I will join his task group at the earliest opportunity -"

"Oh, no, that can't be done. Task Group Origen is out of the system already, and running subspace silent. Besides, the Admiral filled that tac slot with a replacement. No." She blinks at me. "I'm afraid you're out of luck there."

I can feel the expression on my face, and it is not a good one. "My ship is ready for action! I have an entire battleship with a highly trained crew! You cannot just lose me and my ship in the filing system!"

"Oh, you'd be amazed what we can lose." She has no shame. "Now, let's not worry, I'm sure we can turn up something suitable." More typing. Each keypress feels like a blow against my warrior soul. "USS Amphicyon. Atlas-class? My goodness, that's unusual." She frowns. "Experimental Engineering often has uses for unusual ships, but they don't have any big projects on hand right now. I think it's because Admiral Shohl is away on her honeymoon. Did you hear about that? So romantic."

"I would prefer not to wait for an assignment until the Andorians have finished f-" I get a grip on myself before I say something irretrievable. Pascoe looks at me in a meditative sort of way.

"There's always Public Relations Command," she says, eventually.

"What?"

"You know the sort of thing. Showing visiting dignitaries around, giving tours and so on. An unusual sort of ship like yours - I'm sure it would be very popular with the tourists."

"Tourists?"

She must see in my eyes how close she is to death. "Or there's one alternative. Admiral M'eioi is requesting tactical backup on a science survey mission. Admiral Stroffa's cleared it, so, well, the first ship that's available -"

"Will be mine. Please. I am available."

"Well, you seem to meet their mission criteria." She smiles at me. She dares to smile, and I must suffer it. Duty. Always duty. "I'll send a message to Admiral M'eioi, then. Don't worry, I'll make it quite clear you're category A17."

Deep Gate 2

Personal log: M'eioi, officer commanding USS Madagascar

The Ferasan's ears fold flat to the sides of her head. Her eyes, emerald-green in the lighter stripe that is the only marking on her blue-black fur, narrow. She opens her mouth wide, displaying her enormous Ferasan fangs to the full, and she throws back her head and screams.

The scream is terrifying - high-pitched, with snarling overtones - and it echoes, ringing through all the vast domed space around us. I see crewmen at distant workstations look up, startled. And I feel my own claws tense in my fingertips -

The Ferasan opens her eyes and chuckles. "M'eioi must forgive Rrueo," she says. "Rrueo just wanted to test the echo."

I relax. A little. "I take your point," I say. "Tuterian design philosophy is... well, different."

"Different indeed." Rrueo looks around, at the enormous hollow sphere about us, at the bridge workstations on free-floating discs linked by narrow walkways. "And Rrueo thought her ship's bridge was inconveniently large - M'eoi's old ship could fit inside this bridge, surely."

"Just about." My last command, the science vessel Timor, wasn't big. But she was tough, tough enough to cope with the Vaadwaur and the Voth - "Size isn't everything. But now the engineers have cleared some of these Tuterian prize vessels for general use, well, Science Division can use them."

"Rrueo does not doubt this. A Denuos-class dreadnought carrier - Rrueo almost feels she should be jealous." She rests one hand on the railing around the command disc, and looks down into the bowels of the ship. "Though Rrueo prefers Ferasan designs, that is certain."

Rrueo and I worked together during a crisis in the Delta Quadrant. We didn't come out of it friends, exactly, but we managed not to kill each other, which is good going for a Caitian and a Ferasan. Now, with the Treaty of Sauria - supposedly - setting up the basis for a rapprochement between the sundered branches of our species, the occasional diplomatic visit is reckoned a good thing. Which is why Rrueo is a guest aboard my new command.

Now she is prowling around the edge of the command disc. She looks a little like me, I suppose, though I am somewhat shorter and slighter in build - and my fur is plain black, without the blue tint - and I don't have those massive fangs. Sometimes, in my darker moods, I think the Ferasans' original designers were right, and she does look like an improved version of the species. But only in my darker moods.

The comms console suddenly pings for attention. I touch the button, and the main screen springs to life. I wince. There are definite scuff marks on it, from where the human engineering team re-jigged the gravity plating and played field hockey on it.... The face forming on the massive screen is that of a matronly Denobulan woman - Admiral Stroffa, the head of Stellar Survey. I come to attention and salute.

"Admiral M'eioi." Stroffa glances to one side. "And General Rrueo, I see. Is our hospitality to your satisfaction, General?"

"Rrueo has no complaints," says the Ferasan. "Should Rrueo absent herself, while you two talk business?"

Stroffa smiles. "No need. The KDF is already aware of the relevant factors, in fact." Her gaze shifts back to me. "A routine survey of Galactic Object 4704 had unexpected consequences. That anomaly seems to have... come to life. It emitted a wide spectrum of exotic radiation, under the stimulus of a powerful energy beam of undetermined origin. This is, to say the least, unusual."

"4704?" I rack my brains. There are thousands - at least 4,704, in fact - of incompletely studied anomalies out there, but some are better known than others. "Isn't that the completely dead zone out towards -"

"Not any more," Stroffa says dryly. "We need a science vessel to make detailed observations. And, since we know so little about that anomaly, and we have no idea who or what has caused it to change, that science vessel had better be prepared for anything. The Madagascar's somewhat extensive capabilities would seem to fit the bill."

"Yes, sir. I'll make immediate preparations for departure."

"Please do. I am transmitting the requisite information on your data subchannel now. General Rrueo, I regret that it may be necessary to cut your visit short -"

"Rrueo will find ways to amuse herself. Thank you, Admiral." Rrueo throws Stroffa a sketchy salute.

"Thank you for your understanding and your cooperation," says Stroffa. "Admiral M'eioi, in light of the undetermined nature of the problem, you may find it worthwhile to request additional support from Tactical Division. Just as a precaution, you understand. I have cleared this through normal channels in advance."

"It's a sound idea, sir. Thank you." I salute again.

"I will await your report with interest. Good luck, Admiral. Stroffa out." The huge screen goes blank. I hope Rrueo hasn't noticed the scuff marks.

Rrueo licks her fangs. "Well. Some people have all the luck, it seems. M'eioi is to investigate a new phenomenon at the frontier of space, while Rrueo cools her heels in the KDF legation. Never mind. Rrueo has a plan already. That rather handsome young ensign who is on duty outside Quinn's office... Rrueo has often wondered if it is true what they say, about unmodified Caitian males...."

"Oh, come on," I protest. "Ensign Rraak? He just wants a quiet life!"

"Then Rrueo suspects he has chosen the wrong profession, and the wrong workplace, and possibly the wrong century to be born into. But do not fear, Rrueo will treat him gently." She gives me an airy wave, and saunters off down the walkway. "Good fortune attend you on your mission. Rrueo hopes your banners will continue to wave bravely."

And, with that, she is gone. Commander Joaj is already at my elbow with a PADD full of requirements: the little engineer squints up at me, and her bristling antennae twitch. "What did she mean?" she asks. "About the banners, sir?"

"Oh." I take the PADD. "She's a telepath, and she has this habit of constructing... metaphors, I think she said... for the feel of people's minds. Apparently, my mind is like an army with banners. So she says."

"I see." Joaj peers at Rrueo's retreating form in the distance. She scratches her head, producing an alarming noise from her bark-like skin. "Flattering, I guess."

"I suppose so." I look at the PADD. "Better get moving. And get me a channel to the bureaucrats. I think a backup from Tac Division might come in handy. Let's see who they've got available."

Deep Gate 1

2387

There was a light glowing at the far end of the instruction hall.

Steret repressed a frown; annoyance, too, was emotion. One of the students had evidently decided to work late; he would speak to them, make sure they understood the importance of keeping regular hour, the necessity to allow proper time for sleep, to rest the brain and maintain peak levels of cognitive ability. It was only logical. The students had the ability to comprehend logic.

He paced across the otherwise deserted hall, picking his way between the hemispherical study cells, heading for the one that remained lit, where everything else was dark.

As he approached, he saw who was in the cell, and realized that a more flexible approach might be required. The overwhelming majority of students at the Vulcan Academy were, obviously enough, Vulcan. But this one - He saw the hairless head, the round, blunted ears, and he brought to mind this particular student's circumstances.

He halted at the rim of the study cell. "Student Shemosh."

Shemosh had evidently not heard him approach; now, the student raised his head and turned dark, liquid eyes on Steret. The Vulcan struggled with a sudden surge of emotion. He had never had romantic feelings for males - had, indeed, repressed all such passions, except during the septennial indignity of the pon farr - but the emotional charge, the naked need for closeness, for comfort, in the Deltan's eyes -

"Instructor Steret," Shemosh said. "I - I am sorry. I didn't know -" He looked around him. "How late is it?"

"Very late. I was about to close the Hall for the night." Steret squatted down at the rim of the cell, looked at Shemosh. The Deltan wore a plain, white, student's robe. The console screen before him showed diagrams and equations - some problem in hyper-dimensional geometry, it seemed, though it was far beyond Steret's own competence. Shemosh was a postgraduate exchange student, already an expert in recondite areas of subspace physics; he was an immense asset to the Academy, to the Federation, to the cause of science as a whole. Too valuable an asset, Steret thought, to be allowed to squander himself. "I understand your difficulties. But you should rest."

"I -" The Deltan's hands clenched into fists, and Steret shuddered as another wave of raw emotion broke against his Vulcan discipline. "I - Oh, you are right. Of course you are right. But I wanted -"

"Your reaction is natural and understandable," said Steret. "You have suffered a tragic loss. An emotional response is inevitable."

"My tragedy?" Shemosh's gaze turned to the screen. "My tragedy is nothing, compared with -"

"The destruction of Romulus is a great loss, certainly," said Steret. "But for most of us, it is a thing too large to be felt, only to be comprehended as an abstraction. A definite, localized, personal loss, on the other hand -"

"Yes," said Shemosh. He turned his face back to Steret, met the Vulcan's gaze with his dark eyes. "Yes, I know, you do understand. I know your discipline only forbids the expression of emotion, Instructor, not the fact of it." He gave a wan, rueful smile. "I know that you are trying to be kind."

"Insofar as my position and my cultural background permit it, you are correct," said Steret.

"Thank you," Shemosh said softly. "It is all that anyone can do," he added.

The Hobus supernova had behaved like nothing in history. The radiation, which should have been only a harmless though brilliant light in Romulus's sky, five hundred years in the future, had taken some short cut through subspace and arrived in a matter of weeks, at an intensity that reduced the entire system to rubble and vapour. Billions had died. And one, individual tragedy among all those billions - the crew of a Deltan trade ship, a close-knit family concern, passing too close to the subspace rift at just the wrong moment. They had been so proud of their brilliant son, when he won his academic scholarships, when he went to study on Earth, then on Vulcan....

"The past cannot be altered," said Steret. "It can only be faced. My cultural background will only permit me to suggest that you face it - logically. To neglect your own health, your physical needs, is not logical."

"You are right," said Shemosh. He sighed, and stood up. He took one hard look at the image on the screen, then turned the console off. "I will - go to my quarters. And try to sleep."

"That is logical. I know it will also prove difficult." Steret stood up, too. "I regret that I cannot offer you greater assistance. Perhaps you should consult with a counsellor from your own culture, or one similarly skilled in the expression of emotion."

"It's a good idea," Shemosh said. His face was thoughtful.

"It is the best that I can offer you. Again, I regret that I can do no more. But the past is the past. There is nothing that any of us can do to change that."

Steret watched, impassively, as Shemosh clambered out of the cell, muttered something under his breath, and made his way across the darkened hall, out into the open air and the hot Vulcan night. Then he closed down the cell, made a final round of inspection, and retired.

But Steret found sleep hard to achieve that night, too. He had heard Shemosh's words as he left, and they puzzled him.

"Nothing any of us can do," the Deltan had said, "except wait, maybe."

Present Day

"Maintaining separation at five kilometres," Lieutenant th'Talish reported.

Captain Leaman grunted. "Not so long since I'd get worried, having a Klink that far up my - never mind," he said. "Time to target?"

"Closing to optimum scan range in seven minutes," Commander T'Tel answered from the main science station.

"All right," Leaman said. "Call the Klinks, let's tell them what not to expect."

He studied the tactical display. The mIn wo' showed up, precisely on station, five kilometres behind the USS Southmoor. Leaman could call up a visual, study the blocky, angular shape of the Naj'Sov science cruiser.... A botch job, he thought. Ugly, from its chisel prow right back to the oversized subspace radome covering most of its rear. A flying scrapheap, compared to the neat lines of his own advanced light cruiser. He shook his head. It had been easier when they were fighting the Klingons, dammit.

"I have the CO of the mIn wo' on screen," said Lieutenant Shaffer on comms.

"Let's have him." The Klingon commander's scarred face appeared on the main viewscreen. "Commander Qarn. Ready for your first test?"

Qarn bared his teeth. Leaman hoped it was a smile. "All systems optimal, Starfleet. But where is your target?"

"Dead ahead. It's just kinda hard to spot." Leaman smiled, himself. "This one's great for calibrating a base line. Just run your scan on the coordinates we've sent you, and you'll get zero."

"Zero on what?" Qarn asked. "Electromagnetics? Lidar ranging? Gravimetrics? Subspace interferometry?"

"Any of them," said Leaman. "All of them. Take a look at Galactic Object 4704, Commander. The biggest spot of absolute nothing in the known galaxy."

The anomaly was hard to spot, sure enough. This close, some stars were occulted by the convoluted black - mass wasn't the right word, Leaman thought; GO4704 had no mass. It emitted no radiation, either - nor did it reflect any, which was the only way to spot it. Matter passed through it, but came out the other side with its temperature reduced to that of cosmic background.... Where the energy went was just one of the puzzles about the object. There were several competing theories, but none had been verified, due to the effective impossibility of getting meaningful information out of the anomaly.

It was there. It was a mystery of space - harmless, unless you were unlucky enough to run into it. And it was, as Leaman had pointed out, a great place to set zero points on your sensor equipment.

"Helm, steer eight five mark zero," he ordered. "We'll get out of your field of view, Commander."

"Such excitement," the Klingon grumbled. "Very well. Let us test your zeroes, Starfleet."

Icons flashed around the mIn wo' on the tactical display. Qarn was running a full sequence on his new ship's active scanners, it appeared. Galactic Object 4704 looked... unimpressed, Leaman thought.

"Gravimetrics zero," Qarn said slowly. "Electromagnetics... zero. Temperature, absolute zero. I had not thought that achievable in nature. Subspace -" He leaned to one side, looking at something out of Leaman's field of view. "I thought you said this thing was all zeroes, Starfleet. I have theta-band subspace radiation here."

"Check the shielding on your sensor coils," said Leaman. "I'll bet you that's nothing but internal noise from your own ship's systems."

"I will take that bet, Starfleet. There is nothing wrong with my systems."

"Sir." T'Tel's eyebrow quirked. "I'm picking something up on our own sensors."

"What? Can't be. Double-check." Leaman activated a repeater screen, studied the feed from the science station.

"Positive for theta-band radiation," said T'Tel. "And I'm picking up some exotics. Readings consistent with anti-tachyon particles, though -"

"GO4704's been dead since it was first detected," said Leaman blankly. "Over a hundred and twenty years of just nothing -"

Qarn laughed, a huge explosive bark of scorn. "Nothing, you say, Starfleet? Look at it!"

"On screen. Visual." Leaman's mouth was suddenly dry.

Qarn's face vanished from the viewer, and in its place -

Galactic Object 4704 was a twisted toroid in shape - a shape which, given its black-on-black colour, had taken a long time to map. But there was no problem determining its shape now, not as it hung in the centre of the screen, tiger-striped with a pulsating rainbow of shifting colours -

The screen went blank. The Southmoor lurched violently, and a shower of sparks erupted from an overloaded console. Leaman's command screens blanked out, then filled themselves with static and gibberish. An automated alarm began to scream.

"What the hell just happened?" Leaman yelled. "Status report!"

"Working," said T'Tel. "We have - Sir, we appear to have inadvertently transected a radiation beam. Damage to several decks -"

"Warp power is out," added th'Talish. "Main deflector is shorted, non-operational. Structural integrity reads seventy-eight per cent. We still have impulse, I'm sealing our hull breaches -"

"Sir, the mIn wo' is hailing," said Shaffer.

"Let's hear them." Stunned, Leaman sank back into his command chair.

Qarn's face, when it reappeared on the screen, was flickering and scarred with static. "Starfleet. How bad is it?"

Leaman swallowed. "Warp power is out. No word on casualties yet -"

"I think you may have been lucky. Someone or something is tickling your galactic object, Starfleet. Tickling it with a radiation beam more than powerful enough to disable your ship. Tickling it hard enough to get a response." The Klingon's face was very serious. "I will tow you clear of the immediate danger zone, and my engineers are ready to assist you in making repairs. After which, I suggest we head back to Starbase 271 and make a report. This has become something more than an exercise in calibrating my sensors."

Deep Gate: Introduction

And off I went on another tangent here, with a more-or-less self-contained storyline that doesn't reference much either in-game or in my own continuity.

After Kalevar Thrang and his relatively straightforward villainy, I decided to try something a bit different, with a primary antagonist who genuinely, sincerely, wants the best for everyone.  And has not the slightest compunction about deciding what "the best" means.  As a mulish sort of person myself, speaking personally, I'd rather have Kalevar Thrang.  At least you know where you are with a power-mad dictator.

One recurring character turns up - M'eioi, who I don't use often enough - and two new ones.  By this stage, I'd been through every option in the game's character selection setup bar two; playing as a Joined Trill, and playing as a Federation-aligned Klingon.  So, I followed up those options, and the results were Carayl Quon and Surella.  Also, I decided to abandon the "everyone's an admiral" thing... so, Carayl is an independent privateer captain (taking full and unfair advantage of her position - my view of the Joined Trills as a sort of Freemasonry is mine alone, but I can't see how they could reasonably avoid having a social network like that, over time), while Surella is a Starfleet Captain facing off against the worst enemy that can afflict a Starfleet Captain: Starfleet bureaucracy.

All this and zero-mass black holes, too.  Now read on....