Deep Gate 28

M'eioi

"Whit in the guid Lord's name did ye dae, woman?" Carolyn Caird yells at Surella.

The team from Temporal Investigations arrived aboard the Madagascar ahead of every other Starfleet ship. It's headed up by Caird and her associate T'Mev, an elegant Vulcan woman in science division uniform... whose Vulcan imperturbability is starting to look distinctly ragged around the edges.

"We have cross-checked from our external temporal observatories." T'Mev looks at Surella, across the conference room table, with something approaching hostility. "The antichroniton discharge from the dissolution of GO4704 registered strongly, of course. But our most detailed study discloses no timeline variations, no paradoxical loops, no divergent timestreams -"

"But th' energy frae yon bubble o' nowt had tae gae somewhere," Caird interrupts, "so Ah'm askin' ye again, lassie, whit did ye dae?"

Surella just narrows her eyes. Maybe the defect in Caird's translator means she's not getting through to the Klingon... but I don't think so. In fact, I think I know what the answer is, now.

"She didn't do anything." I say. "Am I right, Captain?"

Surella smiles, a slight, wry smile. "That is correct, sir."

T'Mev closes her eyes, opens them again after enough time to count to ten. Caird just sits there and gawps.

"Vansittaert's machinery synchronized your mind with the anomaly," I continue, "and put you in effective control of the antichroniton discharge. Did it work properly? What did it feel like?"

"I... do not believe I can answer that, sir," says Surella. "The device put a vision of the entire universe into my head - but the device is no longer functional, and my head is not large enough to contain the memory. Considering that it was assembled by deluded and dishonest people, on a basis of ad hoc and unethical experimentation, I suppose I am lucky to have retained my sanity."

Caird finds her voice. "But in that moment... ye saw th' whole o' time?"

"Yes," says Surella shortly.

"And ye could see how tae use that energy?"

"Again," says Surella, "yes."

"You had the power to remake the world," I say. "But that wasn't good enough, was it? You had the power, but you didn't have the right."

"Self-evidently," says Surella. "It would have been a direct violation of Starfleet General Order Number One. And my own culture has views on the subject, too. To impose one's will on another by strength may be acceptable, but to completely suppress other people's self-determination -" She shakes her head.

"Dishonourable," I say.

"Yes, sir," says Surella.

"So let me get this straight in ma heid," says Caird. "Ye stepped into Vansittaert's gadget, an' it gi'ed ye th' power tae rearrange history... an' ye took a look at it, an' put it back the way ye found it?"

"It was the only honourable course of action," says Surella. Her dark gaze rests on me. "I am glad that one of my superior officers understands Klingon honour, at least."

"Aye," says Caird. "Ah s'pose there might be some timeline, somewhere, where Ah can understand it... but, aye, Ah see yer point."

"It is consistent with our external observations, at least," says T'Mev. She stabs decisively at a PADD. "We shall mark this incident as closed, then."

"Aye, Ah reckon so," says Caird. She gazes at Surella with something approaching admiration. "Someone wi' access tae temporal technology, who disnae get an urge tae meddle? We should hae ye stuffed, lassie."

---

"There are a few things we need to deal with," I say to Surella, as we walk down the long echoing corridor towards the transporter room. "Khoklova, Quon... Vansittaert."

"Starfleet Intelligence and Federation Security have been informed about Khoklova," Surella says crisply. "I am unsure what legal sanction can be brought against her, since Shemosh has admitted using undue influence over her... but she is a psi adept, and potentially a dangerous one. As for Quon -" She shrugs. "She was an employee only, and a dupe. And I gather she was some use to you, in realizing the real situation. In the circumstances, there is no reason to prosecute Quon. Even," she adds tartly, "if the Symbiosis Commission would permit it."

"Which leaves the question of Vansittaert," I say.

"Technically, sir, he was still in a state of open hostility to the Federation. I know that the anomaly vanished as soon as I had... interacted with it... but he still had resources and presented a clear and present potential danger."

"That's the line you're taking?"

"It is the correct one, sir, in terms of the applicable law. If you want a better explanation -"

"I think I do." Vansittaert was a billionnaire, a political as well as a financial operator. A Starfleet captain can't behead someone like that without consequences, and it doesn't matter if she was technically in the right. Maybe it's not fair, but it's the way the world works.

"He deserved it," Surella says shortly. "I could see - He set up that device, sir. There was no way he would have refrained from using it. And we could not have trusted his judgement, sir, as to what constitutes a perfect world."

"No. No, I suppose not. But once you'd used up the anomaly -"

"People like Vansittaert do not reach their positions by giving up, sir. He would have pleaded undue mental influence, like Khoklova and the others. He would most likely have received only a token punishment for his actions, if that." Surella's dark eyes take on a haunted look. "And then he would have found some other outlet for his benevolence."

"Yes," I say softly, "yes, I suppose he would."

"If you will pardon me saying so, sir...." Normally so direct, she appears suddenly diffident. "I think this incident... might have shown you something. About how the other half lives."

"How so?"

"You and I both know, sir, that Starfleet and the Federation mean well enough. But half the people of the quadrant... when they dream of Federation benevolence, they wake screaming."

"I... see." I do see. And she's right. Because most of the evil in the world is done, not by people setting out to be evil... but by people, honest and sincere people, trying their best to do good. "We're not all like Vansittaert, though," I protest, weakly. "We don't have his resources, or his self-belief. Vansittaert... had no brakes. He was out of control."

"Yes, sir. I appreciate that. That is why I cut off his head."

"All right. You win, Captain. I will back you at the court of inquiry." She deserves that much from me, at the very least.

"Thank you, sir." We've reached the transporter room, at last. Surella steps onto the pad.

"One last thing, Captain," I say.

"Sir?"

"I realize your position in Starfleet is - well, less than ideal." Between residual prejudice against the traditional enemy, and simple bungling bureaucracy, that is certainly true. "If you ever need a recommendation, a positive performance reference, anything of that sort - you can call on me."

Surella looks hard at me, then gives a brusque nod. "Thank you, sir. In an ideal egalitarian state like the Federation, such things should not matter. However - well, it seems they do." Her mouth twists in a wry smile. "Just look at Captain Quon."

"I'm not sure I can get you an Ouroboros-class raider," I say. "But good luck, anyway."

"Thank you again, sir." She turns to the transporter operator. "Energize."

The Last Treason 27

Carolyn

I look daggers at T'Laihhae. "Ah can listen tae a reasoned argument, ye ken," I tell her. "There wisnae ony need tae stun me."

She is unrepentant. "There was no time for discussion. The damage to the station was too severe." She gives me a brief flicker of a smile, even. "At least your companion will not need to demand my intestines."

Ronnie Grau mutters something darkly. We're in a conference room on Earth Spacedock, for what might be an after-action debrief session - if we're sure the action is over. T'Mev has the chronographic reports, Ronnie and I have transcripts of our previous debriefing session - either a century and a half ago, or a day ago, it depends on your perspective - Tylha Shohl is there poring over the feedback from the Harrier's upgrade, and T'Laihhae, hopefully, has brought some explanations.

Tylha's antennae have been twitching for some time, and now she speaks. "This doesn't make sense to me. I mean, I can see the performance data, including the desynchronization issue -"

"Damn near shook the ship apart," Ronnie grumbles.

"- and I can work out a way to fix it," Tylha continues, "so why didn't I? I mean -"

"Because that desynchronization thing," says Ronnie, "hadn't happened when you made the original software hack. Sure, that data is a century or so old now, but it didn't exist, day before yesterday. I hate these temporal shenanigans," she adds with feeling. "What else have we got that didn't exist until just now?" She looks daggers at me. "There was the whole debrief with you and Starfleet Command -"

"Aye," I say cheerfully, "weel, we handled yon jist fine, am Ah right?"

"I didn't actually get cashiered," says Ronnie, "so that's something."

"Oh, face facts, Ronnie," says Tylha, "your disciplinary record was never anything to write home about, was it? - I could do something with this," she continues, staring at the PADD in her hand. "Maybe pull an old Constitution-class spaceframe from the mothball yards, see if I can install these software mods on some up-to-date systems...."

T'Mev clears her throat. "We have reports from our temporal observatories," she says, "which may clarify the questions that have been posed. We can confirm, for example, that the temporal intervention has been broadly successful."

"How broadly?" Ronnie asks.

"Your timeline has not been significantly affected, barring only the resolution of the predestination paradox that you, yourself, created. We can confirm the termination of the Na'kuhl agents' personal timelines, and that of their ship. And, most significantly, Priyanapari is now a marginally habitable class L world, with no temporal anomalies or unusual relics, except for a single crater on its surface - evidence of an explosion, in the twenty-third century."

"Which would hae wiped oot all traces o' th' Na'kuhl camp," I say. I turn back to T'Laihhae. "So how exactly did ye dae it?"

"The damage to the station was extensive," T'Laihhae says. "I could not afford, I believed, simply to set up a - a jamming signal - with the console. So, I used it in another manner. Since it was keyed to Thyvesh's doorway, I was able to relocate it, with only a modest outlay of energy, so that its coordinates coincided with the doorway's location." She gives another flash of smile. "In plain terms, I crashed the space station into the Suliban weapons cache."

"Oh," I say, because I can't immediately think of anything else.

"And that worked?" asks Ronnie.

"The weapons cache itself was not terribly extensive. The energy release, when the station started to occupy the same space-time point, was more than sufficient to vaporize both. Some of the energy, in fact, bled through the other side of the doorway, on Priyanapari. Enough to destroy the physical aspect of the door, there, in the explosion whose relic we see today."

"Which leaves us with only a couple of loose ends," says Ronnie, "but damn, they're nasty ones. Thyvesh. Clefune. Kirza."

"I am... almost certain," says T'Laihhae softly, "that Thyvesh was in the vicinity of the doorway when I destroyed it. It... it seems to be the solution he required." And she turns her face away from the rest of us.

"There was considerable concern over the apparent demise of an Organian," T'Mev says.

"Oh, yeah," says Ronnie, "I kind of noticed that, in the debriefing."

"In the current timeline," T'Mev continues, "this was allayed, some two months later, by a communication from the Organians themselves. A joint conference was arranged between Federation, Imperial and Organian dignitaries, to provide a list of - as the Organians put it - suggested projects for joint endeavours."

"I remember that," Ronnie says, and she pulls a face. "I remember it now.... The only time the Organians showed their faces, after the initial treaty signing. They brought us a whole long list of planets and asteroids, with details of the resources we could use... I don't think either side got through even a tenth of them before the Genesis crisis."

"And then, after the Praxis explosion, diplomatic relations between Federation and Empire were on an entirely different footing in any event," says T'Mev. "The Organians listed two hundred and seventy-seven possible projects in the sector, with another eight hundred and fourteen suggested secondary targets. They also provided, in an appendix, a list of the other habitable and marginal worlds in that region of space. Priyanapari appears on that last list."

"They buried it," says Ronnie. "They deliberately drew attention away from it. The clever little -"

"Both Federation and Empire were keen to show cooperation with the Organians," says T'Mev. "The joint conference was, in fact, regarded as a diplomatic success. I have a visual record of the final session -" She taps on her own PADD, and an image forms on the conference room's viewscreen.

"Haud on a wee minute," I say.

"Oh," says Ronnie.

"Is that who Ah think it is? Only Ah didnae get a verra guid look at him -"

"Oh, yeah," says Ronnie. "I never forget a face."

She stands up, goes to the screen, and taps on it. The Klingon ambassadors are on the left side of the picture, the Federation on the right, and in the middle are a group of undistinguished-looking humanoids in mediaeval clothes. Ronnie's finger is prodding at one of them.

"That's Clefune," she says. "Or maybe another Organian who's built the same body? - But it's got to be sending some kind of message, anyway. That Clefune... survived... somehow? Maybe?"

"Anybody want tae visit Organia an' jist ask? - Aye, Ah thought not."

"But if Clefune survived...." Ronnie shakes her head. "So what did happen to Kirza?"

"Imperial records show her lost on a mission on the Federation borders," says T'Mev. "A formal diplomatic inquiry was made - and a subspace message from the Organians, in response, informed them that no treaty violation had occurred. The Empire was not disposed to question the Organians more closely."

"So... what did happen?" Ronnie asks again.

"Ah checked the Leacock's sensor logs," I say. "The Hov'etlh wis closin' at max impulse when she jist... blinked oot. Nae trace. Ah'm guessin' Kirza hit th' wrong button on her temporal weapon, an' it backfired on her." I shrug. "But it's nae mair than a guess."

---

Afterwards, once we've all agreed what bits we're never allowed even to think about again, I make my way down the corridors and lift shafts of Earth Spacedock, down towards where the Leacock is docked. I feel tired. After-action reports will do that for me.

But my spirits lift as I see a tall blonde figure leaning against the bulkhead by the docking port. Even in twenty-fifth century coveralls, Zula's a welcome sight.

"Hi, hen," I say.

"Did it all go well?" she asks.

"Oh, aye. Paperwork, it's nae but a chore, after all.... Ah hear tell ye had some words wi' yon trigger-happy Romulan. Thanks fer that, ony road."

"If anyone gets to shoot you," says Zula, "it's going to be me. You are still trouble." She touches the key panel, and the door slides open. We stroll on together, into the docking tube.

"Ah'm th' fun sort of trouble, though. Admit it."

"Oh, sure." She snorts. "If you want your fun dangerous, unpredictable, and damn near incomprehensible."

"Aye, weel." I shoot her a quick glance as we carry on walking down the tube. "Ye ken aboot th' accent? Ah wis nae but a wee bairn when we moved tae England... an', weel, iverythin' wis strange and new, except th' way mah parents spoke... Ah had t' hae somethin' tae hang on tae, ye ken? An' Ah wis teased fer it at school - och, ye can guess that - an' that jist made me hang on all the harder." My voice grows a little soft. "When ye've had sae many things ta'en away... ye hang on tae what ye can. An', weel, Ah'm a lang way frae home, these days."

"Yes," says Zula. "Yes, I guess I understand." She lowers her voice, too. "And some things are worth hanging on to."

We've reached the end of the tube, where the docking collar fits snugly onto the yellowish ceramic coating of the Leacock's hull. Zula reaches for the airlock's control panel, but drums her fingers on the hull, instead.

"You're still trouble, though," she says. "And you're my commanding officer, now - I mean, OK, Starfleet guidelines are just that, they're guidelines, but it'd still be, well, improper...."

I don't say anything. Because, sometimes, I'm not stupid.

Zula sighs. "I get off duty at 2300, and I'm going straight to my quarters," she says. "I guess, if you leave your propriety outside my door, you can pick it up again in the morning."

Again, I don't say anything. I just smile.

The Last Treason 16

Carolyn

"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."

The Last Treason 13

Ronnie

"Thing is," I say to the pair of black-clad legs sticking out of the Jeffries tube, "I don't know if I can trust my own memories. And that bothers me."

"I can imagine." The rest of the tall lanky Andorian attached to the legs shuffles back out of the tube. Tylha Shohl stands up. "I suppose it's something we all need to worry about, if there's Temporal Investigations involvement." Her scarred face is characteristically serious.

"I suppose," I say, "it will all work out all right in the end. Like the Iconian business, where it turned out everything happened the way it was meant to...."

"Timelines eventually resolve themselves into a stable configuration," says Tylha. "They have to, I guess. Of course, the sensible thing would be not to mess with them in the first place." She shrugs. "The galaxy's full of not very sensible people, unfortunately."

"Yeah," I say, "and one of them flies a Xindi battlewagon." I look around, at the distinctly shop-worn condition of the Leacock's engineering section. "Or does she?"

"Well, let's go find her," says Tylha, "and we can run through the available options." She smooths her white ponytail back into place. "We spent so much time trying to fix T'Pia's Orb Weaver, now we've got this one dropped on us.... Sometimes, I wish people would take better care of their ships."

I tactfully refrain from mentioning some of the things that have happened to Tylha's King Estmere, especially since some of them were sort of my fault. We make our way out of the engineering section, to a nearby conference room. T'Mev is looking cool, calm and collected like any Vulcan should; some of the bounce, however, seems to have gone out of Carolyn Caird. They're standing by a holo-display pedestal - the Xindi, apparently, don't believe in chairs.

"Right," says Tylha. She is the person with all the screwdrivers, so she is taking charge of this situation. "The Leacock is extensively damaged, but it's nothing that can't be fixed, if she can spend enough time in the yards. I take it she doesn't have the time to spend?"

"It would be preferable to expedite matters," says T'Mev.

"Hold on," I protest. "This thing is, basically, a time machine, right? So don't we have all the time in the world? Tylha can spend months polishing up every last rivet, and you can still zap back to the twenty-third century at precisely the time you left?"

"There are issues of timeline continuity which make it preferable to be quick," says T'Mev.

"Aye," says Caird. "See, if Ah turn up five minutes after Ah left, an' Ah'm suddenly wearin' a lang white beard, ye'd ken somethin' wis gaein' on, am Ah right? Yer... younger sel'... wid, Ah mean."

"Gross physical factors such as that are not the only consideration," T'Mev adds. "The main problem is one of temporal mechanics - time-frame drift, I believe is the colloquial term. I could furnish you with references to the appropriate technical literature -"

"How about we save that for later?" says Tylha, doing her most-sensible-person-in-the-room bit. "All right. The fabricators can take care of most of the structural damage, but your Aegis systems took one hell of a hammering, and we don't have sufficient Xindi-compatible replacement components immediately in stock. So we're going to have to pull those modules and install something else."

I snap my fingers. "Waitaminute. After the first probe at Priyanapari, the Leacock looked - different, somehow. Like she'd made repairs, but she'd been patched with concrete or something...." At least, I think that's what happened. Or, maybe, after this meeting, it will be what happened. I could go mad, doing this.

In any case, Tylha gives a nod. "We've got some advanced Romulan shielding and drive modules which can be fitted quickly," she says. "They're not, umm, aesthetically elegant, but they're rugged, and some tac-division commanders I know swear by them. It's probably the quickest option for getting you fully operational and back into the fray." Her antennae twitch. "I don't know about integrating them with your temporal circuitry -"

"The temporal devices are designed to be self-contained," says T'Mev. "With respect, they should also not be... tampered with."

"I see," says Tylha with a sigh. "Well. In that case, we'll just plough on with the Romulan modules, then. I suppose you want this as fast as we can manage it?"

"Speed would be appreciated," says T'Mev.

"Och aye," adds Caird fervently. Which is about what I'd expect from her.

"Everyone wants things done yesterday," Tylha mutters.

"Well," I say, "what would you expect from Temporal Investigations? Anyway. Next question, I guess, is how did the Leacock get into this shape in the first place? I mean, Ateleth versus a twenty-third century D7, that should be no contest, right?"

"It wisnae a standard D7," says Caird.

"Historical registry details check out for the IKS Hov'etlh," says T'Mev. "As things stand, it had a... distinguished career, under Captain, later Dahar Master, Kirza. We must assume that the Na'kuhl modified the ship. Substantially."

"But without actually replacing the ship or the underlying spaceframe," says Tylha with a thoughtful look.

"Well," I say, "there was plenty of scope in those old designs to over-perform. That's one of the reasons the KDF kept the D7 design in service so long, isn't it? And a twenty-third century Connie was the same way - remember the Nomad probe? Or the Kelvans? A bit of software jiggery-pokery down in main engineering had the old Enterprise zooming around at warp eleven without breaking a sweat."

"Apart from enormous stress on the SI field," says Tylha, "but even so, there are ways around that.... Let me think. I should be able to come up with a similar set of software mods for a Constitution-class." She glances at me. "That'd put your younger self on an even footing with this Kirza, if the need arises."

"Weel," says Caird, "someone needs tae gae intae yon system an' scout oot Priyanapari, that's fer sure. Ye cannae dae th' same fer th' Leacock?" she adds, hopefully.

"The Leacock is pretty much optimized already," says Tylha, "at least by today's standards. If you can bring any magic tech down from the future - well, go ahead. The best I can do for you, though, is those Romulan systems."

"That assistance will be gratefully received," says T'Mev.

"Do you remember -?" Tylha begins to ask me.

"I remember pretty much everything," I say, "as soon as we've thought of it. I think. Yes, I got a data cart from Captain Caird which supercharged the Harrier's systems. But can I tell you what we did with it?"

"Possibly not," says T'Mev, "without introducing a predestination paradox. That is generally something to be avoided."

"Ye see why Temporal Investigations is sae close-mouthed, the noo," says Caird. "Ye can call me Caro, by the way, if ye like."

All this is really starting to do my head in. Predestination paradoxes? Next thing I'll be going back in time to shoot my own grandfather or something. Mind you, from what my dad used to say, he needed shooting. "OK. So, Tylha will do a rush job on the Leacock and get that software hack organized for the Harrier." I shoot an apologetic look at Tylha. "What do you want to do with your other hand?" She just snorts.

"We should review the available data on Priyanapari in this time period," says T'Mev. "If we could define the main target of the Romulans' planet-killing strike -" Her combadge whistles at her. Being a good Vulcan, she doesn't register the faintest annoyance, just taps it and says, "T'Mev."

"Virgo here." The rough voice of T'Mev's Rigelian exec. "We have a possible line on Admiral T'Laihhae."

"Specify," says T'Mev.

"Temporal observatory has located a transponder signal from her gig. We have no way of knowing if she is still aboard it, of course, but at least it's a starting point. Transmitting coordinates along the data subchannel now." T'Mev nods, and starts doing things to the holo-display pedestal.

"Where did T'Laihhae go, anyway?" I ask. Not that I expect anyone to know.

A weird abstract shape appears in the air over the pedestal. "That would seem to be your answer," says T'Mev. I look at it. It's not speaking any language I know.

"It's not much of an answer," I grumble.

"Any faster than light drive, in theory, constitutes a time machine, viewed in the context of classical relativity," says T'Mev. "Essentially, it moves a vessel outside the light cone of its own departure event." She studies the display carefully. "Warp mechanics do not normally allow for the... freedom of movement... displayed here. Someone has access to advanced navigational technology - or to its equivalent. T'Laihhae's companion, Thyvesh, might be able to chart such a course intuitively, using his peculiar engineered abilities."

"So where did they go?" I ask.

"Nowhere. And no-when." T'Mev is absolutely intent on the display, now. "The problem will be finding which particular nowhere they chose." She actually frowns. "Following them could prove to be a problem."