35. State of the Nation

The midday sun beat down upon the sprawling metropolis of Los Angeles, heating the pale, dusty pavement to the point where it could burn the soles off unprotected feet, and causing the gleaming flanks of the cluster of buildings that served as the centre of government for the galaxy-spanning United Federation of Planets to shine with painful intensity. Most particularly, though, it beat down upon the sweltering head of Chrono Harlaown, who was starting to seriously wonder whether his custom-tailored black uniform was entirely appropriate attire for this sort of mission.

The Bureau's youngest admiral was Navy through-and-through, quite literally born and raised on starships to the point where being exposed to natural light actually made him slightly uncomfortable. Being exposed to natural light after grabbing three hours' sleep on the way to a major political encounter halfway through a demented round-trip of the local multiverse was even worse... and the fact Amy was due any day now didn't help, either.

It wasn't that they'd never heard of contraception – it was just that as Fleet Admiral Thundra would have put it, there was no final, permanent defence against sufficiently sustained bombardment. His adopted sister, Fate, had once remarked lightly that they were subconsciously trying to replicate the uniquely crowded hubbub of a Bureau warship that they'd both grown up with... which he took as her typically gentle revenge for the psychology textbook that had been one of his less well-thought-out birthday presents to her. It wasn't as if he could tease her about her own childhood, after all.

Whatever the case, Chrono was just as tired, irritable, and nervous as he had been the first five times... with the salient difference that he hadn't been trying to get a quarter-galaxy back in working order then. He just hoped, for the sake of his continued sanity, that this operation would go more smoothly than he expected it to.

"I've read the reports," he began, his Device's encryption field forming a gentle haze around them that transformed their conversation into innocuous gibberish from any outsider's perspective. "I've spoken to a few dozen players in this little melee. I even visited the ruins of the New Syracuse base, and that was far from a pleasant experience, let me tell you. Now, there's one little thing I want you to do for me."

"And what would that be, admiral?" Brigadier Edsyl Pinter asked, smiling ingratiatingly.

"Tell me this scheme of yours again, in a way that makes sense."

They entered the (blessedly cool) entrance lobby of the Federation Council Building, a small, low-ceilinged room whose designers had gone to considerable effort to make it appear much grander and more spacious than it actually was. On that note, they had succeeded, though the towering, stork-like Bureau Intelligence brigadier's presence did undermine the effect somewhat. Admiral Harlaown was far from a short man, but even he had to look up some distance to talk with Pinter eye-to-eye – a necessity made even more irritating by the lanky analyst's constant nervous, excited twitching. It was a habit he had never seen Pinter without, as if he had some great epiphany he wished to impart to the world at the earliest possible convenience (which, for better or worse, he usually did), and here, at a galactic power's very seat of influence, he positively vibrated.

Captain Picard and a handful of his officers were at the front of the procession, nodding graciously to the building's security personnel. Behind them were Chrono, Pinter, and six young men and women in the standard brown TSAB uniforms, most of them wearing some form of prominent, if understated, jewellery. The admiral's flagship, the Claudia, was waiting in dimensional space just outside where the Earth's atmosphere ended in realspace, and its technicians had repeatedly assured him that barring some astronomical unlikelihood, their transporters would be able to extract the entire party, Starfleet officers included, in seconds if something went wrong.

Chrono had needed the reassurance. If the transporters didn't work, the six people in brown would be required, as per Naval Command's orders, to activate their 'jewellery' and... well... he just hoped the Bureau would be able to foot the bill for the Federation's new Council Building once the dust settled. After the abortive diplomatic expedition to the Romulan Star Empire, Fleet Admiral Thundra had deemed all operations in this universe 'no risks', a peculiar idiom of his that meant everything from 'know when to fold 'em' to 'they can't shoot back if they're sleeping off a bombardment spell to the face'... or, more often, both at the same time. Sagitar Thundra was not a man known for the subtle approach.

Of course, Chrono had taken the bombardment squad to one side before deploying planetside, explaining to them that (a) the only acceptable reason for them to go active was if a sizable portion of the continent's population started attacking them, and (b) being only an A-rank mage with a hand-me-down Device had not stopped him from personally eliminating multiple rogue citykillers in the past. Waving the aforementioned Device under their noses had proven suitably illustrative, as well. Sometimes, he felt less like someone's commanding officer, and more like the slave whispering in a triumphant Earthborn warlord's ear that 'remember, Caesar, thou art mortal'.

Even so, he wasn't sure he had needed to bother. Pinter's groundwork had apparently paid off, and the advance team had already entered without a hitch. None of the guards were looking particularly antagonistic, and some were even saluting. Perhaps the creeps in Intelligence (from which, as always, he mentally excluded his wife) had a point – everyone really did have their own little levers.

Not that that made listening to how much of a point they had any more enjoyable.

"Well, let me put it this way," Pinter began, stroking his long nose self-importantly. "First off, the background. You're familiar with what they call the 'Year of Chaos' over here, yes?"

"Very," Chrono replied drily, biting back his immediate urge to grumble at length on the subject.

"Right, then let's skip to how things are at present. The big dogs in this quadrant of the galaxy are, of course, the United Federation of Planets, though they're not nearly as healthy as they used to be. For a start, there's two of them now, and the folks we're about to meet only represent one. The other is the Aldebaran Self-Preservatory Alliance, a major secessionist movement that's the reason I'm surprised nobody's decided to shoot our boy Picard on sight yet."

"The anti-Prime Directive lot, right?"

"That's the one. Normally, the UFP's pretty relaxed about secession – they've got brochures for it, for crying out loud – but the Directive's quite another thing. An entire interstellar alliance dedicated to breaching it due to external pressure from a single vessel's worth of preachy, murderous slavers? Yeah, they didn't take it well. Only reason both sides aren't busy presenting each other with structurally-superfluous new orifices is because everyone else jumped on them almost immediately."

"Like the Romulans?"

"Precisely like the Romulans. They're a civilisation that puts great merit on subterfuge and self-preservation, and were smart enough to stay the hell away when the Stiletto went off on its demented little crusade. As a result, they actually ended up profiting from the Year of Chaos – with most of their political rivals severely weakened, they're ascendant like never before. In fact, the only reason they didn't buddy up with our deific friends is that the Stiletto's captain did the same thing to their ambassadors that they tried to do to Admiral Lindy. In fact, odds are the latter incident was inspired by the former." A sidelong smile. "Imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, after all."

Chrono was unamused. "Next time, I'd prefer that that flattery does not involve attempting to remove my mother's head and return it to us in a gift-wrapped box. No matter how glittery the wrapping-paper is."

The smile did not go away. "Fair enough. Not like they're going to try for a repeat performance after what she did to them, anyway."

This point, the combat mage had to concede. Lindy Harlaown was kind, gentle, and a generally wonderful parent, and he had nothing but the utmost love and respect for her. As such, it was easy to forget that she was also an S-rank mage with over thirty years of military experience... unless, for instance, one happened to try to decapitate her. According to their more architecturally-minded informants, the partial demolition of the Romulan Hall of State had not done much to enhance its classical beauty. The wrapping-paper tarpaulin had been a nicely Christo-esque touch, though.

"Funnily enough," Pinter continued, "the Star Empire isn't actually the most immediate threat to the quadrant. There are a couple of factions with a particular interest in the Damocles Nebula, the area around New Syracuse, but it was the Cardassian Union who got hit worst when Chaos began their initial attacks. They're a charming bunch – a fascist military dictatorship with a list of atrocities as long as my arm, and nationalist as all get-out. Well, you know what happens when a nation like that gets its backside handed to it militarily? They freak the hell out. The entire Union's gone rabid, lashing out blindly in some sort of hare-brained scheme to restore their national pride in the face of crippling defeat. At least the Romulans and Borg are halfway predictable. Well, were predictable, in the Borg's case."

"The Borg? I know they played a big part in the Year of Chaos, but I never got a good idea of who or what they were. Everyone just seems to refer to them as this great big bogeyman."

"That's because that's pretty much what they were. They were a cyborg collective obsessed with upgrading themselves by assimilating other species, whether those other species wanted it or not, and until the Stiletto came along, they were pretty close to being unstoppable." Pinter's lip curled. "By this universe's standards, anyway. Anyway, long story short, they got on Chaos's bad side for some reason – wish we knew why, but after the way the Federation cleared out the New Syracuse remnant, I doubt we'll ever have the opportunity to ask – and they spent the last month or so of the Year driving the Borg out of the quadrant. Now, I know the Bureau's attitudes on genocide, but by the enemy's limited standards, this was practically a public service. Apart from anything else, their hive-mind structure means the Borg aren't big on individuality, so I'm not quite sure 'genocide' properly counts here. It's more like the Stiletto was shooing away a single, gigantic entity."

"Charitable of them. So what was the bad news? I'm presuming there was bad news."

The brigadier smiled as if a small child had just shown uncharacteristic wisdom. "Naturally. As I mentioned, it was practically a public service, but the other effects of the Year of Chaos served to minimise the good done, whilst maximising the bad. Ghastly as they were, the Borg actually served as something of a stabilising influence for the Alpha Quadrant. They provided a common adversary for the various nations to band together against, whilst also serving to curtail expansionary ambitions, particularly the Cardassians', lest they attract unwelcome attention. Not that that warranted their continued residence in anything remotely approaching normal circumstances, but once the post-Stiletto land-grabs started and didn't stop... yeah."

Pinter trailed off as they reached the far end of the lobby. Two full squads of guards were at the door, along with a short, huge-eared Ferengi whose epaulettes denoted him as an officer. This last one walked over to Picard, giving him a guarded nod.

"Captain. Your advance team is in the Council Chamber. You know the route. First, though, I have a question – and no bullshit, please. Is this going to be a repeat of last time?"

"In what sense, lieutenant?" the captain asked.

"The noise your new allies have been making sounds good" – and here the lieutenant threw a disdainful glance towards the TSAB officers – "but I swore an oath to preserve not only the Federation Council, but the Federation itself. Your last speech in this building was a trigger for our civilisation to tear itself apart, and I will not let that happen again."

The six bombardment mages shifted position subtly, before hurriedly straightening again as Chrono's telepathic reprimand jumped into their minds. Oblivious to the minor drama behind him, Picard simply smiled a weary smile.

"Believe me, lieutenant, I intend quite the opposite."

The Ferengi's hand moved away from the phaser on his belt. "I certainly hope so, captain. You have my permission to enter, but remember – we'll be watching."

"I would expect nothing else. Feel free to correct us if we stray from procedure a little – I want this to be as by-the-book and official as possible. Let this be a reminder not of the Federation's weaknesses, but of what makes it great."

A needle-toothed grin. "Finally, a stance I can get behind. Don't disappoint me, Picard."

As they walked out through the doors, Chrono felt the eyes of everyone in the room upon them. It was a sensation he was not unused to as an admiral and representative of the Bureau, but he'd never much enjoyed it, either. They could almost feel the explosive tension draining away as they followed Picard deeper into the maze that was the Council Building, and once they were out of sight of the guards, Pinter let out a long, low whistle.

"Thought you said you had it all planned out," Chrono remarked drily.

The brigadier blinked at him. "Pfft. 'Course I do. Never a moment of doubt in my mind. It's all a matter of levers – have I mentioned that? Now, where was I?"

"Spending far too long on the back-story when I asked for an explanation. So we've got backstabbers, fascists, and assimilation-freaks. Is there any other nation in this mess of a universe who might be even remotely co-operative?"

"Fortunately, yes. The Klingon Empire's another heavily-militarised bunch, like the Romulans and Cardassians, but they've calmed down quite a bit since they started co-operating with the Federation a century ago. They're big on honour, loyalty, and pretty much all the other stuff you'd expect from that sort of civilisation, and we have reason to suspect that they'd be even more enthusiastic about getting their own back on Chaos than even the UFP. In fact, if it wasn't for the lack of dimensional travel, they'd be at it right now, overwhelming military disadvantage be damned. As is, though, they haven't been doing much except battening down the hatches whilst the rest of the galaxy goes nuts. The current political debate there is whether to side with the Federation remnant or the Aldebaran Alliance. The Alliance's more proactive stance would usually win it a lot of support, but the Klingons have been sort-of-allies with the UFP for quite a while, and they're not all that sold on any organisation with 'Self-Preservatory' in the title, if you catch my drift."

"Drift caught, and background processed. You still haven't explained what you intend to do about all this."

"All in good time, admiral." The brigadier's face was the very image of schoolteacherish indulgence. "Now, can you tell me what the common thread here is?"

"It's a hopelessly convoluted fiasco?"

"Pre-cisely! This universe has far too many problems to fix in decades, let alone weeks or months. Our job here is to get them to a point where they're stable enough to both assist us against Chaos and start working on their own problems, rather than tearing each other to pieces. A more involved reconstruction can wait until the war's over. With that in mind, the problem becomes quite simple – we need to see what caused the loss of stability, and fix that. Cause – the loss of influence by the quadrant's resident peaceful superpower, the Federation. Solution – strengthen the Federation."

"Tidy. So what do you suggest to accomplish this?"

"That," Pinter's smile broadened, "is even simpler. For a start, we have a shining proof-of-concept in the New Republic."

Chrono's stomach lurched. "Pinter, please tell me you're not talking about the Spiral Drivers..."

"And why not? According to our scientists' projections, a single upgraded cruiser should be nearly a match for a Chaos warship, and when you consider how much trouble they had with the Stiletto... well, the scenario writes itself. Even better, their replicator technology shouldn't work on the Drivers, and we know from experience that they're an utter nightmare to reverse-engineer, so unlike the Republic, where we just handed over the blueprints – no idea what the folks in charge of that were thinking, complete disregard for tech-pollution – we can actually control the supply here. It's win-win."

"It is indeed... assuming that you ignore the odds on a Driver array consuming its crew, wiping out half your fleet, or, hey, I don't know, obliterating the universe? Seriously, Pinter, what the hell are you thinking?" He had begun to raise his voice, attracting odd looks from the front of the procession.

Pinter leaned in close until their heads were level, glancing around nervously. Hey, hey, hey, ix-nay on the Anti-way Iral-spay. I kind of... haven't told them the small print. Figured it'd make the deal go smoother. Necessities of diplomacy – you know how it is, right? Right?

Chrono winced, fighting back his rising headache and switching to telepathy just as the colonel had. Right. Fine. I see. So how exactly is not telling our putative allies in a major interdimensional conflict all the details about the deal we're offering a 'diplomatic necessity', hmm? I mean, it's not as if they already have a very good reason to distrust extradimensional visitors with an agenda, right? Are you completely out of your mind?

Look, it's not as bad as you make it out to be. First off, there's no Force, and the dimensional space is clear here, so there's much less chance of a malfunction than in the Republic. Second off, I highly doubt that the Federation's going to get inebriated enough with power to bring about the Spiral Nemesis. If anything, most of their tendencies where hypertech has been concerned are in the opposite direction – that's why Chaos took objection to them in the first place, after all. Most likely, we'll just see a few captains going murderously insane, and on a galactic scale, that's peanuts. When you're operating at this level, you've got to have a few sacrifices, right?

Huh – funny. Thought we'd left that attitude behind with the old government, especially where our allies are concerned. Silly me. That's irrelevant, though. Do you have any idea of how many ways this will go wrong, or do I need to list them for you?

I'd prefer you didn't, thanks, Pinter replied coolly. This is my job, Harlaown. I have served as an analyst in no less than eight dimensional disputes, including the Varduk Prime crisis, and I think my record speaks for itself. I have studied the dynamics of all the players involved in this scenario, formulated eighteen different paths that would prove beneficial to the Bureau, and spent the past two weeks ensuring that the best of those unfolds precisely according to my design. I memorised the personalities and likely actions of the entire Federation Council in a matter of hours, and even figured out which media network would be most suitable for our purposes. To put it bluntly, me Intelligence, you Navy. Savvy? Now, sit back, relax, and Let. Me. Work.

... Fine. We'll do things your way, and I won't even bother bringing up that WMD detonation on Varduk twelve days after negotiations ended. Just one thing in return – I know it's difficult for you Intelligence-types to keep track of all the data that passes through your mighty intellects, but me admiral, you brigadier. Do try to keep it in mind.

Of course... sir. Pinter's expression was all smiles as he raised his voice, presumably for the benefit of the Starfleet officers. "By the way, sir, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed the Infinite Library representative you brought along. We needed someone in the advance team with knowledge of interdimensional culture, and I figured she'd be perfect for the task."

The utter horror on Chrono's face made his reaction to the news about the Spiral Drivers seem like mere perturbation. "Wait... when you say 'she', you're not talking about Arf, are you?"

"Well, yes. Is that a problem, sir?"

"A problem? Is that a problem?" The admiral shook his head, grinning disbelievingly, as the neglected encryption field flickered and died. "Pinter, you asked me before why I'd refused your request to transfer to a command role in one of the front-line branches. Well, here's your answer. It's stuff like this. You go on and on about your unblemished record, about how you've studied and calculated every eventuality, about how you're such a wonderful judge of character, and I'll bet that line of bullshit gets you top marks in Intelligence, but once you actually put it into action, what's the first thing you do? You put Arf in a roomful of politicians."

He turned to the remainder of the procession, still wearing the same manic, rictus grin. "Ladies and gentlemen, I am going to run now. Run and pray. I advise that you do the same."

For some commanders, the time they spent with their families was their means of escape from the stresses of the workplace. For Chrono Harlaown, dealing with a small army of hyperactive children was practice.


The Council of the United Federation of Planets was not a particularly large body, when one considered the amount of territory it represented and the vast power it wielded, and the Council Chamber was a remarkably unimposing affair if holograms, neon lights, and lots of brushed-steel weren't your thing. It was a long rectangle, with the president's podium at one end, the viewing gallery for the media and general public at the other, and two blocks of eighty seats, one on either side. In addition to the president, his staff, a huddle of extremely nervous reporters, and the Bureau advance team, there were over a hundred and fifty councillors present, each representing planets, systems, and suzerainties whose populace often numbered in the high billions. At the moment, every one of them was watching the untidy figure in the middle of the floor with the same morbidly fascinated bewilderment usually reserved for large animals walking into stately homes and defecating on the carpet.

Arf, meanwhile, was enjoying herself immensely.

"Miss... umm... Arf," one of the councillors began, attempting to take a firm and reasonable tone and failing miserably, "I must point out that whilst Article 367/J does indeed apply to an emergency situation such as this, it only allows Federation citizens the right to speak on the Council floor. Not to put too fine a point on it... you're not."

The wolf-type familiar closed her eyes and smiled, her tail swishing confidently. "Oh, but I'm not the speaker. This is just the warm-up act. Article 584/Q, section VIII. 'Speakers in the Federation Council are granted a staff of no more than thirty persons, some of whom may be from outside the Federation in accordance with section XIX'."

"Yes, but that requires the appropriate documentation to be filled out," another councillor added hopefully. "Rather a lot of documentation."

"You mean this?" Arf asked, an enormous sheaf of paper appearing in her hand with a theatrical flash of light. "One of the advantages to being on the Infinite Library's payroll is that you tend to end up being really good with paperwork. Filled it out on the way here, and got it authorised by the folks on Floor 5. Centralised government really does have its advantages, doesn't it? By the way, I liked question 6 on the immigration form. Do you often have people 'planning the utter collapse of humanity and the subjection of the Federation's citizens to tentacular horribleness'? Wait, don't answer that."

"Fourth Guarantee, Federation Constitution," a snout-nosed Tellarite snapped. "Freedom of the press shall be obstructed by neither the government, nor by any private body. Explain yourself."

"This lot?" The familiar's ears twitched, and she glanced at the decidedly cowed journalists assembling equipment under the advance team's supervision. "Oh, they're here of their own free will. Happy as clams. Right, guys?"

The grin she flashed displayed her elongated canines in a manner most worrisome, drawing a succession of hasty nods from its recipients.

"Article 627/S," a councillor caught on the periphery of the grin's effects suggested weakly. "Improper... dress?"

"Wait, you mean this?" Arf indicated her minimalist halterneck-and-hotpants ensemble, causing several of the older humanoids in the room to develop a pressing interest in the walls and ceiling. "You're kidding me, right? I mean, have you seen what the Orion councillor's not wearing?"

"That's traditional!" the green-skinned woman at the back objected, almost causing a wardrobe malfunction as she shot to her feet.

"Right? So's this. Or do you think it's easy to find clothing that accommodates a tail?"

"ENOUGH!" the Tellarite roared. "This farce has gone on for far too long. Screw the formalities – where are the guards?"

Arf's grin broadened, losing any small vestiges of friendliness it might have once possessed. "Ah, yes. I knew someone would get round to that eventually, and I was hoping that it would be you, Councillor Skadath. See, the fact that you've got an immigration office so close to your legislature is only one of the reasons I like the way you do things here. The other is that unlike most governments – including, regrettably, our own – you don't just hire dedicated muscle-boys to guard that legislature. Instead, you use Starfleet Security. Also known, thanks to the fuzzy distinction between civilian and military you've got going, as the police. So how do you keep the police off your backside, councillor? Simple. You toe the line, you stick within the very letter of the law, and if that's not enough, you present 'em with a more tempting target. It was interesting, really, what we found in your cellar. No, perhaps I should say who we found. Some of them were three years old, councillor, and while I'm not entirely au fait with the age of consent on Tellar, I think that's a little way outside it."

Her gaze swept round the chamber, causing seasoned politicians to wilt as it passed over them. "Again, I have to compliment you. This is one of the cleanest public bodies I've seen, especially for one with such influence. That said, it's amazing what you can dig up with the tools available to the TSAB. Were the perks you got from the Cardassian Intelligence Bureau worth it, Councillor Dubois? How about you, Councillor Vessek? Starting to wish you'd hired someone less talkative to take care of your wife? Councillor Willard, meanwhile, fascinates me. Siphoning funds from disadvantaged communities to the point where it induces absolute poverty should be impossible in a primarily post-scarcity economy, and yet you somehow managed it. I must say, that takes a special kind of genius."

Some of the more alert councillors were already inching towards the exits, but stopped when Arf wagged a chastising finger at them. "Ah-ah-ah. Baaad idea. Head through those doors, and you'll be getting half a dozen phasers to the face. Relax, it's just a precautionary measure, so they're set to stun, but I've heard that getting hit by one of those is pretty unpleasant anyway. Besides, as the enlightened Councillor Skadath pointed out in that speech of his last month, the innocent have nothing to fear from the law."

This did not appear to present the chamber's non-Bureau inhabitants with much in the way of consolation. In fact, the rest of the advance team were starting to look less-than-cheerful themselves.

"So here's how it's going to be," she continued. "We have the firepower, the positioning, and the preparation time. That means that we talk, and you listen. Any further questions?"

It was at this point, of course, that Chrono and Picard's group entered the room, pale and out-of-breath. The Starfleet captain looked around, meeting the silent glares of one hundred and fifty-two councillors.

"... How bad?" he wheezed.


Author's Notes: Well, dear readers, I apologise for the delay, but on the plus side, I have five shiny new chapters up for your delectation. Yes, you read that right.

Incidentally, I make it a policy to reply to my reviews, so I must apologise to KD that his/her/its rather extensive one won't be getting a direct answer. There are two reasons for this – first, that it was submitted anonymously, ruling out a PM reply, and second, that said reply would be far too long and spoiler-filled to be suitable for general author's notes. Again, sorry. Glad you've enjoyed it so far, though, KD, and hope you continue to do so.

I will take this opportunity to shoot down one angle of speculation, though – whilst other fictional universes may well be getting cameos and minor roles here and there, all the settings that are major players in this story have already been introduced. We're currently winding up to the final third of the Doorstop, and things are going to get crazy enough without depositing, say, the Lensman universe or the Culture in the middle of things.

This also means that the as-yet-unmentioned universes that Chaos affected in The Open Door will not be getting much coverage, mostly because I couldn't figure out how to smoothly integrate them into the narrative. Just assume that, for instance, things settled down for the Buffy the Vampire Slayer crew eventually after their little daemonic-possession/attack-by-rabid-fusion-fic incident, and they went back to business as usual with a few extra mental issues and the odd case of split personality. Which is business as usual for them, come to think of it.

Finally, on a more chapter-relevant note, I am quite aware that Arf was de-aged into a child-like form during StrikerS in order to conserve Fate's magic, and there are indeed reasons for this being reversed. Not all of them are necessarily good reasons, mind, but that's Arf for you.