Star Trek: The Original Series: Rihannsu: The Bloodwing Voyages (52 page)

“But cloaked with the device stolen from us by your Captain Kirk.”

“Ah, well. That’s history, isn’t it? Anyway, the ship’ll come in, pluck me from the very jaws of imminent dissolution, and whisk me away before the Imperial fleet is any the wiser.”

“So you say. Can we trust you?”

“Or I you?” McCoy’s shoulders lifted in a dismissive shrug. “‘Trust’ isn’t a word much used between the Federation and the Imperium. I think starting to use it is long overdue. Instead of taking the chance you offer me now, I’ll do what honor dictates and trust that when I’m on trial, you’ll have done your part to get me safely away. If you don’t trust me after I trust you, then I’ll die—I presume unpleasantly—and where does that leave the
mnhei’sahe
you mentioned so often?”

He sat back while the two Romulans muttered softly to each other, not trying to overhear what they said since he would be told their verdict soon enough. His hands were sweating. Not unusual. They sweated before he undertook any sort of surgery, and this excision of mistrust was one of the hardest operations he had ever performed.

Nveid and Llhran came out of their huddle, and McCoy was startled to see how much color both men had lost. Putting their own lives on the line was evidently one thing, but making a decision that might well be laying their homeworld open to attack was another matter entirely. “Very well, Dr. McCoy,” said Nveid. “Trust it shall be. If anything goes wrong, then Elements all witness that we acted as we thought best for all, now and in the future.”

“Come along, Doctor,” said Commander t’Radaik. “You have had quite enough time to set your affairs here in order.” She stood in the doorway of his room with armed and helmeted guards at her back and watched as McCoy bundled the few possessions he had accumulated into a grab-bag.

Enough time?
he thought, nervous even though he hoped it wouldn’t show.
No. There’s never anything like enough, not when there’s a trial and an execution in the offing.
He was determined, however, not to resort to the black humor that was such a cliché on occasions like this. Granted that few of his psych patients had ever been in the gallows situation for real, but—

“Doctor…”

Now, that was the voice of a Romulan Intelligence officer whose patience was finally at an end. McCoy glanced quickly around the room, hoping that he had overlooked nothing of importance, then lifted his small bagful of property and took the first step of the last mile.

It was rather farther than a mile, and he wasn’t going to be walking it. The Senate Chambers in Ra’tleihfi were more than three hundred kilometers due north of H’daen’s mansion, an hour’s ride in an ordinary flitter, rather longer in the heavy military vehicle squatting like a gray-armored toad in front of the house.

Arrhae was standing beside it, looking ill at ease in the company of so many soldiers, and McCoy managed to summon up a smile for her especial benefit. The expression she gave back might have been a smile—it might equally have been the facial spasm of someone with indigestion.

“In,” ordered t’Radaik. They got in, surrounded by disruptor-armed guards; there wasn’t a lot of choice in the matter. McCoy looked back toward the house and saw H’daen tr’Khellian watching them. The man looked as uneasy as both of them, and McCoy thought about what H’daen had said five nights before. Something about this not being the way Romulan law should be interpreted. Well, just recently he had read enough of that same law to know that H’daen was being optimistic. Trials weren’t a nice, civilized judge and jury, with mannered arguments and reasoning from defense and prosecution, even in cases where the verdict and sentence hadn’t already been settled well in advance. The onus of proof was on the accused rather than on the accuser. “Guilty until proven innocent,” and God help you if the court decided that all they needed was a confession. Romulan judiciary inquisitors were supposedly so skillful that they could not only get blood out of the proverbial stone, they could also force the stone to admit that it was spying for the Federation.

McCoy thought of Naraht, young Lieutenant Rock, and put that line of reasoning as far out of his mind as it would go….

The flitter’s rearmost hatch rose with a hiss and whine of heavy-gauge hydraulics, settling into its hermetic slots and shutting off all light until the vehicle’s internal systems were switched on from the control compartment. After that it was only a matter of minutes before the flitter rumbled into the air and whisked off north toward Ra’tleihfi. Toward the Senate, and the Praetorate, and those scenic execution pits that Arrhae had mentioned.

Arrhae leaned over him, offering a small flask that by the scent contained good-quality wine. “Naraht?” With an appropriate lifting of the flask, she made the word sound like an invitation to take a drink.

McCoy accepted, taking a single careful swig of the liquor before handing it back. “Later,” he said. “In the city. When I really need it.” He hoped that the Horta could burrow to Ra’tleihfi as fast as Naraht had claimed he could, homing on the logic-solid buried in McCoy’s brain. Between Naraht and the as yet unconfirmed rescue ship all using him as a beacon, and Intelligence using him as an ambulatory information-gathering system, what McCoy most looked forward to about completing this mission and getting home safe was to lie down on a nice friendly neurosurgery table and let Johnny Russell take the hardware out of his head. Of course, if things went wrong, some Romulan would take it out—but McCoy doubted he would appreciate that surgery quite as much.

The four Romulan guards glanced at their charges, shrugged expressively, and since nobody was offering wine their way, they resorted instead to the ale-and-water mixture in their issue canteens.

The flitter reached Ra’tleihfi before noon, traveling through the high-level zones reserved for priority traffic. Even with the starships back on maneuvers in his stomach, McCoy had enough curiosity to open the shielding on one of the armored viewports and peer out at the Rihannsu capital city nearly a mile below. It was smaller than he had imagined; at the back of his mind had been an image of something like L.A.Plex, a sprawling metropolis that went on for miles. Instead, he saw a place that was more like New York Old City: clustered spikes of tall buildings crammed together into the smallest groundspace possible, all steel and glass and plastic, a strangely pleasing hybrid that was hi-tech out of Art Deco and a style of classic severity like that of the antique Doric order.

Scattered here and there among the towering crystalline columns were buildings antique in their own right, rather than through any similarity to an Old-Earth school of architecture. McCoy knew, because Arrhae had told him, that the Senate Chamber and the Praetorate building had both been dedicated directly following the tyranny of the Ruling Queen. That meant they had been standing in the same place, and had been in continuous turbulent use for more than a millennium. No building now standing on Earth could boast such a history.

The flitter settled ponderously into a reinforced bay at the rear of the Senate Chamber, crouched buglike on its landers for a few seconds, then slid underground. If the procedure was meant to unsettle prisoners, it worked. For prisoners who were unsettled already, it worked even better.

“Leonard Edward McCoy.” The Judiciary Praetor read his name with a passable Anglish pronunciation. McCoy watched her and wondered why every courtroom charge-sheet across the galaxy managed to look like every other charge-sheet, no matter how much they differed in form and style and material. The Praetor was reciting biographical information about the soon-to-be-accused, in considerable—and accurate—detail. McCoy wondered how many of the personnel at Starfleet Command were Romulan and Klingon equivalents of Arrhae/Terise.

He looked down at his wrists, snugged close together by a fine silk ribbon. It looked like no more than a token binder, more symbolic of his position in this court than of any practical use. Except that he had seen how it had been heat-sealed, not the band of gray silk, but the monofilament running through the center of its weave. Token binding indeed.
Honorable if honorably worn,
the security chief had said as it was put on.
Don’t test it and it won’t hurt you. Pull, and…
He hadn’t bothered to say, but McCoy knew quite well enough without explanations. Any pressure on a strand one molecule thick—far too fine for the naked eye to see—would insinuate it between any other molecules it came in contact with. Pull, and both your hands fall off.

“Charges,” said the Praetor, her voice echoing through the marble chamber that had heard the same word God—or the Elements—alone knew how many times since it was built. With the marble floor that was so easily washed clean…McCoy began to pay attention, more through curiosity than real interest.

“Espionage. Sabotage. Conspiracy. Aiding and abetting the theft of military secrets. Damage to Imperial installations. Complicity in the impersonation of a Rihannsu officer. Actions prejudicial to the security of the Imperium and the public good. The sentence of this tribunal, duly considering all evidence laid before it, is that the prisoner is guilty of all charges and shall die by the penalty prescribed….”

McCoy swallowed. Anticipating something like this, no matter how accurate that anticipation might have been, hadn’t really prepared him for hearing his own sentence of death read out in open court. For maybe fifteen seconds he sat there sweating, with his guts in an upheaval that reminded him with acidic immediacy that he hadn’t eaten so far today. And then the feeling went away as a twinge of discomfort shot through a very certain filling in his rearmost right molar.

Phantom pain was one thing, tracking-sensor feedback was quite another. His equanimity reasserted itself somewhat.
You’re the one with the stacked deck,
he thought,
don’t panic now. Besides, we all die sooner or later….
Not that he would not rather put off the “evil day.” He wiped his hands briskly on his pants legs, squelched the highly inappropriate smug smile that was threatening to take over his face, and got to his feet. Immediately he was the focus of attention, and the aiming-point for the phasers which by rights his guards were not supposed to carry within the Senate Chamber lest they dishonor the Sword in the Empty Chair. McCoy looked at them, and at the leveled weapons, then dismissed them all with a lift of disdainful eyebrows, and turned his attention to other matters. “Ladies and gentlemen—”

The Judiciary Praetor glared at him. “The condemned will sit down and be silent!”

“Why should I?” McCoy snapped back, then took a deep breath. “When I demand the Right of Statement.”

There was immediate and noisy uproar in the house, and McCoy smiled thinly as he observed that for the first time in several years, the Tricameron was unanimous in a proposal—that he, Leonard E. McCoy, be suppressed severely and at once. He reviewed the mental-neural protocols that cut in on the analysis-solid, felt reality waver for an instant, and then with his enhanced awareness of the situation, realized just what a large splash his demand had made in the otherwise-tranquil pool of poison that was the Rihannsu executive. He wondered what “suppression” meant, and had a sudden vision of being put into a bag and sat on, like an Alice-in-Wonderland guinea pig. Except, of course, that someone was far more likely to yell “Off with his head!” in the comforting knowledge that it would be done.

Indeed, the Judiciary Praetor would be more than willing to do the deed herself, and was entirely capable of it. One of the most important pieces of acquired information in the logic-solid was a names-and-faces list of the Praetors and the most notable Senators, and while he hadn’t been aware of her rank, he knew—uncomfortably—that this hawk-faced woman was Hloal t’Illialhlae, wife of
Battlequeen
’s late Commander and a most appropriate consort for that vicious gentleman. The information in the solid was that this woman had turned into a regular harpy since her husband’s death in the Levaeri V incident. Understandable. But McCoy wasn’t going to let it move him at the moment.

“Well?” he said stubbornly. “What about it? If you’re subjecting me to the full rigors of the law, you’d better realize that it cuts both ways. Otherwise, why bother with this farce at all?”

The Praetor ignored him for a moment. “Disable those monitor cameras,” she commanded, “and black out all transmissions on the public channel!” Once it was done and confirmed, Hloal turned her attention back to McCoy. Her smile was predatory. “Yes, indeed, Doctor. Why bother?”

“Let him talk, t’Illialhlae,” called someone from the Senate benches. “It might be fun.”

McCoy glanced at the woman who spoke. She was in uniform, her hair worn up in a braid and her face marred by a scar running from one ear to the corner of her mouth so that she smiled constantly on that side.
Eviess t’Tei,
the memory told him.
Senator, regional governor, noted duelist.
And someone whose suggestions aren’t ignored more than once. For a few seconds Hloal matched stares with Eviess, while McCoy watched in fascination; then Eviess traced the length of that shocking scar with one fingertip and smiled sweetly, as if she remembered the original wound and reveled in the memory.

“If the house so desires…?” asked Hloal abruptly. It was most interesting to see her back down in front of the entire assembly, trying all the while not to seem ruffled by her defeat. “All those in favor of the Right of Statement, so indicate.” Most of the men and women in this chamber came to their feet, paused to check their number, and sat down again with an air of collective satisfaction. “Against?” Many fewer this time; McCoy spotted more “familiar” faces, most of them people he had been warned about.

“The proposal is carried by majority vote,” said Hloal, speaking as if the admission tasted bad. “The Right of Statement is granted. Unbind him.” She gazed at McCoy and he saw calm return slowly to her as she remembered that he was the loser no matter what small victory he won right now. “There is no time limit to the Right of Statement, Dr. McCoy; you may talk for as long as you like.” Equanimity became amusement. “Indeed, you may talk for as long as you can. And when you are no longer able to talk, sentence will be carried out. It would be more dignified if you accepted the inevitable.”

“I requested the Right,” said McCoy stubbornly. “I stand by it.”

“As you wish. The honorable members of the house may come and go as they please,” she said clearly enough for the Praetors and Senators to hear, “but so far as you are concerned, there will be no recesses or meal breaks in this particular Senate session. And no, ah, relief breaks either. There you are, and there you stay. No matter what.” Hloal smiled faintly. “So I suggest you make yourself comfortable. It will be a long, long, day.”

McCoy knew what Hloal and the rest thought that they were seeing: a coward trying to hold on to his life for just a little longer. Maybe, their faces said, when the torturers came for him at last, they would have to drag him to the execution pits, pausing now and then to humorously pry his fingers free of whatever he had clung to in an attempt to slow his progress.

He smiled, and saw her eyebrows lift, for despite its grimness the smile had nothing of the usual false bravado about it.
The day’s going to be longer than you think, dear. You’ve never heard a good ol’ southern filibuster before. I hope your seat cushion’s a soft one….

“Mak’khoi!” Eviess t’Tei was on her feet, looking disturbingly enthusiastic. “With or without the option?”

“Option?” he echoed, not understanding her.

“Of single combat. To give you the chance of an honorable death.”

“You presume, madam. What if
I
win?”

Eviess didn’t actually laugh in his face, but there was a twitchy smile on her lips that suggested she was humoring him by even considering the possibility. “If you win, then you fight another representative of the court. And, if necessary, another. The end will be the same, sooner or later. But cleaner and less protracted.”

“That,” said a voice McCoy remembered without resorting to the data-solid, “depends on who your opponent is. Eviess t’Tei, I claim first fight.”

“Subcommander Maiek tr’Annhwi,” said t’Tei. “But then, who else? Your manners still need mending….”

Of course tr’Annhwi was here. He wouldn’t miss this trial—or the execution afterward—for all the wealth of the Two Worlds, and if there was any way in which he could make his presence more personally felt, he would do it. If McCoy let him. Except that playing d’Artagnan to the subcommander’s Jussac wasn’t high on his list of Important Things to Do.

Instead, he smiled at tr’Annhwi and all the others, put one forearm across his stomach and the other across his back, and offered them a ludicrous dancing-school bow that impressed nobody and—as intended—affronted many. But at least they quieted down. It took a moment for the silence to suit him.

“Praetors, and ladies and gentlemen of the jury—wherever they are—unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I should like to take this opportunity to thank all of you for your consideration in not wearying me with such unnecessary details as a fair trial. No matter that this is a common practice amongst civilized peoples—like the Klingons—” As the first uproar of the session echoed through the Senate Chamber, McCoy’s smile got even wider. He always had loved a good audience….

Arrhae listened first with disbelief at his audacity, and then with slowly mounting admiration for the man’s stamina and invention.

He had talked about everything, beginning relevantly enough with a discussion of the Romulan legal system as it pertained to espionage and the preservation of fleeting military secrets, and then progressed outward as though in concentric circles, touching briefly on war as an exercise in honor and then dwelling for a considerable time on treachery as an entertainment, a hobby, and an art form. Names were named, and members of the Senate could be seen blushing and shifting uncomfortably on their benches as certain of their ancestors were used as examples of notably shady behavior.

After that, McCoy’s subjects had grown steadily more diverse, and he had given each the attention it deserved no matter how little it might have had to do with the Right of Statement as laid down in legislation. There had been the monologue—there was no other word to describe it—on the correct preparation of “Tex-Mex chili” (“whatever that is,” Arrhae heard from the Praetorate benches behind her), together with a vituperative diatribe against those heretics (“ah, religious schism…”) who recommended the use of beans (“whatever
they
are…”) in the pot instead of as fixin’s on the side. (“‘Fix’ means to repair,” said someone sagely, “therefore this
t’shllei
is without doubt a medication.” “Why?” There was a pause for near-audible thought while Arrhae fought down her giggles. “Well”—conclusively—“he
is
a doctor—though Federation medical practice sounds a little primitive to me….”)

Although none present could make the connection between crude medicines and food, he then proceeded to recall in impassioned detail the eating-houses of New York Old City and the dishes served there. Shortly afterward a technician was summoned to adjust and retune the translator circuitry, but without success. At one stage it was throwing out three words in five as untranslatable or meaningless: neither
pii’tsa, blo’hnii,
or
t’su-hshi
had any comparable term in Rihannsu, and
fvhonn’du,
rather than a food, seemed an analogue of a torture technique—now fallen from favor—in which parts of the subject’s body were immersed in heated oil….

He was playing for time, of course—although what Naraht could do all by himself, she didn’t know. McCoy probably did, but he hadn’t had an opportunity to tell her yet, and by the sound of things, wouldn’t have the time for hours yet. Then he coughed, cleared his throat, and coughed again, a harsh racking noise that sounded to Arrhae like a death rattle. She saw many of the Praetors and Senators who had been half-asleep with boredom jerk suddenly awake and lean forward like a pack of
thraiin
whose prey has faltered at long last. And as if in a dream she felt herself rise from the bench she had been assigned, lift water, ale, and a cup from the nearest of the many refreshment trays set about the chamber, and, greatly daring, take them to McCoy….

Holding forth on the War Between the States—or the Late Great Unpleasantness, depending on the company—was difficult enough when the listener was another southern gentleman, and downright awkward in the vicinity of a damn Yankee, but during a Rihannsu Right of Statement it became well-nigh impossible. McCoy’s throat was parched and gritty, and his entire jawbone hummed with feedback sub-harmonics. He had seldom been so glad to see a drink as when Arrhae held out the cup of neat ale to him, and didn’t give her time to cut the vivid blue liquid with water before he gulped it down.

And spent the next few seconds wondering if the brain implant had gone into overload. After the first fine flurry of spluttering, gasping, and wiping his eyes, McCoy hem-hemmed experimentally to make sure that his gullet was still where he had felt it last—and then held out the cup for a refill.

“If you people ferried some of this across the Neutral Zone, you’d all be rich,” he said. “Though personally I’d use it only for medicinal purposes. Rubbing on sprained joints, sterilizing instruments, taking the enamel off teeth…. That sort of thing. I can tell you, it wouldn’t make a mint julep. For that you need Kentucky bourbon, and you need fresh mint—and you can’t grow proper mint unless…”

And he was off again. Arrhae looked at him without smiling, wondering how long this could last before the voice tired.

What’s he waiting for?
she wondered. It all made no sense, not as a mere exhibition of bravado. Sooner or later his invention would run out. True, he was waiting for Naraht—but McCoy acted as if—

—as if he really thought he was going to get out of here—
Off the planet. Out of the system. Home. To the Federation…

She heard his voice twice: once, here and now, raspy, saying something about bourbon and the size to which ice should be shaved, and how a glass should be properly chilled: once, clear, calm and a little tired, in her head.
I’m authorized to ask you this: when I’m pulled out, do you want to be pulled as well?

Home?

Arrhae paled. Terise was staggered. Home…

But this is home!
part of her cried…and the worst of it was, she couldn’t tell which part.

Eight years here. Working, learning Rihannsu in all its subtlety, learning customs, reading, learning a people, its troubles and joys. She knew the Rihannsu now better than she had known any Earth people, and understood life here far better than she had understood life on Earth.
Who comes to their own life, after all,
she thought,
and studies it as if it were a strange thing, something completely alien to them? Perhaps more people should—