Deep Gate 27

Carayl

Nothing happens. That's the bizarre thing. Nothing happens.

Vansittaert stands there with his mouth gaping comically open, and Surella charges across the catwalk, straight through the focus of the psi emitters. There's a brief moment when she seems to falter, that's all - and is there a tiny change in the humming sound of the machinery all around us? - but that's it. If it's even there.

"Captain, ahh, Surella," Vansittaert begins.

He never finishes. Surella's face is locked into a scowl of sheer Klingon rage, and she draws her mek'leth and slashes with it in one fluid, brutal movement.

There is a sudden stink of blood in the chamber's aseptic air.

Vansittaert's knees buckle and his body drops, heavily, to the deck. His head flies through the air, bounces off a railing, falls into the complex tangle of machinery beneath us.

Surella draws in a deep breath. With a visible effort, she composes herself. She turns towards M'eioi, snaps to full attention. "Permission requested to terminate hostilities, Admiral," she says.

There is only a faint quiver in the Caitian's voice as she replies, "Permission granted, Captain."

Surella nods. She touches her combadge. "Surella to Amphicyon. Have the jamming fields dropped?"

A woman's voice replies, "The anomaly's vanished, sir. There's some local jamming still from stations on the Carnegie, but security's shutting them down. We can get through them in any event."

"Very good. Transport field technicians to the mission pod, now, with capability to disable and remove holograms." Her gaze switches to Tarul and the inconsolably sobbing Shemosh. "We may also need conventional cutting gear. And a medic or two, as a precaution."

"Nobody's been hurt, much," I say. Surella ignores me.

"Team assembling in the transporter room now," says the woman. "Uh, we've detected some shuttle launches from the Carnegie, with human life signs aboard. I don't know if you want us to try and intercept -"

"I imagine many members of Vansittaert's staff will want to flee," says Surella. "We can pick them up later, if need be, when they return to the Federation -"

"One of them's probably Karabadian," I say. Surella turns to me. "Professor Karabadian. We think he's the psi adept Vansittaert was using to fog people's minds around here. And that someone else was using to fog Vansittaert's mind." I glance meaningfully at Shemosh. Vansittaert's security people never brought Karabadian to the mission pod, and I think that's because Karabadian knew full well the jig was up.

Amazingly, Shemosh giggles - a high-pitched, manic tittering that doesn't speak well for his mental health. "Karabadian? No, no, no...."

Whining columns of blue, sparkling light appear, resolve themselves into Starfleet techs and medics. Three of them aim tricorders at me, T'Shal and M'eioi. The holograms, still holding us in their unfailing grip, wink out of existence.

I rub my wrists, trying to get some feeling back into them. Techs with cutters are liberating Tarul and Shemosh. The Deltan continues to giggle.

M'eioi goes over to him, picking her way daintily around the gruesome spreading pool beside Vansittaert's corpse. She kneels down beside him, her grass-green eyes almost kindly in her black face. "What was it all about?" she asks. "You can tell us now, surely?"

Shemosh draws in a deep, ragged breath. "I was working on it," he said, "working on the object... when the news came. Hobus. I had just... I had just worked out what it was...."

"The supernova? What happened?"

Shemosh swallows. "GO4704 is a function of the galaxy's central black hole, and its interaction with the subspace matrix. Any galaxy with a supermassive black hole can have one like it, but circumstances - random interference from other anomalies, incident radiation in certain wavebands - usually conspire to prevent their formation or destabilize them after a short time. I was so happy when I found the records of GO4704, realized it conformed to my theoretical predictions - and then - Hobus. My parents, my whole family - they were traders, and their ship passed too close to the blast wave. But I knew - I knew - the anomaly was reaching its final phase, that within a century at most it would activate spontaneously and dissipate. I knew I could use it. Could alter the antichroniton absorption rate, could project a psi matrix... I knew." He coughs, proceeds in a dry and academic tone. "The details are not without interest. I will present my unmodified data to the Vulcan Science Academy, if I may. It is potentially valuable."

"To find more of these.... things?" M'eioi asks.

Shemosh shakes his head. "The next nearest one is in a galaxy twenty-seven million parsecs away. And the antichroniton decay rates indicate it won't be... ready... for another twenty thousand years. One chance. I had one chance...." Tears begin to run down his cheeks.

"To undo Hobus?" asks M'eioi, and then answers herself. "No. You wouldn't take that big a risk with history, would you? Just to divert the ship. To save your family."

"I could see how to do it," says Shemosh. "I knew."

"But time travel is strictly regulated," I say, "and for the best possible reasons - you can't predict the repercussions of even a minimal change. So there was no way you could ask anyone for permission -"

"Yes." His voice is suddenly stronger. "Yes, I acted illegally and unethically. And I'll take the consequences. But would you have done anything differently?" His bloodshot gaze rakes the room, challenging and accusing all of us. "Could you have?"

I could refute him. I've had hosts before, will have again; I have fond memories, and more than memories, of all of them... but I know that the time comes, finally, to move on, to let go. To accept change, and the finality of change. To let the past stay past.

I could refute him. I choose not to. Let him keep his illusion. It's all he has left.

"So you attached yourself to Vansittaert, who had the resources you needed," T'Shal says, "and you effectively employed me and my team to work out the technical details, while Karabadian's psi talent -"

Shemosh laughs again, a raw and unhealthy sound. "Karabadian is nothing. He's a dupe, a fool. His so-called assistant, though -"

"What?" says M'eioi.

"Natalia Khoklova is a human mutant," says Shemosh. "With a substantial psi index, and ability in telepathic hypnosis and projective coercion. She was exactly what I needed to keep Vansittaert and the others in line. And, of course, she herself was quite susceptible to... traditional Deltan methods of persuasion." He shakes his head. "I said, I have acted unethically."

Surella's face is a picture of chagrin. "Natalia Khoklova?" she says. "Light hair, scanty dress, attractive in an Earth-human sort of way?"

"You've met her, then?" says M'eioi.

"I let her go," says Surella. The expression on her face is priceless. It's almost worth the drubbings I've taken through this whole sorry business.

"We'll catch up with her," says M'eioi confidently, and rises to her feet. "You're right, of course," she says to Shemosh, "we will have to take you into custody. And then -" She looks around her, and sighs. "Then we'll have to make a start on cleaning up this mess."

Deep Gate 26

Surella

I take a deep breath and step through the round hatch. Beyond, the spartan interior of an airlock chamber, and another round hatchway before me. I check the control panel beside the hatch.

The boarding tube is a force-field cylinder, tethering the mission pod to the hull of the ship. The parameters of the tube... concern me, somewhat. Damage from the collision has shifted it to a backup power supply - and, I am painfully aware, Vansittaert has controls at the other end which can simply turn it off. Well. Transporter operations are still impossible, so this is the only way in. I must take it.

I hit the main switch, and the door behind me closes, as the one before me swings open.

There is a walkway - a collapsible, extensible thing, metal plates slung between wires, more guide wires at waist height. I step gingerly onto the first plate. It bears my weight easily enough. The ship's artificial gravity field is being conducted along the force field walls.... Those walls are blue and sparkling, nearly transparent, and beyond them I can see space and stars. The anomaly has ceased to radiate in visible light. I have a terrible suspicion that that is a bad sign.

The docking tube is perhaps a hundred and fifty metres long, and at the far end, I can see another doorway... and, in front of it, a hulking humanoid shape. I snarl, and draw my phaser, and send a burning orange bolt squarely down the length of the tube.

The figure does not fall. I fire again. The figure does not even move. It must be Premaratne, there is no other reasonable explanation. And his cyborg augmentation must include personal shielding, strong enough that a hand weapon cannot penetrate it.

I toss the phaser back into the airlock chamber. It is no use to me, and if Premaratne seizes it, I am not immune to it - I scowl, and advance.

The metal plates shift and sway beneath my feet, the guide wires sing from strain. I try not to think about what will happen if they fail.

Premaratne remains motionless as I advance. I have heard quite enough about him, but this is the first time I have seen him. He is massive, ponderous. Human martial arts styles mostly emphasize swiftness, precision, balance; there are a few exceptions, such as the one they call sumo. But I must not expect him to fight like a human. He is most likely trained, even programmed, with moves from the Klingon and the Gorn martial traditions, ones which emphasize strength, power, endurance.

Yes. He will be a martial artist of great skill, bigger than me, stronger than me, armed and armoured in ways I am not. This will be an honourable battle. My challenge, then, is to make it a victorious one.

"This ship is under Starfleet jurisdiction," I snap at him, once I am close enough for him to hear me. "You and your employer are under arrest, on charges of illicit experimentation and the false imprisonment of a Starfleet officer. Stand down."

He looks at me calmly with those mismatched eyes of his. Well, I knew it would not work, but it had to be said. Duty demanded it.

"Captain Surella." His voice, though low-pitched, is surprisingly mild. "I regret that I may not comply with your instructions. My employer is about to begin the final phase of his operations. He must not be inconvenienced in any way."

"Stand aside," I snarl at him.

"You must know," he says, still in a maddeningly reasonable voice, "that Mr. Vansittaert's intentions are wholly beneficent. Captain, I must request you, in the strongest possible terms, to desist from interfering. I cannot answer for the consequences if you remain obdurate."

I have no words for him, now, only a hiss of rage.

Premaratne sighs. "As you wish," he says, and moves.

He moves fast. A Ferasan pounce move, seemingly impossible with that heavy frame and ungainly limbs - but the servos in his body make him fast as a Ferasan. But his body turns slightly, and his left arm comes around - A Gorn-style power grab. I was right about his programming.

Unfortunately, predicting it is one thing, avoiding it is another. I throw myself forward, colliding with his massive boulder of a belly, pummelling him savagely - then I duck aside, away from his encircling arm. My blows have no effect. And I am not quite fast enough - he does not get a grip, but his fingertips pluck at my shoulder -

Instant agony flares through me, followed by numbness. Stun field inducers, built into his fingertips - I stagger into the guide wire, and my feet stumble on the metal plates, and suddenly I am falling. My right arm is numbed, paralysed, useless. I reach out, desperate, with my left hand, catch the edge of a metal plate -

And I am dangling, one-handed, from the walkway, with the force field sparkling beneath me, and Premaratne turns to look down at me with mismatched green eyes.

He raises one spatulate foot above my straining fingertips.

My flailing feet touch the force field, and with a desperate effort I jack-knife my body, throw one leg over the walkway, snatch my hand aside just before the foot descends. The walkway rocks and bounces with the force of the impact, and I give a wordless yell, catch myself before I fall, and roll, clumsily, into him as he tries to regain his balance.

He gives a grunt of surprise - I have achieved that much, at least - and catches himself on the waist-high guide wire -

There is a high, thin, metallic sound as it breaks.

Premaratne falls forwards, and I swing my other leg clear of his snatching hands. His massive frame crashes into the force field, and there is a sudden blast of freezing air.

Too dense. He is too dense, with all that mass of machinery and power cells and armour inside him, and the tube's controlling computer is not quick enough to switch out of low-power mode and reinforce the field. Accompanied by a scream of escaping air, Premaratne falls through the force field wall and drifts, slowly, into the void beyond. After a moment, I can see his last breath escaping from his mouth, leaving a comet-trail of frozen vapours behind as he spins lazily away into space.

Trembling, I haul myself upright. The force field is stabilizing, though the drop in air pressure has made everything very cold. Sensation is returning to my right arm - pins and needles, as the stunned nerves begin to function again. I flex my fingers. I wish I had not.

Focus. I am a Starfleet officer and a Klingon warrior. Focus. Pain is not important. Not while I have my duty.

No time to go back for the phaser. I still have my mek'leth - I did not even draw it against Premaratne, I knew it would be useless. I draw it now. I will face down Vansittaert with my weapon in my hand.

The walkway sags a little, but remains stable while I reach the hatchway.

It is locked. No matter. This is a standard design, it takes me only a moment to find the manual override and hand-crank the door open. The exercise even makes my right arm feel a little better.

I take a firm grip on the mek'leth, step into the airlock, close the outer door behind me. The inner one opens automatically, now.

Beyond it -

A huge hollow space, with a walkway around the middle, and on the opposite side from me, I see Vansittaert, and M'eioi, and others. And, thankfully, besides the circular walkway around the room, there is a narrow catwalk cutting straight across the middle.

Vansittaert screams something as I charge, along the catwalk, straight towards him.