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."

Zero Hour 34

Lyle Anson blinked, peered around him, raised his head from his pillow. The sound of knocking echoed around his apartment. He stared at his bedside clock. "Four twenty a.m?" he said aloud. The knocking continued.

"I'm coming, dammit!" he shouted. He threw back the bedclothes, swung his legs out of bed, paused for a moment to rub the sleep from his eyes. The knocking on the door continued, steady and peremptory. He shrugged into a dressing gown, muttered "Lights," and blinked as the room gradually lightened. He made his way to the door. The video scan showed several humans in the hallway outside - no one he recognized. He touched the intercom panel. "Who is it?"

"Federation Security, sir. Please open the door."

Anson's eyes grew wide. His hand dropped away from the panel.

"Please open the door, sir, or we will need to use our security override."

Anson licked his lips. His mouth felt suddenly dry. He raised his hand hesitantly, pressed the door control icon. The door slid open.

"Thank you, sir." Four men - large human males. The first one raised his hand. He held a brushed-steel device in it, a thing about the size and shape of a playing card. He pressed a switch on its side, and a pattern of abstract lights danced briefly in the air. Federation Security's famous ID system. And it identified itself, mainly, to the secure systems in his home - they had full access, now.

"What's all this about?" he asked, as the security team came in.

They waited until the door had slid shut to answer him. "You are under arrest, sir," the first man said, as the others fanned out across the room, forensic tricorders in their hands.

"Arrest? Me? What for?"

"Sedition, treason, and conspiracy to commit genocide, sir." The Security man was absolutely calm and humourless. "Please accompany me while this site is secured for analysis."

"I -" Anson found himself at a loss for words. "Can I get dressed first?" he asked, almost plaintively.

"We may need to subject your clothing to analysis, sir. We've arranged secure transport to our holding area, where there's a full featured clothing replicator. We will respect your convenience as much as is compatible with our duties, sir. I'm afraid I have to insist, though."

"This is madness," Anson muttered. "Madness." The man took his elbow in a polite but firm grip, and steered him towards the door. "My neighbours -"

"Haven't been disturbed, sir." The man flashed an insincere smile at him. "Good soundproofing on these apartments, isn't it? Very comfortable. All the amenities."

"Amenities," Anson muttered. The door slid open again. He pulled the dressing gown around himself. Nerves. Just nerves, making him feel cold.

There were more people in the hallway outside. A more diverse mix, men and women and Vulcans and Tellarites and - Anson froze in the doorway, didn't move until the security man tugged at his elbow. One small, dapper, reptilian figure, out there in the hallway, watching him with lambent slit-pupilled eyes.

"Mr. Anson," said Aennik Okeg. "I'm honestly sorry it has come to this."

"Come to what?" A hot rage suddenly blossomed in Lyle Anson's heart. "What do you think you're doing, Mr. President? Do you think you can stop the Actionist movement by -"

"Mr. Anson," said Okeg, "we know."

"What? What do you know? Or what do you think you know?"

"Sir," said the security man, "I'm obliged to remind you of your right to silence -"

"I don't need to be silent!" Anson snarled. He shook off the man's guiding hand, and stepped towards the President. "What do you think you're doing? You can't arrest your political opponents! It's in the damn Charter!"

"Security will have told you the charges," said Okeg. "We've found the link, Mr. Anson. The link between Action Black and the other Actionist sections. And between Action Black and Kalevar Thrang."

That name, in the President's lipless mouth, quenched the fire of Anson's rage like a deluge of ice water. He stepped back. His own mouth twitched.

Then he said, "I deny everything."

"You have that right," Okeg said sadly.

"I deny everything. I have no connection to Kalevar Thrang or to the terrorists in Action Black. But I'll tell you something, Mr. President. I've heard of Kalevar Thrang, and I know how he works. He's good. Better than you. Maybe you've breached his security - but you won't have everything, far from it. There will be things only Thrang knows, data stores and systems only he can unlock. And without those, you won't have enough to prove anything, Mr. President. Sure, you can have me arrested, maybe you can even fake up a prima facie case against me - but you can't win it. I'm going to walk away from this, Mr. President, and you're going to be just another failed politician who tried a last-ditch smear campaign to bring down a rival. Tried and failed." There was an ugly smile on his lips, now. "Because if you want to take me down, you're going to need to take down Kalevar Thrang, in person. And you don't have anyone who's good enough to do that."

Zero Hour 26

Office of the Chancellor, First City, Qo'noS

Sweat glittered on Captain Kuthis's brow ridges; his face was grey and haggard. "Once we had broadcast the general alert," he said, "we plotted an intercept course for the trilithium warhead. It was useless. We had no chance of reaching weapons range on full impulse, and no time to calculate a precision micro-warp jump -"

"I know the difficulties," said J'mpok. He sat behind his desk, looking up at Kuthis. Behind him and to one side, Ambassador S'taass of the Gorn was a hulking silent presence. "Go on."

Kuthis nodded. "We understood the consequences of a trilithium detonation... we knew the system was doomed. We.... It seemed to us that we should try to save someone. Something...."

"Your logs show you performed a short warp jump to the outer system," said J'mpok.

"We had to make a choice." Genuine anguish showed on Kuthis's face. "Dolsulca VII... furthest from the blast... it offered the best chance, we thought. We identified six space colony cylinders that would be eclipsed by the gas giant during the initial radiation flash. Two were too large... we chose...."

"Arcology Theyava-Lan 1326." S'taass spoke for the first time, delivering the information in a flat tone.

"Yes," said Kuthis. "We knew it would survive the radiation flare, but when the rest followed, the plasma storm... even at that range, it would overwhelm their shields. Unless we supplemented them with ours.... We had to make a choice! We had to choose some few who might live, and leave the rest to die!"

"You extended your ship's shields and synchronized them with the colony cylinder's own," said J'mpok. "The additional shielding protected the colony, allowed them to survive until the plasma flux dropped to tolerable levels. Disaster relief vessels evacuated the cylinder shortly thereafter. Even for a small Siohonin colony, it took many, many ships... but they lived, Captain. They lived." His heavy-lidded eyes studied the other's sweating face. "A Vor'cha class cruiser such as your vessel does not possess shields enough to be extended in this manner - in normal circumstances."

"The circumstances were not normal, Chancellor. I ordered storm shelters rigged in the cargo bays, sent all but the most essential personnel to those. Those of us who remained at our posts... were all volunteers."

"The shielding, and the sheer bulk of the colony cylinder, protected its inhabitants," said J'mpok, in a soft voice, "and the radiological storm shelters protected your crew. With the exception of yourself and your... volunteers. I have read the medical reports."

"I, also." Kuthis was starting to sway from side to side. "If I have any regrets, Chancellor.... It is only that... I wish we could have done more...."

J'mpok rose to his feet. "You have done all that any true Klingon could, Captain. Qapla'." He raised his fist in a grave salute. "You are dismissed, Captain Kuthis. Rest now. Sto'vo'kor awaits."

Captain Kuthis returned the salute, turned, and stumbled out of the room.

J'mpok looked down at his desk console. "He did all that he could. But... perhaps a million Siohonin rescued, by his action, and by other ships as they fled the system. A drop in the ocean. And the homeworld, destroyed.... The Siohonin are extinct as a civilization."

"Our adversaries chose well," S'taass said. "If any genocide could ever be made acceptable.... The Siohonin had no friends in the galaxy."

A growl started in J'mpok's throat. He rose to his feet. "They fought a war against us all, true enough. They were defeated. And their leadership died for their temerity, and they were dupes of Sebreac Tharr in any case. Besides -" His fists came down on the desktop, hard enough to crack the console screen. "They were the Empire's subjects!" he roared. "They were our responsibility! This - this thing - affronts the Empire's honour!"

"I do not deny it," said S'taass. "What is to be done?"

"What must be done. Find those responsible, and punish them." J'mpok's eyes narrowed. "We must have help. The Federation is constitutionally opposed to genocide, and they know we are already at war with these - creatures. This so-called Action Black. We must pool our knowledge, pool our resources, seek out these criminals and extirpate them."

"I agree," said S'taass. "I worry, only -"

J'mpok rounded on him. "Worry what?"

"That this pooling of resources is precisely what the Actionists demand," said S'taass. "They claim that Action Black has no links to them - that it is a dark parody, only, of their own organization. Still. It seems that this crime brings benefits to the Actionists. And that concerns me."

Office of the President, Palais de la Concorde, Paris, Earth

"Mr President, this is an outrage. It's a violation of everything the Federation stand for. You have to act."

Lyle Anson paced up and down before the desk. Behind it, Aennik Okeg sat perfectly still, his huge eyes watchful.

"Outright genocide, sir. We cannot stand by and watch -"

"The Dolsulca system is... was... a part of the Klingon Empire," Okeg said. "The settlement treaty at the end of the Siohonin crisis stipulated that the Empire would take full responsibility for the control and... rehabilitation... of the Siohonin."

"Sir, are you saying that this is not our problem?"

"Of course not. We will give the Empire all the help they ask for. And I am sure they will ask. But we will not interfere in another nation's affairs until they permit it. It's a fundamental principle of the Federation, Mr Anson."

Anson stopped pacing. He turned sharply on his heel to face Okeg directly.

"Mr President, sometimes principles have to change. There is a bunch of madmen on the loose with genocide weapons, and whoever they are, they need to be stopped. We cannot allow issues of abstract principle to interfere with that!"

"I'm aware of your views, Mr Anson. You already know I don't share them. We will do everything we can, under Federation law. You must know that I want those criminals brought to justice as much as anyone."

"Not as much as us, sir. Action Black! They're laughing at us, sir, at us, the Actionist movement. You can't tell me that's not deliberate. These people, whoever they are -"

"We have a tentative identification, at least," said Okeg. "The ship which fired the warhead - it was using a specialist warp drive developed by an augmented renegade named -"

"Kalevar Thrang. I know. We don't know if it's him, though, or if he just sold the technology to some other group of lunatics. In any case, sir, just knowing a name isn't enough. We need full, open access between ourselves and the Klingons. And the Republic, too. We already know the Remans have been looking for trilithium for some time - they were concerned about exactly this sort of threat. We -"

"You're very well informed, Mr Anson," Okeg observed.

"We need to be. All the Actionist movements communicate, Mr President. We share information, of course we do. And that's why we recognize the value of that. Mr President, a specialist forensic team could scout the Dolsulca system for the remains of that warp contrail. We could track Action Black's ship back to its starting point. Klingon technology isn't up to a task like that, they don't have proper science ships like ours. Are you going to wait for them to ask before you send those ships in?"

"Of course." Okeg's voice remained calm and mild. "We do not interfere, Mr Anson. As soon as the Chancellor requests that help, he'll have it. Until then, though - Well. The Empire is currently in a state of high alert. Sending an unannounced Starfleet task force over the border - well, it's an action that could be dangerously misinterpreted."

"We're talking about genocide, Mr President! Hundreds of billions of people, an entire culture, wiped out! You can't sit there and quote me Federation legalisms!" Anson slammed his hands down on the President's desk. "Sir, I'm giving you a warning. We have resources. And if you won't take action, then I promise you, we will."

Bodega Bay, California, Earth

The planks of the jetty creaked beneath Thomas Harriman's feet. Before him, the sun shone out of a clear sky onto the flawless blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Harriman proceeded, slowly, to the end of the jetty, where the other man was waiting for him.

"Tom. Good to see you." The man with the close-cropped sandy hair and the scar on his face smiled. "It's been a while."

"Franklin. Yes. Yes, I guess it has." Harriman leaned heavily on the handrail, his lips twitching as he tried to force a smile of his own.

"I gather this is business," said Franklin Drake. "Somehow, I never seem to get social calls."

"Well," said Harriman, "your number isn't in the book."

Drake laughed. He turned back to look out over the ocean. Harriman came to stand beside him. They were both silent for some time.

Eventually, Harriman said, "Someone just blew up an entire star system. That's not something we can ignore. There's circumstantial evidence linking it to Action Black, and to Kalevar Thrang -"

"Oh, it's Thrang," said Drake. "You can have that for nothing. His agent has already been in touch."

"What?"

"It's only normal, Tom. Agencies like ours... feel each other out. Test the waters."

"Franklin," said Harriman, "if you already have a lead on these people -"

"Actually," said Drake, "we don't. Thrang's distributed computer subversion is good. We weren't able to track that call - and, believe me, we should have been. You couldn't make a call I couldn't trace, Tom. So, if Tharval could...."

"Tharval?"

"A Lethean rogue agent working for Thrang. We knew that from the 54 Eridani business. Imperial Intelligence shared its data. Sometimes even willingly." Drake smiled.

"All right. So you know two of the people responsible. Franklin, those people have to be neutralized. Brought to trial, if we can manage it, but stopped from doing further damage. I'm -" Harriman drew in a deep breath. "I'm formally invoking Section 31 of the Federation Charter. Officially. Franklin, help us."

Drake nodded. His expression was pensive. "If I can," he said.

"What do you mean, if you can?"

"We're as vulnerable as anyone else to Thrang's computer virus. Section 31 has its own secure, sanitized networks, but we can't run those over interstellar distances without risking infection. So we don't. That's why I'm here, face to face, today."

"You're telling me even Section 31 is helpless?"

"No, not helpless. But unless someone can crack Thrang's subversion process, we're at a disadvantage." Drake's fingers drummed briefly on the handrail. "There's something else." He turned to face Harriman directly. "It's something I probably shouldn't tell you, Tom, but -" He shrugged. "I guess I have loyalties."

"What? What is it?" Harriman demanded.

"Thrang's agent made us an offer, Tom. Thrang's goal is a unified government throughout what's currently Federation, Imperial and Republic space. Tharval made a point, that the only way to run that government... is as an expanded version of the Federation. My organization's purpose is to defend the Federation by any means necessary. Subsuming our two biggest rivals -" He shrugged. "That'd count as defending Federation interests, right?"

Harriman stared at him. The blood drained out of the fat man's face. "You can't be serious."

"Tharval made it sound practical. A short reign for Thrang, followed by a vastly extended Federation. I wonder if I should ask Temporal Operations and find out if that's what's meant to happen? After all, we're pretty sure the Klingons will be Federation members by the twenty-ninth century."

"You can't be serious," Harriman repeated.

"Thrang made the offer. It's... under discussion. I'm not a one-man band, Tom, I have my own command structure to answer to. That structure is... deliberating." Drake started to walk away, down the jetty, while Harriman continued to stare, mute and helpless. After a couple of steps, Drake turned back for a moment. "I'll let you know when they've reached a decision. If I can."