Read Star Trek: The Original Series: Rihannsu: The Bloodwing Voyages Online
Authors: Diane Duane & Peter Morwood
Star Trek: The Original Series: Rihannsu: The Bloodwing Voyages (51 page)
Meanwhile other forces were stirring. The Federation sent the only ship that had been successful with Romulans to see if it could get its hands on the cloaking device. It did, and
Enterprise,
merely an annoying name before, became a matter for curses and vengeance. How some of those curses turned out, and what form the vengeance took, other chroniclers have recently covered more completely in the press.
In terms of policy, matters have changed little from that point, some few years ago, to the present day. The Rihannsu lie inside their protected Zone, while their Praetorate and Senate hatch plots, count the incoming funds from the tributary worlds, and look for ways to regain an honor which they never truly lost. Some people in the computer nets (still cherished as a quaint but much-loved relic of the ship days) have ventured the opinion that some kind of overture toward peace should be made. The Federation at least builds decent starships. And, some have said, if the Federation truly wanted to destroy the Rihannsu, why haven’t they come and done it in force? Their resources are presently huge enough to crush the Two Worlds as the little ships swarmed over
Balboa,
by sheer strength of numbers.
But so many only reply to this line of thought with ridicule. “Cowardice,” they say. Others point out that the Rihannsu, however hostile they may be to the United Federation of Planets, also serve as the Federation’s buffer between them and the Klingons. Annex the Rihannsu spaces (even if they could) and suddenly Federation and Klingon policies come into direct conflict. It makes more sense to let the Rihannsu take the brunt. This argument generates more bitterness among Rihannsu than even the first. Fear of the Rihannsu—that a Rihanha can understand, though he loathes it. But being ignored, or taken for granted, that is the unforgivable. For those who ignore the power of the Two Worlds, no hate will ever be sufficient.
The voices still speak quietly of the old ways here and there: of peace, and nobility, and perhaps even
rapprochement
with the Vulcans. But that turn of mind has a long way to wait before it comes into vogue in the Praetorate. The Rihannsu in power now are the children of the twenty-five years of blood: their memories are long, and the fear that awoke when
Carrizal
arrived is still cold in their stomachs at night. Perhaps a hundred years from now, perhaps two hundred, children will be born who will sleep sounder, and think more wisely by day. Until then, the Two Worlds are alone in the long night. Nothing has changed since the ships: the worlds still have walls.
Hope is not dead, of course. Every now and then some one hand reaches out—not necessarily the hand of a great general or statesman—and hits the wall, and a bit of stonework falls down. Perhaps the hands of the little do less than the hands of the great. But there are many more of them, and they tend not to squabble among themselves as much as the great do, nor are they terminally embarrassed by statements like the one heard for so many years on both sides of the Zone, “I don’t understand….” They are the ones likely to work to understand: to find answers, and to share them. As long as this goes on, there is always a chance: and if the small ever manage to teach this art to the great, the Elements Themselves will not contain all the unfolding possibilities, as the walls come down at last.
McCoy pushed the reader-screen aside and rubbed both hands over his face. Romulan law was one of the most stultifying subjects that he had ever studied, and despite the amount of persuasion he had employed to get a logic-solid reader with an onboard visual translator, there were times—usually deep into the pontifications of some long-dead Senator—when he had the feeling that he would be better employed doing something else, like watching the grass grow. It was intricate, and the older legal terms sometimes refused to translate into even the stilted Federation Standard that the reader produced. There was no such thing as an out, anyway; even the Right of Statement, a standard clause in capital crimes—of which there were an excessive number—was no more than an opportunity to explain or defend the offense for which the speaker would afterward be executed.
At least the implant was giving him no problems other than those anticipated. McCoy had expected a headache, had almost hoped for one, just a little one, something that he could grouse about to intelligence and say
I told you so
when he got back. Turning a man into a living data recorder—it wasn’t proper. But at least it worked. When the microsolid buried in his cortex memory centers was in operation, his normally excellent memory was enhanced out to auditory and visual eidesis. He remembered
everything.
And until he mastered the neural impulses that switched the blasted thing on and off, he had to leaf through a mass of data equivalent to the
Index XenoMedicalis
to find the scribbled margin note that said “socks are in boots, under bed.”
There was information locked into it already, supplied by
Bloodwing
’s surgeon, t’Hrienteh. Names and faces, the workings of the Senate—t’Hrienteh’s family were highly placed—medical background on Romulan psychiatry and body kinesics. All the things that would make his task on ch’Rihan easier, or at least more straightforward. That was why he had to stay on-planet for long enough to be taken before the Senate and the Praetorate, so that he could interpret what he saw and heard in the light of what he knew. A delicate business at best, and already very dangerous.
McCoy’s chief interest in the Romulan law books was an attempt to find out how long espionage trials might be expected to last, how much time he had to play with before the legal system began to play with him. Using knives…
Arrhae took a step backward from the door, and stared at the two men who had evidently rung the chime a few seconds before. After their parting in i’Ramnau, Nveid tr’AAnikh was the last person on ch’Rihan that she expected to see. “What are
you
doing here?” she wanted to know. “And who is this?”
Nveid’s companion was a little taller and a little fairer, but the most obvious difference was that while Nveid wore civilian clothing, the other man was in Fleet uniform. “Llhran tr’Khnialmnae,” he said, saluting her. His gaze shifted from her face to the hall behind her, checking that it was empty. “Nveid has spoken to you already about—certain matters. My sister Aidoann was third-in-command of
Bloodwing.
”
“Llhran is taking a great risk in coming here,” Nveid said. “I told you of the families who supported the action of their kinfolk aboard
Bloodwing;
House Khnialmnae is one of the more outspoken. Their respect for honor is very high.”
“And what,” Arrhae said through her teeth, “of their respect for the peace and the lives of those who want no part of this madness? I want you to let me alone. And alone is not standing two by two with a surveillance subject on the steps of my master’s house. Go away.”
“
Hru’hfe,
we should like to speak with H’daen tr’Khellian.” Llhran spoke now in a more formal phase of language, one that made quite clear the difference between a Senior Centurion and a senior servant. “It is a matter concerning the prisoner Mak’khoi.”
“And how much do you two want to offer me…?” H’daen looked down at them from the balcony above the door, his face weary and his voice totally disinterested. “Or are you just taking him away at long last?”
“My lord…?” Nveid was confused, and it showed. Whatever had brought him here, it was nothing to do with helping McCoy to escape. Not yet, anyway. “We wanted to speak to the Federation officer held captive here.”
“Do it. Do whatever you want. Just don’t ask me to get involved again.” He touched his cheekbone just beneath the right eye, where a blue-brown bruise mottled the skin. “Involvement hurts too much.”
“My lord, you are a Praetor, and we—”
“I am a make-weight,” H’daen responded with all the savagery of a man who had too recently discovered that his place in the scheme of things was far lower than he had believed. “The only Praetors you need ask permission of are the young
hnoiyikar
who believe that wealth and the freedom to employ brutality are all that honor means.” He turned away from them and went indoors.
“So…?” Nveid was watching Arrhae closely, more closely than she liked, and she shrugged dismissively.
“I’ll take you to him and leave you a translator. After that, say what you want out of my hearing. And leave quickly.”
Llhran looked at her, then at Nveid. “Servants have better manners where I come from,” he said pointedly, and Arrhae blushed.
“Sir, I doubt that servants are so frightened where you come from,” she said, and ushered the pair indoors before either man could think of a suitably cutting response. “If you would follow me, I shall take you to Mak’khoi. And then I have work of my own that needs attention. Evidently”—and she watched Nveid carefully—“the Senatorial Judiciary have decided that their prisoner would feel more comfortable with a familiar face beside him—so before we go to the trial in Ra’tleihfi I must deal with everything that won’t be done while I’m away….”
“
You
are going to the capital?” Llhran clearly didn’t believe what he was hearing. “A servant?”
“
Hru’hfe
of an old House, Llhe’,” Nveid said. “Different places, different customs. She’s rather more than just ‘a servant.’”
“Oh.” He didn’t sound convinced.
Not that Arrhae was concerned; she was past worrying about anybody’s opinions other than McCoy’s and her own. “In here,” she said. “That is, if he isn’t in the garden”—and she smiled—“communing with nature….”
McCoy wasn’t, although he probably wished that he were. Instead, he was sitting with his head in his hands, mumbling legal phrases and looking very like a man with a sore head. Which was entirely accurate. Right now, never mind all his other troubles, what Leonard McCoy wanted in all the world was a twenty-mil ampule of Aerosal and a spray hypo. Dammit, he’d settle for three aspirin and a glass of water. He looked at his visitors without much interest, automatically registering their body language—both of them were extremely apprehensive about something or other, and trying not to show it, and the man in uniform had the air of someone whose opinions had been gently but firmly squelched—before turning his attention to their faces. Young faces, closed and wary, but inquisitive for all that. He summoned up a smile and nodded to them, began to shut down the reader’s input-output systems, shutting down his own “onboard” circuitry as he did so. At least that was getting easier. McCoy added the last data-solid to the stack that already filled his little table to overflowing, and wondered if the two Romulans had ever seen a Terran face before. He doubted it.
Arrhae introduced them to him as if to her lord, then made herself scarce and closed the door as she went out. McCoy wondered who had been giving her a hard time, and put his money on the centurion. That young man didn’t have the hardness of another tr’Annhwi, but there was a determination about him that suggested he wasn’t open for any sort of nonsense from his subordinates. The sort of mindset that would have put a lad who looked about eighteen into a senior centurion’s uniform. Or maybe he was just somebody’s sister’s kid….
“I recognize your House-names,” McCoy said, switching on the boxy Romulan-issue translator and trying to find somewhere to set it down. It balanced rather precariously on top of the smallest heap of computer junk, and he cocked a wary eye at it before he let it go. “Your kin on
Bloodwing
were in good health last time I saw them. Take a seat, both of you—if you can find one.”
“Thank you, Doctor,” said Nveid, offering him the ghost of a bow. Llhran began to salute, thought better of it in the presence of an enemy officer, and nodded his head fractionally instead. Once they were both seated side by side on the bed, very straight-backed and looking far from comfortable, Nveid cleared his throat significantly. It amused McCoy to find that sound used in exactly the same way it was back home. “Sir,” the Romulan began, “did the
hru’hfe
tell you that I spoke with her in i’Ramnau yesterday?”
McCoy shook his head. “The
hru’hfe
regards me as an unnecessary disturbance of the peace in this household. She’ll be glad to see me gone.”
Nveid frowned and muttered something to Llhran. Though he spoke too softly for either the translator or McCoy’s ears to catch the words, his tone sounded irritable.
Good,
McCoy thought with a touch of satisfaction,
that should give Terise a bit more cover.
“What was the subject of the conversation?” asked McCoy, wondering if this was what Arrhae meant about him becoming overly popular, and whether that was a good or a bad thing. Nveid cleared his throat again, a mannerism that McCoy decided was mostly nervousness, mixed with just a bit of affectation.
“You were.”
“Oh? In what sense? Good, bad, or indifferent?”
“You may find it good, I trust.” Nveid took a long breath and glanced at Llhran tr’Khnialmnae, who nodded quickly. “Sir, there are many Houses on ch’Rihan who…”
“…and both duty and the obligations of honor therefore require that we do other than stand by while you are condemned and killed.”
“And what form would this ‘other’ take, Nveid tr’AAnikh?”
“We would endeavor to help you escape from ch’Rihan and from Imperial space, and return you across the Neutral Zone to your own people. The starliner
Vega
was released yesterday, after repairs to her hull were completed, and…well, we have supporters everywhere, those of us who have no love for the pirates who would try to run this Empire as the accursed Klingons run theirs. Several of our people are seeded among the traffic-control nets.” McCoy grinned suddenly. “They ‘acquired’ all of this tenday’s access codes for the inner-system approaches.”
“Even through the planetary defenses?” said McCoy, grinning even harder.
“Of course—all of the weapon-platforms run by automatics anyway.”
“Then bear it in mind for later.”
“Later…?”
“Yes. After I’ve been to the Senate Chambers and had a chance to study how the Praetorate runs this particular show.”
“
Study
them?” Llhran was halfway to his feet, shocked out of his military composure by McCoy’s declaration. “Doctor, they want you dead. Get out while you can!”
“Calmly, son, calmly. I know what I’m doing, and I’ve got my orders to back them up. Standard procedure: if a suitably qualified officer is in a position to obtain new social understanding of another intelligent people, it is incumbent upon him to gather such information as he deems useful to that end. Failing to comply, Centurion tr’Khnialmnae, would place my honor as a Starfleet officer in jeopardy, instead of just my life.”
“Ah.” Llhran subsided, understanding that particular argument as he might not have understood something with no parallel among the Rihannsu. Personal honor, especially among military personnel from the noble Houses, was a currency more widely used than any other.
“So what
can
we do to help you, Doctor?”
McCoy smiled a little to himself at Nveid’s eagerness to do anything at all, and do it at once. There was something about the young Romulan’s earnest enthusiasm that reminded him of Naraht when the Horta was a newly graduated ensign. When he had referred to the youngster as a “space cadet” he hadn’t been making fun. Nveid tr’AAnikh was a little like that except that he was a Romulan and therefore most likely susceptible to the use of violence in discussion. Any people that used suicide, whether genuine or enforced, as an instrument of political policy could aspire only to benevolence on their better days, and on most of the other days needed watching.
“Try this,” he said, choosing his words with care. “If your traffic-control system is anything like ours, there’ll be regular tests of the communications network—so have one of your people transmit a test signal of a standard geometric progression based on the first three prime numbers.” McCoy closed his eyes briefly and when they opened again they were staring intently at something only he could see. “Exactly one standard Romulan day after that, send a tight-beam tachyon squirt on a decohesive packet frequency of 5-18-54 to coordinates GalLat 177D48.210M, GalLong +6D 14.335M, DistArbGalCore 24015 L.Y. No repetition, no acknowledgment. That should do it.”
When his eyes slid back into focus, they met the suspicious stares of two Romulans who were plainly beginning to wonder whether the requirements of honor weren’t getting them into something more than they had bargained for. “Doctor,” said Llhran, speaking, McCoy guessed, with the full weight of his centurionate training behind him, “what will receive that signal?”
“Not an invasion force, Centurion. A single ship, and not even a Federation warship at that.”