"Whit on Airth's she think she's playin' at?" I ask the world at large.
"A bluff, I suspect." T'Mev always has an answer. "She is trying to persuade the Na'kuhl that they cannot risk harming her without provoking Organian retaliation."
"Daft wee bampot," I mutter. "Ye cannae hold up a bluidy Organian as a magic shield against zappers. They willnae cooperate ony mair than they have tae. An' besides, it shows she's important tae the timeline. The bluidy Na'kuhl are tryin' tae change th' bluidy timeline, they'll off her first chance they bluidy get."
"We must hope that Captain Grau does not offer them the opportunity," says T'Mev.
I make a not-convinced sort of grunt. Everyone else on the bridge looks pretty sceptical, too. On the screen, the Harrier is a dwindling shape heading towards the vague dot of Priyanapari. Where there is a Na'kuhl battlecruiser and a souped-up Klingon D7, at the very least - assuming they haven't already cracked open the Suliban weapons cache, which is not a particularly safe assumption to make. Even with our own stats-boosting software package, the Harrier is going to be seriously outgunned.
"We could gae in oorsel's an' back her up," I muse.
"Contra-indicated," says T'Mev. "The Klingon has already engaged in hostilities with us. She may well presume that we are not protected by any Organian involvement."
And she may well presume correctly at that. Ronnie Grau's hapless Organian companion might feel obliged to protect her, so as not to annoy the extra-temporal parasite currently squatting in her oblivious head... but he's got no reason to be even slightly interested in my well-being. And even with the Leacock, the ships in space would be no better than evenly matched... and I have no idea what forces they can bring to bear from the ground.
"Ah jist dinnae like tae stand aroond an' dae nothin'," I say. "Ah'd rather be up an daein'."
"We've noticed," mutters Bood.
"We could run an analysis of the Na'kuhl ship's temporal portal," Jidsi offers. "I got some very odd readings on their presumed origin point."
It's not exactly pulse-pounding action, but it sounds like something, at least. "All right. Whit's the odd bit, then?"
"Coordinates were skewed," Jidsi replies. I saunter over to the science console to take a look at her readings. T'Mev comes to stand beside me. Well, T'Mev is the one who actually understands this temporal physics stuff. Still, even I can see, as I peer over Jidsi's shoulder, that the Na'kuhl temporal portal was a very odd shape.
"Interesting." T'Mev does the Vulcan eyebrow thing. "The multidimensional trajectory does not correspond to any resolvable coordinates in conventional spacetime."
"They came intae th' universe from the wrong angle?" I translate.
"In a sense. It is consistent with a transit from a temporal observatory, outside the normal timelines." T'Mev purses her lips. "If the Na'kuhl dissidents have constructed a temporal observatory, we should probably obtain whatever further data we can. It is a development of some significance."
"I've routed a chroniton beam through the main deflector," says Jidsi. "I think I've got it synchronized with the portal's signature.... It wouldn't be much use, I guess, except this system is rotten with temporal anomalies already...."
"Whit are ye daein' wi' it?" I ask.
"Keeping the temporal portal open," says Jidsi. "Just a little bit. A crack, almost. But if we can get a scanning beam through it -"
"We might obtain useful data," says T'Mev.
"Aye. Trouble is, we might also wake up whitever's on th' ither side of yon portal." I think for a bit. "Yon wee crack. How big is it?"
"The physical dimensions of a temporal portal -" T'Mev begins.
"No more than about six metres," Jidsi breaks in before T'Mev can tell us lots of stuff about transdimensional geometry.
"Och," I say, "that's plenty." I grin at T'Mev in my best I've-got-a-great-idea way.
"More than adequate for what purpose?" T'Mev asks.
"Gae in an' hae a wee looksie oorsel's," I say. I stroll back to the command console and start looking up personnel records. I'm almost sure I remember something -
"The physical dimensions of an Ateleth-class dreadnought," says T'Mev, "or even those of one of the Nusuti fighters, exceed the dimensions of this trans-temporal rift -"
"Aye," I say, "but those're no' oor only options." My grin gets broader: I've remembered right. "Crashin' aboot in a big Xindi ship isnae ony mair subtle than shinin' a scanner beam through yon thing. But, Bood, ye remember that wee Romulan fighter we sort o' borrowed at th' Vault -?"
"Oh, Prophets," groans Bood. "You're not taking that thing out?"
"Fast, small, cloaked an' sneaky," I say. "Jist th' thing we need. Ah'll be wantin' a gunner an' cloak operator fer th' back seat, o' course." My grin gets very big indeed. "Zula, ye're checked oot on a Scorpion fighter, are ye no'?"
"Oh, Prophets," says Bood again.
---
"Strictly business," I say, as the Scorpion noses its way out of the Leacock's hangar bay. Behind me, Zula mutters something not quite audible. "Relax, hen. This time, Ah love ye jist fer yer cloaking technologies certification, dinnae fret."
"I suppose there isn't room in this cockpit, anyway, for any Scots wha-hey," she says.
"Och," I protest, "dinnae say that, ye ken fine weel Ah'm verra flexible."
It gets a reluctant laugh. I aim the Scorpion away from the Leacock, along the line marked out on the nav computer, towards the invisible point where Jidsi is keeping the temporal portal open. I just hope the Na'kuhl haven't spotted that particular dodge - if they have, things are liable to get interesting.
"So what are your plans?" Zula asks.
"Ah'm no' takin' on a Na'kuhl task force in this wee beastie," I reassure her. "We'll gae doon th' portal an' see whit's at th' ither end - cloaked all the way. If it's somethin' we can deal with, we'll deal wi' it. Mair likely, we'll turn aroond an' head back fer the Leacock, ideally wi'oot onyone even noticin' we've been there."
"Sounds good to me. Sir."
"Ye can call me Caro, there's naebody here tae put ye on report."
"I think sticking to 'sir' might be safer. Sir."
I twist around in my seat so I can look at her. "Ye didnae join Starfleet Intelligence tae play safe, did ye? Truthfully, hen."
Her blue eyes are shadowed in the dimly lit cockpit. I can't quite read her expression. "Maybe not," she says. "But there are risks, and risks."
"Aye," I say, "weel, some risks are worth takin', am Ah right?"
She makes a not very ladylike noise. "You," she says, "are trouble. In every possible way." She pauses for a moment, before she adds, "Sir."
"Aye, but I'm no' borin'," I say.
"No," she says, "I'll give you that. Infuriating, reckless, exasperating, and often incomprehensible, but never boring. We're coming up on the portal nexus, you might want to look at that instead of me."
"Och, but ye're prettier." But I turn back to the flight controls anyway. The Scorpion is a smart little beast, but it can't quite fly itself through a crack in spacetime.
The portal doesn't look like anything much. That kind of worries me, a bit. Normally, these sorts of things are pretty darned obvious. I check the Scorpion's trajectory. Still on course.
"OK. Engaging warp, parameters as indicated. Let's be havin' the cloak, too."
Going through the gap in space feels like... nothing, much. The stars stretch out into thin streaks and then fade away into nothing. Beyond the canopy of the cockpit, I see only a few vague, fugitive blurs of blue. It bothers me. Normally, distorted spacetime is full of blue Cherenkov emissions, as particles move into the local reference frame, are politely reminded of the universal speed limit of c, and shed the energy of their excess velocity as visible-light photons. The occasional slight glimmers must mean that, well, there isn't anything much going on around here. In which case, we might stand out like the proverbial sore thumb.
"Cloak status?" I ask.
"Running and stable," says Zula. "I've got to warn you, I'm not as good as a trained Rom operator, though."
"Aye, weel, I dinnae expect miracles, hen. Jist keep mah ship invisible while Ah fly it oot of the known universe, that's all Ah ask."
Another unladylike snort. "You always could make me laugh. Damn it. Sir."
Thoughts of laughter, and other things I used to do with Zula, abruptly flee my mind. "Scanner contact." That was quick. Though I guess distance doesn't exactly mean anything, when you're moving outside all conventional dimensions. "Gaein' sublight. Keep th' cloak up. There's somethin' big oot there."
The Scorpion slows - though you wouldn't know it from anything but the instruments, as the scenery outside never changes. Except - there is something ahead of us, something big and chunky, blocks of metallic modules arranged in a ring around a central hub.
"Some kind o' space station?" I muse aloud. It doesn't look like Na'kuhl style.
"Reading... I'm not sure about this," says Zula. "I don't recognize that design. I'm getting transponder codes, though, in what could be a Denobulan format."
Denobulan? I never knew the Denobulans were busy in the Temporal Cold War, but I suppose, out here, literally anything is possible. "Any life signs? Weapons signatures?"
"Cloak is still stable. If there's anyone there, I don't think they've spotted us. I have what might be some life signs, but I can't get a solid read on them without active scans - or getting closer."
"We'll try getting' closer, first." I send the Scorpion onto an approach vector, passing close under the station. "I'll loop aroond it a couple of times, so's we can get a look at it from every angle - Hel-lo," I add, as something registers on one of the instrument panels. "Is yon scanner seein' whit Ah think it's seein'?"
"Um," says Zula. "Confirmed. Romulan Republic transponder. Consistent with a Republic auxiliary vessel... a commander's gig, in fact."
"An' we ken someone wha's lost one of those, am Ah right? Let's gae look." So this is where T'Laihhae and her weird Suliban friend ended up? But the Na'kuhl were here, as well.... One way or another, I think I need to ask T'Laihhae some questions. If it involves pulling her out of a Na'kuhl prison cell, well, I can do that.
"The gig's in a docking bay about here." Zula feeds the data through to my flight console, and a marker starts to flash. "Not detecting any Romulan life signs, though."
"Aye, weel," I say, "there's only one of T'Laihhae, an' she's only a wee thing. Ah think," I say, and turn the Scorpion onto the new heading, "we need tae get oor boots on th' ground, hen."
"Sir," Zula protests, "there's definitely some life aboard that station, and I'm not sure what."
"Weel," I say, "ye hae a lovely smile fer th' ones that are friendly, aye? An' a bluidy big gun fer th' ones that arenae." The docking bay looks like a normal enough design, though I don't recognize all that Denobulan signage. It looks like the bay doors have been retracted and there's a force field barrier keeping the air in. Standard practice. And beyond the force field, that is definitely a Romulan gig.
"They're bound to notice us docking," says Zula. "And I can't keep the cloak stable anyway if we're going through a force shield."
"Aye," I say absent-mindedly, "fair enough, drop it then."
The Scorpion slides through the field with a crackle of ionization and settles neatly to the deck plating. I check my transporter buffer, then pop the canopy and vault out, with my own lovely smile at the ready, and also my TR-116B rifle, materializing in my hands.
Zula has a phaser in her left hand and a tricorder in her right. "No life signs on the gig, at any rate," she says.
"Keep an eye oot," I begin, "there's bound tae be -"
I don't get to finish the sentence, because Zula yells "Door!" just as another voice yells something I don't catch, and I spin around to face the bay's access door, and my rifle comes up to my shoulder almost automatically as I register the red-clad figure standing in the doorway -
The rifle makes its weird sneezing noise, and Zula's phaser sends out a burning line of golden light at the same time. Both of us hit. The shape in the doorway goes down, and I'm pretty sure it's not getting up again.
I lope across the shuttle bay, towards the fallen enemy, confirming what I already know -
The chest is a smoking crater, in which the track of my bullet can't even be seen. The heavy red clothing, though, and the leathery, hairless head, make our victim instantly recognizable. An elegant chronoplasma pistol is still clutched in one dead hand. The poor so-and-so didn't even have time to take the safety off.
"Na'kuhl, all right." My eyes meet Zula's, and both pairs are equally grim.
"Where there's one," she says, "there'll be more."
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