The Three-Handed Game 6

The Chancellor was in a foul mood. The Yan-Isleth guards stood rigid and perfect at attention, all around the big audience chamber; the political and military aides moved, if not fearfully, at least quietly and cautiously, around the burly figure.

J'mpok scowled up at the tall figure in bladed armour who stood before him. The Nausicaan envoy was good; he stood his ground, without trembling.

"I have received," he said, "a diplomatic protest. An attack, by a Nausicaan commando squad, on Starfleet Academy, aimed apparently at one Vice Admiral Shohl.... Shohl," he repeated. "I know that name. Where have I heard that name?"

"I have Shohl's record," said an aide, hastily. "She cooperated with your agent in the investigation of the Bercera IV matter."

"Ah." J'mpok grunted. "I knew I had heard the name. So. A reasonably competent officer. Our allies, Starfleet, need competent officers." He skewered the Nausicaan with a glare. "We have declared an armistice with the Federation. We fight with them together, now, against the qameH' Quv and their demon puppet masters. We have declared peace with the Federation, and the Klingon Empire keeps its word."

"Chancellor, we -" The Nausicaan took a deep breath. "We are at fault," he ground out, as if each word were being forced from him with painstiks.

"Not good enough," J'mpok snarled.

The Nausicaan replied, slowly and reluctantly, "What does the Empire require?"

The scowl deepened on J'mpok's scarred face. "I must go in to negotiate with the Federation over questions of boundaries," he said. "There are many such questions, and the Empire's interests must be defended - even in time of peace. Every incident like this hands the Federation negotiators another weapon with which to fight me. They are diplomats, the negotiation table is their preferred battleground. They have advantages already, they do not need more. I do not need additional handicaps." He raised his voice. "If the Federation demands the extradition of this fool Gvochkorr, will your government acquiesce? Or will they hand the Federation another rod for my back, instead?"

"Sir." Light glinted on the Nausicaan's armour as he squared his shoulders. "I have reviewed the - the background."

"And?"

"Former Governor Gvochkorr acted on his own initiative in hiring a mercenary assault team. He did not have the permission or support of our government. We will not protect him. Sir -"

"What?"

"We are a warrior people," said the Nausicaan. "We know how to fight - and how to accept the fortunes of battle. Sir... this Shohl and our people fought, and Shohl won. That is all there is to know. There is no claim of - of honour, of clan-rights - to make against her. Gvochkorr had no just cause for his action." The Nausicaan's eyes gleamed. "Sir, you may tell the Federation that if they do not want his extradition, we will deal with him."

There was a moment's silence. "Acceptable," said J'mpok. "Barely acceptable. I want no more such incidents, no more such complications. The situation is complicated enough."

"Yes, Chancellor," said the Nausicaan. He inclined his head, the nearest his own pride would let him come to a bow. "I will so inform my government."

"See that you do." J'mpok rose. "I have a meeting with the Federation's representatives," he said. "It will last a long time. They always do. Before I go, are there any other matters requiring my attention?"

"Chancellor." An aide in general's uniform stepped forwards, a datapad in his hand. "An incident in a frontier system - Dolsulca, home to the Siohonin species."

"Yes?"

"The IKS raD Hol, despatched on a tribute collection mission, has failed to return from that system. We should investigate -"

J'mpok waved aside the proffered datapad. "Deal with it," he growled, and stalked out of the room.

The Three-Handed Game 5

The night was warm and balmy, so after supper Daniella Quar climbed out through the skylight, onto the flat roof, to sit for a while beneath the stars.

"Hi, Dani." Daniella smiled. Maury Lansing had had the same idea. He was lying full-length on the roof, visible in the starlight. She sat down cross-legged beside him. Maury was, like her, a third-generation descendent of the original colonists of Farnon's World. The slightly lower gravity of the planet had made its children tall, lithe and willowy; the brilliant F8 sun had given them skin of a dark coffee-colour; she and Maury were much of a type, physically, though he lacked her trained dancer's grace. Daniella had always been fond of Maury, so much so that she had felt a pang - though only a brief one - of jealousy when he had begun dating her twin brother instead of her.

Now, there was a sound from the skylight, and Daniella's brother Thom put his head through. "Thought you guys would be up her," he said. He clambered awkwardly through the skylight, awkward because of the burden in his left hand. "Brought a bottle of the good stuff." And a stack of beakers, too; Thom was the practical one, Daniella thought.

She accepted a glass of the firewine, and the three of them sat, sipping, in companionable silence. Below them, the lights of Einsteingrad, the planetary capital, a planned community in the best Federation tradition; above them, the stars. At this time of year, the night sky was dominated by the huge nearby star cluster that the first colonists, for reasons of their own, had called the Dandelion. Daniella knew that this was some old Earth plant, but the star cluster never looked like a plant to her; it was more like a fireworks display, a starshell burst frozen in time at the moment of its explosion. It was beautiful.

"So, guys," said Thom, after a while, "you got any thoughts yet?"

Careers. Farnon's World was a Federation colony, a fully developed planet; there was no need for the hard labour that had tamed and terraformed the world in its early years. Everyone's basic needs could be met, by replicated food and materials... but who wanted to be a drone, living off a basic dole, when you could accomplish something with your life? For Daniella, at least, her choice was clear. "Cygni Dance Academy took my application already," she said. "If they like my holo-tapes for the audition, I'm in. Then, maybe, I get a shot at a scholarship on Andoria. OK, it'll be cold, but it'd be worth it. Maury? Still interspecies law?"

"Yeah," said Maury. "Got my applications out to the big ones, Harvard, ShiKahr, Xellan-Kaur. I'm gonna get in, I just know it. So that leaves you, big guy. What are your plans?" He reached up to ruffle Thom's hair.

Thom was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "I was thinking, maybe, of trying for Starfleet Academy."

"Starfleet?" Maury raised himself up on one elbow, and Daniella could see his eyes widen in the starlight. "Seriously? Facing down the Klingons with a phaser in your fist? Seriously?"

"I know what you're thinking," said Thom, "but hear me out, will you? The war with the Klingons is over, guys, it was a stupid mistake, it should never have started in the first place, now it's stopped."

"And it's been replaced by a worse one," said Daniella soberly.

"I don't know about that," said Thom. "Yeah, the Undine are scary, and there's something worse behind them... but, c'mon, guys, we've got the Federation, the Klingon Empire, and the Romulan Republic, now, all on the same team. You can't tell me the Undine, or the Borg, or anybody will stand up to that for long. They'll find a way, you just watch. The war will end, and Starfleet will go back to being what it was always meant to be. Scientists, explorers... going into the galaxy for the sake of peace." His eyes were on the stars now, utterly entranced. "That's what I'd like to be part of."

"It's a beautiful dream, brother," said Daniella. Thom was the practical one... if anyone could make it happen, she thought, he could.

"I'll drink to that," said Maury.

And the three of them laughed, and drank, together, in the warm night, beneath the peaceful stars.

The Three-Handed Game 4

Personal log: Tylha Shohl, officer commanding USS King Estmere, NCC-92984

Q. Q is never good news. She stands there in the hot sultry Earth dusk, beaming at us.

It's the... apparently... female Q, the one I've met before, the one who spoke to Ronnie at Tiaza Zephora. She looks like a female human, blonde and bubbly. Right now, she is wearing a short dress, splashed with many bright colours, and there are paper streamers in her hair, and a near-empty cocktail glass in her hand.

"Right, now," she says. "Firs' thing is, this lecture of yours? Y'need t'be very careful... very, very careful... very, very, very, very -" She hiccups. "Sorry. Nausicaans. Nausicaans disguised as cadets. Y'need to, y'know, watch out for 'em. Very, very careful."

Ronnie and I exchange glances, while T'Pia just stares. "That was hours ago," says Ronnie.

"Rubbish!" cries Q. "You mortals've got no idea 'bout time... I mean, OK, I'm a bit later than I was gonna be. Was at a party." She waves the glass at us. "Di'n't wanna be rude an' leave early, did I? Jus' stayed on for 'nother Mojave or so." She peers into the glass. "Not Mojave. Movember? Mojito, thass th'one. Jus' another mojito. Or two. Or three." She looks up at the dim evening sky. "Wow, it gets dark early, this time o'year."

"If you have anything useful to say," says Ronnie, "say it. Otherwise, just get out of our hair."

"Temper!" says Q. "You're not th'one to talk, Miss Stygmalian Rift. 'S still going on, y'know. Still all about you."

"You said that before," says Ronnie. "And you were wrong, weren't you? It all came down to Tylha and her cat buddy. Not me. And besides, the Stygmalian Rift is closed. Gone."

There is another flash. Q is still there, but her clothes have changed; she is wearing a loose vest with floral patterns, a number of bead necklaces, denim trousers which flare out enormously to hide her feet, and spectacles with heart-shaped pink lenses. Her hair, too, has changed, to a lank waist-length fall. The cocktail glass is gone. She wags a finger at Ronnie.

"The thing you squares gotta get your heads round," she says, "is that the Rift is, like, an extra-temporal phenomenon, so, being, like, outside time, it is always there, and always gone, at the same, like, time, being eternal and acausal. Like, cosmic, man. Far out. Whoa." She tosses back her head, apparently to look up at the stars, and falls backwards onto the grass.

"I am trying very hard to bear in mind," says T'Pia, "that this is a super-being of almost limitless abilities."

"Better believe it, baby," says Q from the ground. "I'm amazing."

I walk over to her, and look down. "You have some reason for being here," I say. "You don't do things without a reason."

"Everyone's gotta be somewhere, babe." Q smiles beatifically up at me. "'Cept you, maybe. Maybe you need to be somewhere where you can be and not be at the same time."

"What the hell's wrong with her?" Ronnie asks. "She's making less sense than I do, and I don't need the competition."

Something clicks in the back of my mind. "Wait. That might actually make sense."

"It might?" Ronnie sounds incredulous. "How? Without smoking whatever she's been smoking."

"T'Pia, do you remember the business at Delta Gracilis?" I ask.

"Naturally," says T'Pia. "I concur. That might well be the situation to which Q refers."

"Delta where?" Ronnie demands.

"Research facility. A scientist there built a device that superimposed multiple quantum states. Jumbled realities."

"Sounds alarming," says Ronnie. "How did it work?"

"Badly. There were casualties - lots of them."

"To the best of my recollection," T'Pia says, "the facility was shut down after its evacuation. It was impossible to tell how much of its structural integrity was compromised."

Q says nothing. She just lies there, her eyes closed, smiling broadly. I resist the impulse to kick her. "Is that it?" I demand. "Delta Gracilis? Is that where we need to be?"

"We all got needs, baby," murmurs Q, without opening her eyes. Then there is a flash, and she is gone.

---

The small conference room on Earth Spacedock is crowded with top brass. There are the three of us, of course... and then, there are our bosses.

Admiral Semok, my superior, reads the report with a dubious look on his normally placid face. Admiral Gref of Sixth Fleet, nominally Ronnie's CO, glowers in a traditionally Tellarite way. T'Pia's boss is Admiral Stroffa of Stellar Survey, a matronly Denobulan woman with kindly eyes.

All six of us look worried.

"This is nonsense," Gref mutters. "And probably dangerous nonsense, too."

"I must respectfully disagree," says Semok. Gref snorts and rolls his eyes. My Vulcan boss never could handle Tellarites properly. "The Q entity invariably has some purpose to her - or his - actions. It is rarely apparent, though, what that purpose is, except in hindsight."

"Too right," mutters Ronnie.

"Q seems interested in you," Stroffa says to Ronnie, "but... she has directly intervened in Vice Admiral Shohl's life before. To your benefit." She's looking at me, now. "Is it possible, do you think, that Q has some... affection for you?"

I shake my head, decisively. "I don't think Q has any affection for anybody," I say. "Not on our level of being, anyway. No, if Q saved my life, it was for some reason of her own."

"Nausicaans," Gref grumbles. "We can send a firm protest to J'mpok about the Nausicaans, anyway. For whatever good it might do."

"That is not our primary concern, though," says Semok.

"Might be Shohl's," says Gref.

"No," I say. "I can handle the Nausicaans. But whatever Q is talking about - that has to be our main worry."

"I have conjectured," says T'Pia, "that the Q entity's behaviour might have been artificially impaired, in some way."

"Someone got Q drunk?" Ronnie raises a sceptical eyebrow.

"Or affected Q in an analogous manner." T'Pia is unruffled.

"An interesting possibility," says Stroffa. Gref stands up and stumps around, irritably.

"I don't like any of this," I say, "but can we afford not to pass up a hint from Q? However... oddly delivered?"

Gref stands facing the wall for a moment, then turns around suddenly. "No," he says, "I don't suppose we can. Pity. I could use Grau for our next set of tactical exercises." He glares at Ronnie. "And a touch of military discipline would do you good." Ronnie - thankfully - doesn't reply.

"What resources will you require?" Semok asks.

"Q mentioned the three of us," I say. "So... ourselves, and our ships. I suppose it makes a kind of sense. T'Pia and I are familiar with Delta Gracilis, and we have Q's word that Ronnie - uh, Vice Admiral Grau - is involved, somehow."

"Oh, call her Ronnie," says Gref, "everyone does." He sighs noisily. "The Undine, the Iconians, now Q. Life was simpler when we were just shooting Klingons."

"Noisier, though," says Ronnie. "So, we gonna do this, or what?"

"Go to Delta Gracilis," I muse, "find out what's happened to it since it was shut down... take some scans, see if we can find points of similarity with the Stygmalian Rift... and then, go from there. Wherever it takes us."

"Sounds like a plan," says Ronnie. "Not much of a plan, but hey, better than nothing."

Gref sighs again, hard enough to ruffle his beard. "Go on, then," he says. "Consider yourself on detached duty. As usual."

"Normal conditions will apply," says Semok, "with regard to reporting whatever may occur, and how your vessel might be modified to cope with it." Which is, basically, the arrangement I have with the Experimental Engineering group - they design stuff, I push it to the point where it breaks.

Stroffa says, very simply, "Good luck, all of you."

I have a feeling we're going to need it.

The Three-Handed Game 3

Personal log: Veronika "Ronnie" Grau, officer commanding USS Falcon NCC-93057
Datarecord: 2/12, 2ndry adjunct unimatrix 07 (pending reassimilation/reclassification)

"Aww, come on," I say in wheedling tones. "I need to be down there already. They're expecting me. Come on, I've got impressionable young minds to mould." I follow that one up with my best manic grin.

The big Andorian */*species 4464*/* transporter chief looks completely unimpressed. "All reception pads at the Academy are fully booked," Chief Ch'Shen says. "We don't have clearance to bump any of the incoming visitors to make space for you. Take a number, sir, and wait your turn."

Every so often, this happens. The transporter rooms at the Academy are always fully booked, what with students bunking off and heading back in a hurry, and doting parents looking in to tuck their offspring up in bed, and visiting dignitaries and whatnot.... And, sometimes, the Chief gets all stickler-for-duty and starts enforcing the rules, so you can't charm him into jumping the queue.

*/*whole system is inefficient---
transferring data by direct neural connection obviates need for learning institutions---
family ties are irrelevant---
collective effort and collective knowledge are superior in all respects*/*

Quiet, you. Actually, it's a relief to hear my residual Borg half sounding so normal, spouting stock collective propaganda instead of developing a worrying personality of her own. I don't know what it was about the Tiaza Zephora business that caused that little development, but by gum I'm glad it's over.

I could try pulling rank, I suppose. Problem is, the Chief knows his job and knows his authority, and he is not going to be impressed by that, and with the redesign of Earth Spacedock, the transporter room is uncomfortably close to the boss's office, and Admiral Quinn could very easily hear me if I start shouting. I don't know about this redesign. Everything is clustered together in one big empty space... trouble is, the station took a lot of pounding, lately. They'd only just finished patching it up after Tylha Shohl blew its doors off and set it on fire during the Hegemony thing, and then the Undine attack did a whole lot more damage, and somewhere along the line, the redesign happened. I still haven't found the new version of Club 47, which is bad news when I want a drink.

But if authority won't work, flattery might. "Yes, but," I say, "you don't need to send me to the reception pads, do you? I mean, c'mon, Chief, you could put me down anywhere."

"All incoming traffic to the Academy has to be routed through the Academy's transporter rooms," the Chief says.

"Oh, right, yeah, reasons of health and safety, I know, you don't want people materializing in the middle of a wall, or a cadet. But, c'mon, Chief, that isn't going to happen with you on the controls, right? You're a professional. You're an expert. You learned your trade on the flight deck of a carrier, right?" I'm just guessing, but I'd be surprised if I wasn't right. "Compared to pulling fighter pilots off exploding ships just in the nick of time, this sort of thing is a doddle. I bet you could beam me right into a cadet's uniform without the cadet even noticing."

A reluctant snort of laughter escapes the Chief's nostrils. "All right," he says. "Just to show you I haven't lost my touch... and just to get you out of my hair... all right. This once."

"You're a prince, Chief," I say, and skip onto the transporter pad before he can change his mind.

He makes a great show of checking everything on his console, then says, "Energizing."

Bright light shimmers around me and takes me away... and then stays; bright light reflecting off the walls of the Academy, off the waters of the Bay. I blink my right eye, and the Borg implant that replaces my left clicks and stops its brightness down a notch or two.

Ch'Shen has put me down by one of the memorial plaques - well, that's safe enough, no cadet ever stops to read them more than once. It's startling, sometimes, to think how many of these memorials are to things I was around for - or, worse, missed, because I was frozen in a time-warp in the middle of the Stygmalian Rift. This is the one about the whales. I'd have liked to have seen that business, but, hey, rift.

I turn around, and catch a glimpse of myself in a reflective surface on the mess hall. It's not pretty. I have spruced myself up a bit, black dress tunic, shiny boots, combed my hair and polished my implants... but the face that looks back at me is thin and pale and old, scarred and violated by Borg technology. How the hell did I get old? I don't remember getting old.

I shake my head. Forget it, Ronnie. It's just being surrounded by all these fresh-faced young cadets that makes you feel ancient.

*/*inaccurate---
chronological age in excess of 280 Earth years---
physiological age in excess of*/*

I don't want to know. You're as old as you feel. I feel ancient. Never mind.

I walk round to the entrance of the mess hall, and I can see the two of them sitting at a table. Comparing notes, no doubt. One tall lanky scarred Andorian, one small neat red-haired Vulcan */*species 3259*/*, just what the doctor ordered. "Yo!" I yell at them.

"Ronnie," says Tylha. "Hello."

"Vice Admiral Grau." Well, from a Vulcan, that's a warm greeting.

I take a seat at their table. "You guys ready for this shindig, then?" I ask.

"We were in the process of comparing notes," says T'Pia.

"Oh, right," I say, "notes. Knew I was forgetting something. Well, I guess I'll just have to wing it."

T'Pia raises her eyebrow at me. "That is not a procedure to be recommended."

"If I were a cynic," says Tylha, "I would say that Ronnie has already rehearsed what she's going to say, down to the last detail, has it all stored in Two of Twelve's eidetic memory circuits, and can recite it word-perfect at the drop of a hat. If I were a cynic." She's getting to know me too well, that's the problem.

"Then it will not be feasible for us to compare our presentations with yours, Vice Admiral Grau," says T'Pia. "That is unfortunate."

"Oh, call me Ronnie, everyone does. Anyway, I'm not planning any surprises. This is all just, well, a ritual, isn't it? And our names turned up because someone noticed the Tiaza Zephora foul-up. Well, I suppose that's us justly punished."

"I do not see this as a punishment," says T'Pia. "Nor could I characterize the outcome of the Tiaza Zephora incident as a... foul-up."

"We did break the planetary ecosystem a bit," I point out.

"In the process of liberating the Klingon colonists from the Rift entity, and putting an end to whatever threat that entity represented. I do not think that 'foul-up' is an adequate summary." T'Pia picks up her PADD and stands. I think I like her. Not only is she very Vulcan, she's even shorter than I am, and I don't often get to loom over people.

Tylha stands up too. She can loom like anything. "Well," she says, "it's about time... let's do this. Lecture hall two."

"Lead on." Lecture hall two is... since my time. Actually, the whole place is since my time. Starting to feel old again. Stop it, Ronnie.

I troop dutifully off behind Tylha and T'Pia, trying to look businesslike and military and not worried. Tylha is right, of course, I've been rehearsing for ages, and my Borg neural circuitry... doesn't let me forget stuff. Sometimes I wish it did.

The lecture hall is like a lecture hall. Raised dais at one end, facing rows and rows of benches, soon to be filled with eager little faces waiting for our pearls of wisdom. Or hung-over students wishing they, or we, were dead. We're a little bit early - an instructor's supposed to be along soon to introduce us. In the meantime, we take our seats on the dais, and Tylha and T'Pia re-check their PADDs. And I sit back and watch the cadets filter in.

There are quite a few of them already, and they come in all shapes and sizes, to put it mildly. Infinite Diversity in Infinite Combinations, indeed. Two of Twelve is eating her assimilatory little heart out, trying to classify and species-number them all...

*/*species 5618--- 5618--- 3259--- 4780--- 5618 correction 5292--- 5618 correction 5292--- */*

waitaminute, what?

*/*species 5618 correction 5292*/*

So I take a little look at that one... and some of his mates sitting by him. To my right eye, they look just like some ordinary male human cadets, maybe slightly less pimply than most. But the Borg implant is telling me a different story...

"Guys," I murmur quietly, "we got trouble."

T'Pia quirks her eyebrow. "What kind?" Tylha asks, equally quietly.

"Three rows back from the front, on the right, group of human cadets... only according to my implants, they're not human. Holographic disguises. Two of Twelve says, species 5292. Nausicaan. Anybody upset any Nausicaans?"

"Plenty." Tylha looks disgusted.

"Whoo boy. OK, so we know they're up to no good, what've we got to stop them with? Security will take time to get here, maybe too much...."

"I have standard ground equipment in my transporter buffer," says T'Pia. She, too, is talking in an undertone. Catches on quick. I like it.

"Me, too," says Tylha.

"OK, great," I say. Transporter buffers are a neat idea; equipment suspended in transit, called up as you need it - they don't hold too much, of course, but they can hold enough. I have a bunch of fun toys in mine -

*/*inaccurate---
experimental proton beam rifle is not a toy---
unsuitable for immature members of any species*/*

Oh, can it, you. It's playtime. I stand up. "If I could have everyone's attention," I shout, "I'm sure the Nausicaan hit squad in the third row would feel much more comfortable if they took their holo-emitters off. Everyone else, take cover!"

Tylha and T'Pia are already moving as the rifle materializes in my hands. The phony cadets are springing into action, too - I can't see their guns, but I'm damn sure they've got them. T'Pia, being a science officer, is fiddling with her tricorder -

There is a piercing whine and a burst of light. T'Pia has rigged the tricorder to release a tachyon harmonic; a cone of dazzling light shoots out towards the Nausicaans, and their holographic disguises flicker, distort, and wink out. The tachyon harmonic, more usefully, rips through their personal shields, exposing them to, well -

The proton rifle makes a noise like an asthmatic wolfhound, and a bolt of blue light snaps out towards one Nausicaan. I have it set on heavy stun, and he drops, poleaxed, to the floor. I move, fast, ducking out of the way of a flash of disruptor fire from his friends. The wall behind me bursts into flames; they haven't set heavy stun. Didn't really expect them to.

There's a pop and a hiss and a sudden cloud of white fog; T'Pia has thrown an anesthezine gas grenade. Useful, but some of the Nausicaans are wearing breath masks, and others have the sense to hold their breath. There is a sudden chatter of phaser fire. Tylha has had time to rig a turret on the dais, and it is spitting more heavy-stun at the standing Nausicaans. Cadets are shouting and running for cover in all directions. I send another proton bolt at a breath-masked Nausicaan, watch him fall.

T'Pia has a gun out, now, a nasty-looking sonic AP rifle. Even on stun, it's not something I'd like to get hit with, and she is fast and accurate with it. As for Tylha, she has popped a support drone from her buffer, and is holding one of those MACO pulsewave guns, very handy in a close-quarters fight. Golden bursts of phaser light, and scarlet lines of sonic AP fire, slam into the Nausicaans. Two more of them drop.

But there's one big one, and he's wearing a breath mask, and the beams are just bouncing off his heavy-duty shield. He has a disruptor rifle in his hands, and is spraying full-auto fire in our general direction, tearing holes in the floor and the walls. He needs taking down, and fast. So I charge him.

He looks taken aback. Let's face it, if you look at me, I look more suited to asking people for spare change on a street corner than to single combat with an armoured Nausicaan pirate. But looks are deceiving, as he finds out when I kick him with my full Borg-augmented strength.

He staggers back, shields flickering, and stumbles over a bench behind him. The disruptor rifle drops from his hands. Fine by me. He screams pure rage through his breath mask, and draws a nasty-looking Tegolar sword. Less fine. He comes at me with murder in his eyes -

"Ronnie!" Tylha's voice. "Down!"

Oh, God. That MACO pulsewave thing comes with a grenade launcher as backup. Never give an Andorian a grenade launcher if you don't want her to use it.

So I dive behind the nearest bench, and the concussion is ear-splitting, but the bench stops it from being actually Ronnie-splitting, and anyway the biggest part of the blast goes straight where it's meant to, into the enemy's body. About six gallons of pureed Nausicaan flies through the air above me. Pureed Nausicaan. Best kind.

I stand up, head still ringing. The rest of the Nausicaans are down... actually, one of them - a game lad, I'll give him that - is trying to stand up. T'Pia walks up to him and pinches his neck, neatly and efficiently, and he goes down and stays down.

"Hope you were paying attention, class," I remark to the world at large, "because there may be a test later. The basic lesson is, Science evaluates and assesses the threat, Engineering deploys resources to counter it, and Tactical kicks seven different kinds of butt. And where the hell were you guys?" A security team is making its way into the lecture hall. "Off on a tea break?"

"Sir." The security lieutenant looks nonplussed, as well he might. "We came as soon as...."

"Take them into custody," Tylha snaps. "But first -" She goes up to one of the Nausicaans, who is groggily regaining consciousness. "The war is over," she snarls.

The Nausicaan glares up at her. "Governor Gvochkorr sends his regards, Shohl," he says.

Tylha's face sags; for a moment, she looks as old as I do. "Yes," she mutters, "I thought it would be something like that." She gestures to the security team. "Take them away."

---

Well, of course it's not that simple, it never is. Long hours of incident reports and depositions follow, and by the time Security actually lets the three of us go, we get to watch a fine Earth sunset over the bay.

"So who's Gvochkorr?" I ask Tylha.

"Military governor of Gimel Vessaris." She kicks moodily at a pebble. "Or was, until we took it back. My home planet," she adds.

"The war, as you say, is over," says T'Pia. "This Nausicaan is behaving irrationally."

"Well," says Tylha, "they do that. Warrior culture... sometimes pride overrides their rationality. I know," she adds, with some feeling.

"A diplomatic protest will no doubt be made," says T'Pia.

"Don't know how much good it'll do," mutters Tylha. She gazes out, over the bay, at the dying light of the day.

Then the light suddenly, briefly, gets much brighter, and there is a sharp hissing noise.

"Whoo!" says Q. "Finally, I get all three of you together."

The Three-Handed Game 2

Personal log: T'Pia, officer commanding USS Tapiola, NCC-93480

Sinak looks at me from the viewer with an air of dispassionate disapproval. "Please be brief," I say. "I have duties to attend to."

"Indeed." My father's long, austere face is almost devoid of expression, but I know him well enough to gauge the emotions he is suppressing. "I wish to know what plans you have for these duties to end."

I sit forward a little in the command chair. From the side of the Orb Weaver's bridge, my exec, Commander Dezin, shoots me a brief glance, her black Betazoid eyes showing concern. "Specify," I say.

"Now that an armistice has been declared," Sinak says, "the logic of your decision to join Starfleet no longer holds. I therefore expect that you will be returning to Vulcan to take up a civilian career. It would be useful to know in advance what your plans are, so that accommodations may be made."

He is revisiting this argument. If he were not a Vulcan, and my father, I would suspect him of irrationality on this subject. "You are in error," I say flatly.

"There is no longer war with the Klingons. Your participation in the conflict must, logically, come to an end."

"I did not join Starfleet because of the war with the Klingons," I say. "I anticipated, true, that some such conflict would eventuate, but that was not my principal concern. In any event, the armistice has only been concluded because a new and graver threat has arisen. The need for competent personnel in Starfleet has not diminished. It is my intention to continue to supply that need."

"I see." If he were given to displays of emotion, he would be showing disappointment. "It is held by many of our acquaintances that your behaviour, in serving as a Starfleet officer, is inappropriate, in that it has brought you into conflict with your own people."

Oh, now, this is worse than I had thought. It was an error to receive this call on the bridge: I should have taken it in a private setting. "If you refer to the victims of the katra of Bresar who constituted the self-described Hegemony, then I consider that conflict to have been a regrettable necessity."

"It is the opinion of many of my acquaintances that there was much of value in the teachings of Bresar," says my father. "The extent of the threat posed by the Hegemony is also, I believe, open to question."

I will not show emotion before my father. I will not. "Having participated in the defence of Andoria, I can speak from direct personal knowledge when I say that the threat was not exaggerated. Your acquaintances do not possess such direct personal knowledge. As to the teachings of Bresar, they are presumably of historical and philosophical interest, but it is demonstrably an error to attempt to put his social and political theories into practice."

"I must take account of your personal involvement."

"That is logical."

"However, since you remain set on your current career, we have nothing more to discuss at present. You may now resume your duties." And the screen goes blank.

Twosani Dezin comes over to stand by the command chair. In the soft golden light of the Tholian-designed bridge, her long dark hair frames her pale face, and turns her eyes into two pools of blackness. "That didn't sound good, sir," she murmurs.

A Tholian commander stands in the centre of the bridge, walled off away from their subordinates by a ring of consoles. We have rigged chairs for the bridge crew, but have otherwise preserved the arrangement. It is possible to talk privately, in low tones.... My father did not moderate his voice. "It is not important," I say.

"Sir." Commander Dezin is my executive officer; also, she wishes to be my friend. "I know your people don't show emotion - I also know that doesn't mean you don't feel it. You're not a simple blank, like Pascale -" she shoots a glance in the direction of the impassive green-haired android at the tactical console "- I could sense the emotional radiation coming off you in waves. Sir -"

"Family matters always inspire emotional reactions. My father disapproves of my choice of career. He takes every opportunity to make this plain. I will be sure to take future communications from him in private."

"I'm not sure that will help you, sir."

"It will. It will remove a possible cause for concern - I need not worry about showing emotion before my crew."

"Only before your father." She senses, I think, what a humiliation that would be. "Sir, if he's really a supporter of the Hegemony of Bresar -"

"I do not think he is. I suspect that was a pose, adopted to cause additional weakening of my resolve. It will not succeed."

"That, I don't doubt. You've always been completely single-minded about your career.... Although, sir, why did you join Starfleet? You've never said -" She recollects herself. "If you... don't mind my asking, sir."

"I do not mind. I joined Starfleet because its function is necessary. It requires personnel, and there was no logical reason why I should not supply that need."

She looks a little taken aback. "Is that... all there was?"

"It was a logical decision."

"I... see." She gives a little smile. "I suppose I can't fault your logic, sir."

"Thank you. Regrettably, my father can." She still looks perplexed. "Do you believe there should have been stronger motivation? Why, for example, did you join Starfleet?"

"Me? I -" She takes a deep breath. "I was only a baby during the Dominion occupation of Betazed, but... I grew up with loss. Too many faces in pictures, faces of family that I'd never know - too many ruined buildings on the streets of my childhood. I knew I had to do something... so I joined Starfleet. To try and make sure it never happened again."

"I see." I consider. "In essence, you saw a need, and chose to fill it, just as I did. You were made aware of the need by an emotional process, whereas I reached that same decision by a logical one. The result is the same, merely prompted by different cultural imperatives."

She looks at me strangely. "I never thought of it like that, sir."

"I think my father would prefer it if my decision had been prompted by emotion. He would find it easier to challenge that decision, then. However, it was not. It was a simple rational process. Apparently, that is difficult for some people to accept. They believe that, since the decision was simple, it must also have been frivolous. It was not."

"No, sir. I don't think anyone who knows you would ever think you were frivolous."

"Thank you."

"Still," she adds, "it's not going to make your current job any easier, is it? You're going to be facing people with lots of different motivations -"

"I am not overly concerned. The coming task is not a complex one. That reminds me." I raise my voice, addressing the crop-haired human at the helm. "Mr. Karas. How long now to our destination?"

"We're in Sol System traffic control grid now," Nelson Karas reports. "Estimate one more hour to Spacedock, depending on traffic density."

"Thank you. An hour," I say, and stand up, "will give me ample time to make any final preparations."

Twosani Dezin shakes her head. "I think most people would rather face the Borg than what you're up against."

---

Starfleet Academy is much as I remember it: cool, humid, filled with a clear, clean, white light. I walk down from the air tram terminus, along the corridors, into the main hall, and I see one of the people I am looking for, almost at once.

It is not the blue skin and the antennae that make her stand out; Andorians are common enough here, even though that ice-adapted species must find the environment here trying. But Tylha Shohl is tall, even by the standards of an Andorian shen, and the U-shaped scar on her right cheekbone is distinctive - and, of course, she is not in cadet uniform. She has chosen, as I have, semi-formal black uniform, and the operations pin at her right shoulder gleams as brightly as the science division emblem on mine.

Last time I saw her, her uniform was covered in grime and dust, and she was liberally coated in a foul-smelling tellurium compound. She is much improved, today.

She is standing by the side of the bar, holding a glass of a milky fluid which I believe is the Andorian Dh'syara tunnel wine. She spots me as I approach, and smiles. The smile is a little lopsided, the right side of her face being stiffer and less mobile than the left.

"T'Pia. Good to see you."

"Vice Admiral Shohl," I reply. "Good day."

"I've confirmed all the arrangements," she says. "We have lecture hall two, and - hmm, the time's getting on, isn't it? I suppose we'd better compare notes." She picks a PADD off the bar with her free hand. She looks very composed and unconcerned.

"Everything is well?" I ask, as we make our way to a free table.

"Oh, yes. Thanks. We've all put Tiaza Zephora behind us, at least."

"Indeed. I understand that ecological reconstruction arrangements are under way - a joint Imperial-Federation effort; possibly the first such project since the armistice."

Tylha nods. "I hope we can help those people. I pulled all the strings I could with the disaster relief agencies, but.... Well, I guess it's out of our hands now. What about you?"

"All is going well. Repairs to the USS Kyllikki are nearly completed, but I am considering remaining aboard the Tapiola, nonetheless."

"She's a Tholian Orb Weaver, isn't she? Tholian ships do have some interesting resources." Tylha sips her tunnel wine.

"Indeed. I understand that some of the modifications to the internal systems are based on lessons learned from your King Estmere." Tylha operates from a converted Tholian Recluse carrier.

"I'm glad we can be of some use," she remarks.

I nod. "Besides the engineering details, I suppose I also owe you the name of the ship."

She frowns. "How's that?"

"The naming convention you adopted for your ships. With so many ships under construction, the authorities seized upon any reasonable scheme for naming them."

"I name my ships after compositions by a human musician. Gustav Holst."

"Starfleet's bureaucracy adopted a similar methodology for the vessels under my command. They chose a different musician, though. One Jean Sibelius."

"Ah," says Tylha. "I thought that name was vaguely familiar. He was a contemporary of Holst - heavily influenced by the mythology of his homeland. Tapiola... the land of the forest god."

"As Kyllikki is a spirit of the water - and another composition by Sibelius." I raise one eyebrow at her. "I must confess that I would be interested to learn how an Andorian comes to be so conversant with antique human musicians."

Tylha gives another lopsided smile. "It started, believe it or not, with my linguistics classes at the Academy. I found a reference to Holst, and how he learned an old Earth ancestor language - Sanskrit - just so that he could set its poetry properly to music. You have to respect that sort of dedication."

"Indeed," I say.

"So I started learning more about Holst, and I found that his music... spoke to me, somehow. He's best known for a suite of pieces about the other planets of Sol system. It's all based on their mythology in Earth tradition. The first one, 'Mars, the Bringer of War' illustrates his techniques wonderfully. You know that human martial music is often based on a simple four-beat rhythm?" She drums on the tabletop with her fingers. Her face is more animated; clearly, she is a genuine enthusiast for her subject. "Well, that would have been an obvious choice for a bringer of war, but Holst chose another approach, a five-four beat which still suggests the martial, while being, somehow, more... insistent, more sinister...." Her fingers drum, now, in a more intricate pattern, shifting and sinuous.

"Intriguing," I say.

"Yes. Initially, it seems like a wrong choice, but in fact it's very right. Anyway." She stops drumming. "I listened to a lot of Holst, live performances when I got the chance. It broadened my mind... I think, at the time, my mind needed broadening. I'd never really been exposed to other cultures before."

"This is often the case, at the Academy."

"True.... Anyway, when I took command of the USS Hammersmith during the Vega incursion - well, Holst wrote a 'Hammersmith Suite' among his other pieces. So that started what's become a tradition."

"The USS Hammersmith?" I repeat.

"Yes." Tylha's face turns grim. "Later, attached to your survey group... and destroyed by D'Kalius's isolytic weapon." One of the last casualties of the desperate defence of Andoria against the Hegemony. "She was a good ship... she didn't deserve to go out like that."

A silence falls over the table now. "Returning to the present," I say, deliberately breaking it, "perhaps we should discuss how we intend to proceed." I take a PADD from my tunic and place it next to Tylha's on the table. "I have prepared my presentation, of course, but we should make sure it dovetails with yours, and with the third... when our colleague arrives."

Tylha nods. "I've stuck to, well, pretty much the traditional format," she says. "These presentations are a tradition, really, aren't they? They don't really tell the freshman class anything they don't already know about the three main divisions of Starfleet."

"Still, it is wise to ensure that all basic information is available. As I recall from my own experience, the talks were useful in codifying and presenting this introductory matter. And it is fitting that serving senior officers should present it, rather than Academy staff who may be seen as detached theoreticians."

Tylha grunts. "I suppose I do remember the one I sat through," she says. "Admiral Sterk from Science division, Odil th'Zeph for Tactical, and Wilton T'Shombe for Operations. Th'Zeph did make Tactical sound pretty appealing, actually, but I already knew I was good with my hands - practical engineering, that sort of thing."

"I knew that I had scientific aptitude." And that a career in Science division would be the only one even minimally acceptable to my father... but there is no need to mention this to Tylha Shohl. I compare the texts on the two PADDs, noting down the talk Tylha intends to give. "I am relieved that you are not exhibiting anxiety over this presentation," I tell her.

"Neither are you."

"I see no reason. My executive officer, though, seems to expect it. She is Betazoid, and given to emotion."

"Well," says Tylha, "some people do find standing up in front of an audience... difficult. I suppose there are a lot of ways to look at it. Some people see it as an ordeal, some an honour, some a chore, some an opportunity -"

"I see it as a task which must be performed. I am pleased that you share this practical approach."

"Well." Tylha's lopsided smile is very broad. "I would, normally, be suffering from a bit of performance anxiety, myself... but I know there's no need. You see, no one is even going to notice our bits. It's the section on Tactical division that's going to be... memorable."

The Three-Handed Game 1

The Captain was in a foul mood. It was easy to tell, from the way he flicked the blades of his d'k tahg open, then closed, then open again, scowling at the gleams of red light on the blade. The crew stepped cautiously around him as they went about their tasks.

It was only his Lethean exec who had the forthrightness to ask, "Is all well, Captain?"

"Well enough." The Captain scowled. "These missions! They irk me. Collecting tribute... it is no task for a warrior."

"Warriors must be fed," the Lethean commented. "And tribute from these outlying systems -"

"Yes, it is necessary. Of course it is necessary. But -"

The Lethean's face moved into what might have been a smile. "But it irks you. Sir."

The Captain nodded. "How long to the next one?"

"Entering system space now, sir," the helmsman reported.

The Captain nodded again, more pensively. "What are these ones called?"

"The Siohonin," the Lethean replied. "They were taken under Imperial protection some thirty-seven years ago. Mostly, they supply minerals - dilithium, pergium -"

"I'm not interested," the Captain said shortly. "So long as their cargo fleet is prepared to depart, I don't care what's in it. Science officer?"

"Reading ships on scan, sir." The science officer looked up from her screen. "There is something odd about the formation...."

"On screen." The Captain sat forward in his command chair, studying the image. "Curious. If I did not know better, I would have thought that a combat formation, not a convoy...."

"Scanning." The science officer's eyes widened. "Sir, power levels and mass readings confirm, those are not cargo vessels! Seventeen light warships, frigate-class, and three... I'm not sure of the class, sir. Larger, and with odd power fluctations. But definitely not freighters."

"Threat assessment?"

"Siohonin frigates are lightly armed and flimsy in construction," the science officer said. "They are proscribed by treaty from constructing military-standard ships.... A single frigate is no match for a Kamarag cruiser like ourselves, but in such numbers, they may have a tactical advantage."

"May have." The Captain considered. The science officer was, obviously, reluctant to suggest retreating, in the face of a supposedly inferior enemy - but odds of twenty to one would tell, no matter what the difference in quality. All those light frigates had to do, the Captain thought, was to get lucky once. And then there were the other three ships, the unknown quantity -

"Open a comms channel," he ordered, "and stand ready for warp speed, in case we must withdraw to obtain reinforcements."

"Channel open," the communications officer reported, promptly.

"This is the IKS raD Hol," the Captain announced. There was no visual; the screen was blank. Never mind, the Captain thought, they can see my frown. "We are here to collect the tribute due from your system. Where is your freighter fleet? Explain yourselves!"

For a second, there was no response. Then a voice said, "In the name of Sebreac Tharr... we rebuke you, Klingon."

"Sir!" There was urgency in the science officer's voice. "Massive subspace rupture! Building between those three ships!"

"Evasive maneuvers!"

The raD Hol slewed and jinked, as space nearby boiled and twisted, blue Cherenkov emissions mixing with the mangled light of nearby stars. The Klingon cruiser was fast, but not quite fast enough.

Damage control lights flashed across the bridge, and the ship shuddered. "Report!" snapped the Captain.

"It went right through the shields!" the engineering officer shouted. "Whatever it was - it went through the shields, and hit the starboard nacelle!"

"The frigates are moving," the exec reported. "Approaching on intercept vectors."

The Captain bared his teeth. "What is our status?"

The engineer's face was pale. "Sir... the starboard nacelle is breached. Non-functional."

Silence fell across the bridge, to be broken by the Captain. "Well," he said, in almost conversational tones, "we cannot establish a warp field with one nacelle down. And it seems our friends outside are unlikely to allow us time to make repairs." He actually smiled. "So, tonight we dine in Sto'vo'kor. All power to forward weapons! Let us see how many we can send on ahead to announce us."

The Three-Handed Game: Introduction

So this is it.  The climax.  What would be the grand finale, if I'd, y'know, stopped writing at the end of it.

However, it is the conclusion of Ronnie Grau's big character arc, when we finally get a complete explanation of what happened to her in the course of her multiple time-warps... and I drew on a number of other things, like Q saving Tylha way back in my second Literary Challenge entry, so it all looks as though it's been carefully planned in advance and I am dead clever.

Since I was building this up as a narrative climax, it needed to be suitably, well, climactic... so I needed an adversary that started small and built up to galaxy-shaking proportions.  I indulged myself shamelessly in making the Siohonin leaders thoroughly nasty... I have to confess, I enjoy writing villains.  That probably says something about me.

Also, I enjoy making my main characters suffer.  I don't believe the heroes of a story should ever have things too easy; there's no satisfaction in seeing someone win a victory that's a foregone conclusion from the start.  So, I think, in this one, my characters get fairly comprehensively stitched up, beaten down, and knocked sideways, and that's all good in my book.  (One example: ever wondered what actually happens when you get blown up in space combat and have to press the "Respawn" button?  Basically, it's chapter 37....)

So.  What actually happened to Ronnie Grau in the Stygmalian Rift?  How, exactly, was she liberated from the Borg Collective?  And what is the awesome cosmic significance of Tylha Shohl's thing about Holst?  Read on to find out.