The Last Treason 19

Ronnie

"It must be some peasant ceremony of welcome," I say airily. The Na'kuhl glares at me. "You really shouldn't have gone to all the trouble," I tell him. He glares some more.

Behind him, a pale-green line of chronoplasma stabs through the twilight, shooting up at the stars. There is an ominous warbling of Klingon disruptors in the background as well. I don't know what's in those big hexagonal buildings, but clearly it's worth fighting over. I'm itching to go take a look, but me and my landing party are currently surrounded by Na'kuhl guards with itches of their own, mostly in their trigger fingers, and I'm not sure how far my bluff with the Organian will carry me.

"Reading multiple Klingon and Na'kuhl life signs," says Kara Grant. The Na'kuhl are looking daggers at her tricorder, too. "Weapons fire - well, obviously. There's a few other life signs, I think mostly Klingon auxiliaries... and one other." She frowns. "Suliban, maybe? It's hard to tell with all this sensor interference."

"There is a local difficulty," a fresh, harsh voice says from behind me. I turn around. Another Na'kuhl is striding towards us. This one looks... well, confident. Important. The ones we've seen so far are obviously just grunts, like the three security guards I've got backing up me, Kara and T'Pren - but this Na'kuhl moves with a definite arrogance in her stride, even though I can't read any rank insignia on her uniform. She has those weird facial markings that make it look like her eyes are bleeding. Maybe this makes her dead sexy by Na'kuhl standards. It's not doing anything for me, though.

"Captain Veronika Grau, USS Harrier," I say. "Call me Ronnie, everyone does. What's with all the running around and shooting, then?"

"I am Luga." She fixes me with a glare from her red eyes. "You should not be here. There is a local difficulty, and I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Don't worry, I can't guarantee yours either. We'd gathered you were cosy with the Klinks, so what's brought all this on?"

"There is a local difficulty," she repeats. Somewhere nearby, someone vents a dying scream in a locally-difficult sort of way.

"Sounds like it," I say. "Well, maybe we can help? Starfleet is famous for its ability to resolve difficulties with goodwill and diplomacy." Behind me, Yeoman Harris makes a sort of stifled noise. He was one of the ground troops during that Sircab IV incident, which was not notable for goodwill.

"This is not a matter for Starfleet or the Federation," says Luga.

"Oh, but it is," I say. "Under the terms of the Organian treaty, undeveloped worlds like this belong to whoever can develop them most effectively. And if the Klingons are planning any development, we're entitled to come see what they're doing, and put in a counter-offer if we feel like it."

Luga gives me a very nasty look. "This planet lies outside the regions specified in the Organian peace treaty."

"That is not technically correct," says T'Pren. "According to our charts of the isoenergetic ionization fields in this sector -"

"Your measurements are incorrect," Luga snaps.

"Yeah, well," I say, "setting boundaries in space is always kind of a fraught issue, isn't it? We could argue about iso-whatevers for a long time, but the reality is, this is a world in the fringes of our mutual frontier, and whatever the ionization readings say, the fact is, it's governed by the treaty because the Organians are taking a direct interest."

"So I gather." I didn't think it was possible for her to look any uglier, but she manages it. "Where is your Organian observer?"

"Clefune? Around and about. Probably in several places at once, you know what Organians are like.... I'm surprised he isn't making all your weapons red hot already, come to think of it. Maybe he's waiting for us to take a hand ourselves."

"We do not need your help in dealing with this -"

"Local difficulty? You wouldn't get it anyway. Under the terms of the treaty, we'd probably have to side with the Klingons, against you. Don't worry, I'm not anxious to start it. I'd prefer it if people stopped shooting, in fact. Much less strain on my nerves."

She snorts, and eyes me in a way that I don't like at all. I probably know more about the Na'kuhl than I should, maybe more than most people in this current Starfleet, because I must be the last person alive who managed to stay awake through all of Admiral Reed's reminiscences... but knowing about them makes me painfully aware of what I don't know. Are these idealistic Na'kuhl, out to preserve their timeline and their civilization, or are they the ground-down, cynical terrorists that Reed and the old Enterprise ran into? And, technically, whatever sort of Na'kuhl she is, Luga is from my future. So what does she know about me, that makes her give me funny looks?

"You may soon get your wish." She looks down at her wrist, where she is wearing some sort of monitoring device that's probably better than my ship's entire sensor suite. "I think the firing is dying down. The localized dispute between the Klingons and our support units will soon be resolved, and you can then discuss the arrangements under the Organian treaty with Captain Kirza. I am sure you will find her just as reasonable as we have." Her thin lips are very tight. "I may have issues of my own to raise with Captain Kirza -"

Then there is a strange humming sound in the air, and a faint, shimmering rainbow glow steals through the Priyanapari twilight.

Kara raises her tricorder. "I'm getting some very strange readings -"

The rainbow light flickers and intensifies, illuminating the large hexagonal buildings. The shooting has stopped. On the outskirts of the area, I notice brief silent flickers of Klingon transporter beams.

The rainbows fade away. And so do the buildings under them. Luga's mouth drops open. So does mine, but I close it quick. I move next to Kara and peer at her tricorder screen.

"Quantum-entangled temporal anomaly?" I sound clever, there. It's just because I spent a lot of time studying the theory behind the Stygmalian Rift and whatever went on inside it. I know temporal malarky when I see it, and I'm looking at some now.

"It... could be, sir," says Kara.

"That is my suspicion also." T'Pren has a tricorder out herself. "Something was linked to those buildings at a subchronal causative level. That - influence - has now been removed. In its absence -"

The big buildings themselves have become... absent. Some Na'kuhl, who were sheltering behind them, now stand up and look a bit stupid. There is a clatter and a crash as a lean-to structure, with nothing left to lean against, falls over.

I run things around in my head. I'm not sure I like the answers. There was something here, there was a "local difficulty" over it between the Klingons and the Na'kuhl... and now that something isn't here any more. And the Na'kuhl are still around, while the Klingons beamed out. Conclusion: whatever it is, the Klingons have it.

I squint into the gathering darkness. Or do they? Because the buildings may have vanished, but they've left something behind....

I stroll off towards it, whatever it is. One of the Na'kuhl guards blocks my path; I keep on strolling. He gives me a look that's redolent of loathing, and steps aside. You can go anywhere if you can fake enough confidence.

I get within about twenty yards of the thing, then stop. I look at it.

It's a complex metal thing, quite a bit taller than me, and formidably complicated. In fact - I frown. Maybe it's the dimness of the light - I would have to arrive at local nightfall, wouldn't I? - but I can't quite follow the lines of the thing; it's as if part of it shoots off in some direction that I can't visualize. The sensation is... disturbing.

"Shoo-in for the Turner Prize," I mutter. Then I call out, loudly, "So what's this, then?"

"None of Starfleet's concern." Luga's voice; she is coming towards me, moving with all the confidence that I've been trying to project, only I'm not sure she's faking it. "This - artifact - is an anomaly, true, but we are not able to analyse it more specifically -"

"So stand back and let the Starfleet experts have a go," I suggest. It earns me another glare. If looks could kill, I'd at least be severely maimed by now.

"Starfleet has no expertise in this area," Luga hisses.

"Well, we won't know until we've tried, will we? In any case -"

I had some plans for how that sentence was meant to end, but I have to put them on hold, because at that moment a tall, lean figure comes bursting through the ranks of the Na'kuhl, barges right into me, and knocks me down. I have a brief glimpse of green scaly skin - Suliban? - and then the figure leaps towards the artifact, while I sprawl on the ground.

The thing seems to revolve in some peculiar sort of way, its many components shifting into unsettling new configurations. The Suliban is jumping at it - no, not at it, into it. The artifact has shaped itself into something with a man-sized doorway in it, and the Suliban is heading straight into that opening.

There is a brilliant flash of light, painful on my dark-adapted eyes. I swear under my breath, and try to stand up. I blink through vivid after-images.

"Who was that masked man?" I ask. Nobody answers.

Kara and T'Pren have come up, are aiming their tricorders at the artifact, are industriously scanning away. Several of the Na'kuhl seem to be doing the same. There is no trace of the Suliban, anywhere in sight.

Luga is standing a little way from me, looking intently at the artifact. There is a new look on her leathery face, and after a moment or two, I figure out what it is. So far, she's done arrogant, angry, contemptuous, and hostile. But now she's doing something else entirely. Now, she looks worried.

And I suspect I need to start worrying, too.

The Last Treason 18

T'Laihhae

In the deathly silence of the weapons store, the sudden screeching and grating sound is a mind-numbing shock. I clap my hands to my ears, and turn around, trying to identify the source of the noise - but it seems impossible; the noise is everywhere, all about me, echoing off the impossible limits of this space.

Dimly, I become aware of Thyvesh's voice. I concentrate, make out the words he is shouting: "- the door! The door is in motion -"

I have lost my bearings, in among all the glowing columns of light with the deadly devices inside them. Thyvesh, though, seems to know where he is going. I follow him as he runs between the columns -

The sudden silence is almost as nerve-shattering as the noise itself. Thyvesh does not slow down, though. He runs with almost frantic urgency, picking his way unerringly between the columns of light. The artifact - the door - comes into view, now. It is spinning, churning. It rotates on some unguessable axis, aspects of it revolving into view from unknown dimensions.... The sight is disturbing.

"Not yet," Thyvesh gasps. He is out of breath. "Not this time. Not yet."

"Thyvesh." I am panting, myself. "Thyvesh, what happened?"

"He is -" Thyvesh swallows loudly, and a shudder runs through his body. "My counterpart, he is using the Na'kuhl ship's temporal technology to probe the door. To try and interface with it, activate it, remotely."

"As you can?"

He laughs, long and wildly. "Oh, yes. As I can. Very much as I can."

I study the thing. Its movement seems to be slowing. "He did not succeed."

"No. Not this time. But we did not succeed, either. When we tried. Or did not."

His mind must be wandering into alternative timelines again. "When did we try? What did we try?"

"The console. On the station. The console - it is for managing the door."

So much, I had already gathered. "When we - were not here - before," I murmur.

"Yes." Thyvesh clutches at his head. "So many different timelines."

Too many to be helpful to us now. "What can we do?"

"I must - try harder. To keep control. I am here, now, and I can hold the door from this side." But there is doubt in his voice. Whatever his counterpart is trying, it is taking a toll on Thyvesh.

I put my hand on his shoulder, feel his trembling. "Thyvesh. Is there anything I can do to help?"

His tremors increase. With a sudden shock, I realize he is laughing. "Yes," he says. "No. You will know what to do, when the moment comes. You always did."

He turns to face me. His eyes are wild. "You will know. And I trust you. I trust you to betray me."

The shifting metal shapes of the impossible door suddenly speed up, and a faint screaming sound makes itself audible as surfaces grind together. The shapes spin and twist and slide into new configurations -

- and suddenly the door is a door, a rectangular opening, twice the height of a man, filled with a swirling blackness -

Thyvesh moves, quickly, too quickly. I have no time even to think of offering resistance, before he seizes me by the shoulder and thrusts me through the door.

---

I spin into the darkness, and it enfolds me, and for a time I know nothing. I do not even know how long a time - if such a concept can even be said to have meaning....

Then there is light, dazzling my eyes, and weight, and noises, and a foul smell of burning.

I drop to a crouch, rubbing my eyes, trying to get my bearings. Where has Thyvesh thrown me, where and when? - There is smoke in the air, metal deck plates under my feet. The place seems vaguely familiar....

Metal floor - metal walls - metal shapes of consoles. The control room of the Denobulan station - the very place we fled from, when the Na'kuhl ship arrived. The smoke in the air - I gather my wits. There is a release of energy, Thyvesh said, when the door is opened. This room must have been filled with a burst of heat and lightning, just as I arrived.

It has worked in my favour, I think. There is a smouldering shape on the floor nearby, humanoid, dressed in what was once heavy red body armour. A Na'kuhl, blasted down by the force from the door. The only one here, though? I could never be that fortunate.

The equipment - the equipment is rugged, it is superficially scorched, but undamaged. Or perhaps Thyvesh has sufficient fine control to direct most of the energy at the Na'kuhl? - In any case, the most important thing, the console, is still functional. The Na'kuhl have not tampered with it. Not yet, at least.

Somewhere far off, there are noises. Distant, but horribly familiar. The shrill sounds of energy weapons.

Fighting. There is fighting, somewhere on the station. I stand up, turn to the station's control console. I must decipher Thyvesh's purpose, find out why he has sent me here, determine the meaning of his cryptic comments.

First, though, I must find out who is fighting whom, and which side - if any - I am on. The familiar sense of practicality grips me as I engage the internal sensors. First, of all things, I must survive.

The Last Treason 17

"I burn to destroy her," whispered Chrog.

On the viewscreen, the Harrier was close enough, now, for them to make out the shapes of saucer, nacelles, and secondary hull. Luga turned away, went over to one of the bridge consoles, and started to enter data on the interface.

"Positive indications," she murmured.

"Of course there are!" snapped Chrog. "The Bercera IV incident would not have resolved so quickly without her, so both the Federation and the Klingons would have been weakened by longer war. And without the cooperation forced on both parties by the Siohonin crisis, their future alliances would have been longer in coming, and more prone to distrust. And there is a significant chance that, without her, the Federation might have lost two of its core worlds! Her death, now, at this point in time -"

"Time agents would inevitably respond," said Luga. "We know there is at least one here already. Besides, we must consider the threat posed by the Organian. It is unlikely in the extreme that any Organian intervention would redound to our benefit."

"I know." Chrog turned angrily away from the screen. "The Organians. As with the people of this time - our best chance is to keep the Organians from becoming involved. If there is even a chance they might intervene.... No." He turned once more to glower at the screen. "But you must understand, I am tempted. So very tempted."

"I understand. But it is as you say - the risks are too high. At least for the present situation...."

Luga's tone was thoughtful. Chrog strode over to her console. "You have an idea," he said. "Let me hear it."

"If Captain Grau could be enticed into one of the temporal anomalies," said Luga, "I suspect that the Organian would not follow. We know far too little about the Organians, but it is clear that they are not active in temporal affairs. If Grau were to vanish inside an anomaly, the Organian might allow that it was, as it were, her own fault."

"Hmm," said Chrog. "I wonder.... What of the thing Grau carries, though? The timeloose being that will, ultimately, call itself Sebreac Tharr?"

"In this time zone, it might not have sufficient awareness of linear space-time to be effective."

"Possibly." Chrog pondered for a moment, then shook his head. "But we cannot be sure. The Organians evidently suspect otherwise, or they would not be concerned over it. No. No, I do not think we can take the risk."

"Well, then," said Luga, "what are we to do with her? She will be in transporter range of the planet in another fifteen minutes, and the Nhandesson remnants are the only site of any interest on this world's surface, so that is where she will beam down. How are we to prevent her from meddling?"

"She is in no position to initiate hostilities," said Chrog. "What can she do?"

"Inspect the Nhandesson site, study the artifacts, and make a full report back to Starfleet," said Luga. "Our desired timeline would be hopelessly compromised, at the very least. At the worst, Starfleet would gain access to the Suliban weapons -"

"That cannot happen. Not while Thyvesh maintains control of the temporal portal - there is no way he will cooperate with Starfleet. But we must ensure Grau does not become aware of Thyvesh. We must keep him strictly out of her way.... Where is Thyvesh, in any case?"

"Currently," said Luga, "on our own temporal science deck. I have given him full access to our facilities, so that he may pursue... whatever line of research has him so excited. While he remains there, we can certainly keep him out of Grau's sight. She has no right to demand access to our vessel, even under the terms of the Organian treaty."

Chrog nodded. "Satisfactory. At least, until Thyvesh demands something else, or goes off on some other tangent... I do not place much faith in that one. He is - erratic. Unpredictable." He snorted. "At least your Klingon tool can be relied on to do no more than we tell her."

---

Kirza snarled. "Klingon tool, am I? Easily distracted by shiny weapons too, no doubt." She glared at the intelligence officer, Kuruth. Dark, sleekly handsome, watchful and composed... sometimes, she wondered if the man had some Vulcan in him. A true Klingon, a full-blooded Klingon, would never be so calm -

He watched her calmly, now, as she paced up and down the Hov'etlh's special communications room.

"Klingon tool. Easily distracted." She spat. "They think me a fool, a dupe. They are the fools. That Luga, she has not even suspected -" Of course she had planted a monitoring device on her supposed ally. It was, after all, standard doctrine. The Na'kuhl had not even checked her ridiculous clothing for the passive sensor -

She took a deep breath. Ridiculous clothing, yes - and the Na'kuhl were not the only ones guilty of that. Very soon, there would be an officious Starfleet captain, wearing one of those stupid little dresses that made them look like cheap joygirls, beaming down to Priyanapari to dig and pry -

"Your thoughts," she snapped at Kuruth.

"We are as constrained as the Na'kuhl by the presence of the Organian," said Kuruth. "If this Captain Grau is as important to future events as they seem to suggest -"

"Is she a time agent? They suspect there is one present."

"That would be the captain of the USS Leacock, without a doubt," said Kuruth. "Grau is certainly native to this time frame - well, at the moment."

"What do you mean, at the moment?"

"She was translated into the current century by a time portal. Involuntarily, it seems. She is not, herself, a time agent - but her reports, her activity, will be closely monitored by those who are."

"The temporal artifacts will be identified. The Federation will make representations to the Empire - this world will become subject to joint jurisdiction, or it will be closed off, quarantined -" Kirza slammed her fist against the wall. "And with the thrice-damned Organian to protect Grau, there is nothing we can do to prevent this!"

"Perhaps we can attempt some misdirection of our own," said Kuruth. "We can replicate, for example, archaeological trivia - broken mechanisms, art objects, that sort of thing - and salt the Nhandesson site with those -"

"Easily spotted. Too easily. And Grau is Starfleet, she knows that Klingon warriors do not devote themselves to the study of such trivia - Wait." Kirza's eyes narrowed in thought. "The portal. The portal defied our analysis - it would not have opened, except that Thyvesh was curious about us. Easy enough to present that artifact as an incomprehensible enigma."

"True," said Kuruth, "but the other device, the Nhandesson weapon -"

"Is a weapon. Obviously. Well, we Klingons are easily distracted by shiny weapons, or so I am told. Send an engineering party to the Nhandesson weapon." Her eyes were aglow, now. "With transporter tags and pattern enhancers. We will take this obvious weapon. Beam it to our freight hold - and begin work on integrating it with our ship's systems."

Kuruth raised one eyebrow at that. Vulcan blood, Kirza thought, definitely Vulcan blood. "The Na'kuhl may object to that."

"Why should they? They are our allies. But, in case they do -" Kirza bared her teeth. "Instruct our troops to respond to any objections... with appropriate force."

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 15

Ronnie

"What the hell happened to her ship?" I ask.

The Leacock is filling my viewscreen, and she looks distinctly different. There are greyish patches on the hull, and along the sweeping blades of the nacelles - and they are outlined with a faintly glimmering, greenish light, which makes me uneasy. I've seen something like that before. But I can't remember where or when, and it bothers me.

"Whatever it is," says Win, poised over the scanner, "it didn't do her any harm - quite the reverse, I think. Her shield power is reading higher than before... there's something odd about the frequencies, though...."

"Hail from the Leacock," Kara Grant interrupts.

"Put it on screen."

The ship's image vanishes, replaced by Carolyn Caird's face. She looks a bit less bouncy, somehow. "Harrier. This is the Leacock. We need tae hae a wee chat."

"What's up?"

"We got jumped by a Klingon battlecruiser near Priyanapari, an' she was way too powerful fer a standard D7. Ye may hae seen th' fireworks."

I shoot a questioning glance at Win. "We did register some energy discharges a little while back," he says. "Too far away to resolve them, though."

"Fireworks don't seem to have done you any harm," I say to Caird.

"Dinnae believe it. We had tae bug oot an' mak' repairs. Plugged in some upgrades, right enough, along th' way. Point is, yon D7 is bad news." She holds up something in her hand - the square shape of a standard data cart. "I hae some upgrade packages here fer ye, they may help if ye need tae tak' on yon Klingon lassie."

I frown. I'm not sure about plugging a set of unknown "upgrades" into my computer systems - and how good can they be, if they're just a software hack? - and besides, there's the obvious factor to consider. "She's not allowed to cause me any trouble," I point out. "Organian treaty."

"Ah'd guess she's on the look oot fer loopholes, there," says Caird. "Ah agree, she'll no' be able tae claim ye're a Xindi warship in front o' th' Organians, but that'll nae be ony consolation fer ye if ye're deid, am Ah right?"

"What loopholes are there? This is a Starfleet ship, for crying out loud."

"Aye, mebbe, but Ah widnae tak' a chance, mysel'." Caird looks genuinely worried. "Ah'll transport this over tae ye, ye can use it if ye have tae. But we need tae -" She stops, and looks off-screen at something.

At the science station, Win Moorcroft suddenly turns around. "I'm reading a massive energy discharge - and a surge in chronitons. Coordinates seven four mark three hundred, range roughly two two four -"

"It's a temporal portal," says Caird, "an' someone's comin' through. Gie me a visual!" she yells at one of her bridge crew.

"Me, too," I tell Win. "On screen. Best magnification you've got."

Caird's face is replaced by a lurching starscape as Win tries to focus on the disturbance. It settles in the centre of the screen; an eye-wrenching funnel of blue-white light, and something emerging from it - long, red, bat-winged and disturbingly organic -

"Na'kuhl battlecruiser." Caird's voice. "Trouble, but we should be able tae tak' her on. But she's no' comin' oor way -"

"Confirmed." T'Pren is Vulcanly imperturbable as always. "Alien vessel is on course for Priyanapari at high impulse speed."

Oh boy. I'm not sure I'm meant to know about the Na'kuhl, but that's the problem with time-travelling bad guys, they tend to show up in the history books when they're not meant to. "Does your software package give me anything that'll handle that beast?" I ask.

"Mebbe. Or mebbe no'. Dinnae chance it."

"Where'd it come from? Or when?"

"That," says Caird's voice, "is a verra interestin' question. Ah'm gettin' really weird parameters from yon temporal portal - it leads somewhere pretty damn peculiar. Ah wonder...."

"Keep on wondering," I say. "In the meantime, I'm going in. Helm. Set course for Priyanapari, maximum impulse. Comms, broadcast our Starfleet ID and diplomatic privileges." Every Starfleet captain has to be able to act as an ambassador, sometimes, and we at least have comms codes to help.

"Whit?" Caird sounds incredulous. "Whit are ye daein', fer Christ's sake?"

"Going in to find out what's going on," I say firmly. "If the Klingons are doing a deal with the Na'kuhl right under our noses, I want to at least see what they're dealing about. The Federation needs a presence in this - whatever's going on. And the Harrier is the only actual Starfleet ship on the spot, so we're going in." I feel the surge of power as the impulse drive kicks in. "If your magic data cart can help, send it. But we're not doing any good stooging around on the perimeter of the system."

There is a blessed silence, for a moment, from the other end of the comms link. Then a grudging voice says, "Aye, mebbe. But ye're puttin' yersel' at risk. OK. Yon data cart should be comin' through yer transporter room. But listen -"

"They already have you pegged as a hostile. Stay out here, do whatever you need to do with that temporal portal." On the screen, the twisty funnel of light has closed already, but Caird must have plenty of sensors and things that will tell her things about where it was and where it went. I hope. "In the meantime, we're going to have a peaceful discussion with our friends the Klingons. And their friends." And with luck, some of us might still be alive at the end of it. "Grau out."

---

The flight doesn't take long. The flight takes a distressingly short time, in fact. It takes long enough, though, for Kara Grant to go down to the transporter room and return with a palm-sized square of yellow plastic, suitable for insertion into the readers in my command chair. I turn it over, pensively, in my fingers, as Priyanapari swells in the viewer.

"Positive fix on the Na'kuhl ship," says Win. "And - I'm reading the Klingon. ID reads as IKS Hov'etlh, but that is not a standard D7's power signature. No way."

"So chalk one up to the wee Scotch lassie," I say, "that's what she told us to expect. Let's start hailing them."

"Go to red alert?" suggests Win.

"No, we shouldn't, we're meant to be peaceful. Yellow. Go to yellow. Maybe with a bit more urgency... orange? Can we do an orange alert?" Win gives me such a look. "Just keep hailing. They've got to answer somehow." They might answer with a barrage of Na'kuhl chronoplasma weapons, of course... well, I'll just have to risk that. "Anyway. We've got our secret weapon, we should be OK."

"Are you going to use that data thing?" Stulk demands.

I give the Tellarite a sly smile. "Our other secret weapon," I say. Stulk looks nonplussed.

"I have a response from the Klingons," says Kara.

"On screen."

A fierce Klingon face appears. "This is Captain Kirza of the Hov'etlh. Starfleet. Your presence is not required here. You are instructed to depart."

"This is Captain Veronika Grau of the USS Harrier," I say cheerfully. "What the heck, call me Ronnie, everyone does. We're on a fact-finding mission in this neutral system, and we'd like to confer with you and your associates, under the terms of the Organian Treaty. That reminds me, we've got an observer aboard who's keen to make sure everyone sticks to that treaty. Clefune, care to show yourself?"

This is going to be so embarrassing if I'm wrong.

But I'm not. There is a breath of wind across the bridge, and a breath of heat, and then light glares, and fades, and the Organian is there. I figured, if he was worried enough to put in a personal appearance, there was no way he'd just pop up once and vanish back to Organia. He has to be under orders to keep an eye on the situation. Whatever it is.

Kirza's face is a picture. Her mouth works, but nothing comes out of it.

"So there we are," I say. "Harrier will make standard orbit in -" I check the readouts "- fifteen minutes, and then we can all have a nice chat about Priyanapari, under the eyes of a neutral and unbiased observer. I'm just itching to know what it is you've found there, myself. See you shortly. Grau out." I cut the channel before Kirza can think of anything to say.

Clefune can, though. "This is unwise," he hisses at me. "Most unwise. Seriously, you have no conception of how unwise this is -"

"Care to explain why?" I ask.

"There are factors -"

"- of which I am unaware," I finish for him. "Some day, I hope I'll find out what those factors are." The Organian glares at me. I really shouldn't make this super-powered energy being mad at me, I suppose.

But if Kirza, and the Na'kuhl, know he's here... even in her souped-up battlecruiser, with the Na'kuhl ship on hand to help, she's still going to think twice about blasting the Harrier out of space. For now, at least, Kirza has to play nice.

For now.

"Well," I say, "if you're not going to explain your factors... I'm just going to have to use my own initiative, aren't I?"

Clefune is just looking miserable, now. I think he wants to say something... but his better judgement is telling him to keep his mouth shut. There is clearly a lot going on that I don't know about. I suppose I should be worried. Then again, if Clefune knows about these unknown factors of his, maybe I should leave the worrying to him.

I have a lot of questions. Maybe, the miserable-looking planet ahead of me has some answers.

"OK, then," I say. "Priyanapari, here we come."

The Last Treason 14

T'Laihhae

I did not expect... this.

I turn away from the thing that is the doorway, the jumble of metal parts that seems to have angles and perspectives that the eye cannot follow... and I look out at the Suliban facility.

An expanse of featureless black floor; above it, some four metres over my head, a matching expanse of featureless black ceiling... and if there are walls, they are lost in the distance and I cannot see them. But all around me are... rings. Hollow cylinders, some two metres across, and rising as high as my waist, and in each one is a column of softly glowing coloured light, and in each column some - artifact - hangs unsupported in mid-air.

"It is... not like any Suliban base I have seen," I say.

"It is unique," says Thyvesh quietly. "Even now, I do not know if we made this place, or merely discovered it." He gestures behind me. "Same thing is true of the doorway. Did we make it? It is eternal, outside normal time - maybe we found it, when our temporal fumblings matched its configuration -"

"You mean that it was made by some earlier civilization?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps - it is outside time, it has always been there - perhaps no one made it. Perhaps it just... is."

A disquieting thought. "But the... devices? The things in the -"

"Oh, yes, in the force cells. Yes, they are all ours." His face, in the coloured lights, looks drawn, haggard. "All of them."

"How many? How big is this place?"

"Large enough. There is a wall, but you could never reach it - the space-time of the lesion distorts at that point. Yes. Large enough." He makes a vague gesture with his left arm. "Replicators, sanitary units, sleeping couches, all are over there, in the white section. It was laid out in sections, once. We gave up keeping them in order, though, after a while."

"Sections?" I ask.

Thyvesh stops. He looks down, at the blank black floor, and does not speak for some seconds. When he does, his voice is as I have never heard it before: hard, flat, controlled. "The devices are colour coded according to utility. White is for conventional weapons - energy beams, explosives and the like. Yellow is information weaponry - two shades; the bright golden yellow is for computer viruses, the lighter one for memetic warfare targeted at sentient minds. Everything from basic propaganda to lethal earworms and basilisk images. Do not study the data carts in a yellow cell too closely, unless you are familiar with the safety procedures. Even so, we lost people."

"Lost people? Thyvesh, who was here? How many of you?"

He ignores the question. "Cyan is for subspace weapons, isolytic devices. Purple is for temporal devices, mostly weaponry, some utility. Green is genetic augmentations and biological warfare."

It is a matter-of-fact recitation, and it is enough to chill the blood. There are dozens, even hundreds, of these columns of light.

"How long were you here? How many of you - how did you make all of - of this?"

He stops still. When he speaks, his voice is soft, and sounds as though it comes from far away. "After the Temporal Cold War effort collapsed, shortly before the founding of the Federation, a dozen of us withdrew... here. Time flows... differently, here. By the time of the current interference, in the twenty-third century, I was the only one left. There were many factors at work. I need not age, you see - my body rejects entropy at the cellular level, if I wish it. And I did wish it... I was so certain, at the time, that I had to persevere. That I could use these things, here, to rewrite time, to change history, in my favour." He shakes his head. "A fundamental mistake."

"You were the last one? What happened to the others?" Though I am not sure that I want to know the answer to that question.

"Industrial accidents. On a philosophical level, sometimes. We tried many different augmentation procedures, and epigenetics is a complex matter. Chaotic, in fact. The smallest change can have immense consequences, usually fatal ones. This is... one part of the problem. The humans are right to reject efforts to improve their genome. Such efforts never go to plan - possibly, they cannot go to plan. Evolution is another chaotic process, it is impossible to anticipate its requirements.... There were other things. Follow me." He turns and strides off, between the columns of light, moving quickly and purposefully. I follow him.

He stops after twenty metres or so, and points to a purple-glowing column. The device floating in it looks like something to be worn, a metal vambrace, gleaming in silver, with a ring of controls surrounding a single large, ominous, red button.

"There is one item," he said, "that led to an... existential accident."

"What is it?" I ask.

"An immediate temporal reduplicator. Suppose you are faced with a decision, with a choice between two or more courses of action... the reduplicator allows you to proceed down all the branching timelines ramifying from that decision, and you can pick the one with the best outcome. You need never make a mistake again."

"I... think I see," I say. Then I shake my head. "No, no, I do not. By definition, surely, that device cannot go wrong... can it?"

"Think. What would happen to you if you used that device?"

"I... would always be successful?" I frown. "Though... if I never made a mistake... would I ever learn anything?"

Thyvesh nods. "You do understand. Wear that device, use it for long enough, and you become a mindless thing, a creature that understands only one concept, press the red button and you get it right. Sibrei... she developed it, she used it... and she came to understand the flaw."

"What happened to her?"

"She used the device. She decided that her fundamental error, the one initial mistake she had to correct... was being born as the sort of person who might use such a device. So she corrected that mistake. I... I remember her. Because that is the way my brain works. But to the rest of the universe, she is gone, she never existed."

"But surely -" My head is spinning. I put a hand to my forehead. "There must be things here that are safe. Things whose - scientific principles - could usefully be studied -"

"No!" Thyvesh's eyes are burning. "The conventional weapons - most of them are already familiar to your era's scientists, there is nothing to be gained from studying those. The same is true for the information weapons, even the wetware hacks - you refrain from those, but it is a matter of morality, not from ignorance of the principles. Even the subspace devices, they are not beyond the reach of your science. As for the temporal weapons -" His voice trembles, and his whole body with it. "They cannot be used for good purposes. They must never be used at all. Nobody, nobody knows this... better than I."

"Very well." I do not know if he is right; I only know that I must depend on him, for the present. "Turning to practicalities - are we safe, here?"

"In among all these weapons of existential destruction? Yes, safe enough." He laughs. "The time flow here is monodirectional and inviolate. The other me cannot enter here while I am present. For the time being, we are safe enough." He shakes his head. "But the time will come when we must leave."

"Well, of course we cannot remain here indefinitely -"

"We do not. We did not. The confrontation is coming. And for the first time in - centuries, perhaps -" He closes his eyes tightly. "The confrontation is coming - and I cannot see what happens after that."

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."