Star Trek: The Original Series: Rihannsu: The Bloodwing Voyages (91 page)

The voice of Kerih, one of the oldest of them and the chief “brain” behind the handlers’ programming, came back over comms.
“So far,”
he said,
“we’re into three of the systems. Four. Five and six should follow shortly.”

“Don’t wait for them,” Courhig said. “Lock down the self-destruct systems right away.”

“Doing that,
llha.”

“Then lock their helms and weapons systems,” Courhig said. “Comms too. I don’t want any warnings getting out.”

There was a pause. Courhig stared nervously at the subscreens showing the handlers’ output. All but one of them was showing results; that one was still dark.

“Done,”
the report came back after a moment.
“All but six.”

“What’s the matter with that one?”

“Don’t know yet,
llha,” said Kerih.
“Got visual from three of the other five, though.”

“Good. Let me see it, and trigger the first five’s invader control systems,” he said. “Knock out their crews.”

And now all he and Felaen could do was wait, watching repetition after repetition of the same scene: narrow views of Rihannsu officers hammering on unresponsive consoles, staggering down the corridors of their ships, trying to defend themselves and their shipmates against something they couldn’t understand, then falling to the decks, overcome. Courhig should have felt triumphant, but instead he felt faintly sick. At least the crews had not needed killing, but these people had honestly—he assumed—been trying to do what they thought was their duty. When they were sent home after everything was finally settled—assuming that the Artaleirhin as a people, and Artaleirh itself, would survive long enough to send them back—all too likely the loyalty of the light cruisers’ crews would be questioned, and a lot of them might be court-martialed and shot. Killing them cleanly might have been kinder. But that would have meant destroying the ships, and that Courhig would not do. Except…there was still that sixth subscreen, still dark. “Kerih,
what about six?
”

“That’s
Calaf,” Kerih said, sounding unnerved.
“I just took down self-destruct and comms. Just in time too, though I don’t think they got any messages out. But there’s another problem—they rerouted invader control away from us somehow.”

“Taif,”
Courrig said bitterly. He had been afraid of this. “Leave the ships locked on course out of the system for the moment,” he said. “We’ll have to clean them out later. Retask the smallship crews to
Calaf
. Tell them to board and neutralize the crew.”

“Got that.”

Courhig steadied himself on the back of Gielo’s chair and swallowed hard.
Neutralize. What a nice word for it.
“I wish I were there,” he said.

Felaen said nothing, just put her hands on his shoulders from behind and watched him. The five screens that were showing them images showed no new ones: only collapsed people, sleeping in smoky corridors, as they would do for hours. The ships would be followed out of system by other smallships, stopped, boarded, and their crews removed. New crews would shortly be put aboard. That in itself was a mighty success. But meantime there was still that last screen, just a stream of text…

It went dark.

There was a long silence.

“Kerih?”
Courhig said, his voice cracking. “What happened?”

A pause.
“The first two smallships made contact with
Calaf
and started forcing her hull,”
he said.
“But somebody inside managed to override the weapons lockdown and detonated the whole complement of photon torpedoes.”

“Oh, Elements…” Courhig covered his face with his hands. “Which smallships?”

“Pirrip
and
Fardraw,” Kerih said.
“Some damage to the others. Pressure leaks…nothing major.”

Rhean, and Merik and Tuhellen, and Emmiad with her laughing eyes, and Wraet and Sulleen…Courhig wiped his eyes.
They knew the risks, though. They were eager. There was no way I could have stopped them.

Too late now.

“Do you know what went wrong with that last handler?” Courhig said finally.

“Some indications. Be hard to know for sure, now.”
Kerih sounded bitter.
“But next time we won’t start operations until all the handlers are live and answering properly.”

“If there is a next time,” Courhig said. “Grand Fleet’s not as stupid as the government, alas. They’ll work out a defense against this approach as soon as they understand what happened. Meanwhile, we have a little while to exploit it—maybe as long as a month. Till then, we have other business.” He turned to Felaen. “Are the message teams ready?”

She had been bending over another console, and now straightened up. “Already starting work,” she said. “They’ll be using the handlers to pull these five ships’ last three days’ communications and using them to fabricate reports of what they’re ‘doing’ now that they’re in system. With luck we can keep the deception going for a few days—enough for us to consolidate our position. Enough time for other things to happen.”

He nodded. “Well,” Courhig said, “let’s pray that they do. Pray to all Elements that she gets here in a hurry. And that other help arrives hard on her heels…for if it doesn’t, we’ve got no other hope.”

After seeing Danilov, Jim spent the next couple of hours in his quarters, looking again at the slowly rotating map on the viewscreen at his desk. The computer had rendered the map in 3-D and had added some of the star names and statuses that had come from Ael’s information. The dry Federation/new-Bayer names and catalog numbers of the stars within the boundaries of the Neutral Zone were now augmented by Rihannsu proper names. Apparently their astronomers did not go in much for cataloging by numbers, a cultural habit based in respect for the Elements and for stars and planets as “personifications” of Fire and Earth. Jim’s attention was very much on what he had defined earlier as the “second breakout” area, the part of Romulan space closest to both the Klingons and the Federation, and the stars there: Orith, Mendaissa, Uriend, Artaleirh, Samnethe, Ysail. Many of them had been tagged with colors meant to show that they were being fortified, that substantial ship squadrons had been moved there in recent days or weeks.

“Computer,” he said.

“Working.”

“Add data on most recent Federation/Starfleet ship and troop dispositions.”

Various small stars of colored light added themselves to the ones already present in the viewer. Jim had to squint a little at the display. Most of the additions were closer to the area where the talks were now being held than to the space around 15 Tri. Jim swallowed.

Even if Fox and the intelligence people put this most recent info from Ael together with theirs,
he thought,
it’s almost too late. And if the Romulans have our information, it
is
too late. They’ll see that Starfleet has placed its ships too far away from the “second breakout” area to stop them when they move, or to keep them from moving in the first place.

Only a miracle can keep this war from happening now.

Jim got up, breathed out, and stood behind the desk, looking at nothing in particular.
And secretly,
he thought,
I’ve been expecting a miracle, just like everyone else.

Jim stepped around the desk and went to the shelf where he kept his very few real books. Sam Cogley had taught him this particular liking, one he had been selectively indulging ever since they met, and now he reached for the book Sam had given him when they parted company after the court-martial.
Strange choice,
Jim had thought at the time, as he took the old volume down and riffled through the pages. But as he had read it he’d come to the conclusion that Sam had chosen wisely. Any starship captain was, after all, a kind of descendant of the people in these pages, journeying through a landscape as strange and unpredictable as theirs, and usually doing it with just as little backup. Now the pages fell open at the spot Jim had thought of more than once today, the story of another negotiation between distrustful parties, a long time ago.

Jim let out the long breath that he had been holding, thinking of the tension in that meeting room this morning, the sense of people wanting a fight and intent on getting on with it, though not without first allowing this little local drama to play itself out, so that everyone would be able to say,
We did everything we could, of course no one wants war, but you see how it is, we had no choice!
There had been the same sense of awful inevitability about the First World War and the Eugenics Wars on Earth, and most of the great battles that had followed, right down to the last big one with the Klingons.
A shame peace isn’t as inevitable,
Jim thought.

But it can be. It
has
to be.

Someone just has to set out to make it that way.

He went back to the desk, the book still in his hand, and sat looking for a long time at the image slowly rotating on the viewer’s screen.

“Computer,” he said at last, into the heavy, waiting silence.

“Working.”

“New message. When complete, lock under voiceprint access, encrypt, and send.”

“Ready.”

“Begin message. Emphasize. Hold your position. Do not proceed until you hear from me. Close emphasis. The short delay may prove vital for all of us. End message. Send immediately according to routine AR-2.”

“Working. Routed to communications…Message sent.”

Jim sat back and let out a long breath.

Now the only question is, What will she do?

When the door chimed one more time, that evening, Arrhae looked up in resignation. Earlier this evening, after the meeting of the whole negotiating group, had come yet another visit from tr’AAnikh—in a much more subdued mood than the last time, and proffering an apology. She noticed that he would not come too close to her. That, at least, made Arrhae smile. But all that while she had been nervous, for she still had not managed to identify where the bugging devices in her suite might be. She had sent tr’AAnikh away, her excuse being that she refused to accept his apology as yet—though this had left her in a foul mood, for she disliked having to act so disagreeable.

Now she got up with a frown and went to the door. Intelligence, no doubt, in the form of the miserable t’Radaik, with another of her obscure errands. She paused by the door, breathed out. “Who comes?” she said.

“A friend,” said a big, deep voice.

Her eyes widened. She knew that voice, but there was no reason in space or beyond it for its owner to be outside
her
door. Nonetheless, she waved the door open.

He stood there, a little shadowy in the hallway’s late-evening-scheme lighting, but unmistakable: Gurrhim tr’Siedhri. He sketched her a brief bow, one which he did not have to give her at all, and said, “Perhaps the Senator might have time to speak to me.”

She stood aside, and he slipped in; the door shut behind him. Arrhae waved it locked. He stood by the couch, and she blinked to see that he was actually waiting for her to sit first.

She did so, and for confusion’s sake retreated into
hru’hfe
mode, saying, “May I give you something to drink, Praetor? I have here some excellent ale—”

“I take that kindly, but there is no need, and little time.” He reached under his tabard.

Arrhae froze. What he brought out, though, was no weapon. It was a small sphere of dark-green metal, with several recessed touch-patches set into it, matte finish against the sheen of the rest of it. He set it down on the low table in front of the couch, and it balanced on one of the recessed patches and began to make a very small, demure humming sound. One of the patches on the side glowed a soft blue.

“It is a personal cloak,” he said. “It has been set to blank out my life-sign readings; it is now also jamming whatever listening and scanning devices may have been operating in this area.”

Arrhae looked at it with astonishment. Like everyone else, she had heard of such things, but had never thought to see one. Such devices were of fabulously advanced technology and expensive beyond belief, the sort of thing that only the government could afford for its own agents—it having been careful to make such technology illegal except when purchased by a government agency.

Tr’Siedhri caught Arrhae’s look and gave her a dry one back. “If there is not the occasional advantage to being offensively rich,” Gurrhim said, “it would be a sad thing. With this in operation, no one will know I am here. Whatever intelligence operatives are eavesdropping on you at this moment, if any, will neither see nor hear anything that occurs in here for what I intend to restrict to a very short period. They will almost certainly attribute the brief failure of their equipment to a malfunction, for this whole ship has been riddled with such; so that it would be ready for this mission, its final stages of construction were hurried through much too quickly.” He smiled. “And I count it unlikely that anyone will come down here to visit. That would make it too plain that you, like everyone else aboard, were being watched, and the intel folk do so like to believe that no one knows what they are doing.”

“I hope you are right,” Arrhae said. “Meanwhile, the Praetor’s confidence honors me. Perhaps he will extend it a little—to the reason for his visit.”

“Madam, you needn’t be so formal with
me,
” said Gurrhim. “I am a farmer, and you are…an intelligent young woman whom events have raised to her proper level.”

“Flatterer,” Arrhae said.

He grinned, and his amiably ugly face went a little feral. “Truth sometimes wears a skewed look,” he said, “while being no less true. To business, young Senator. Artaleirh is in rebellion. They have declared their independence, and have also declared for the traitress.”

Arrhae held very still, watching his eyes.
“Artaleirh?”
she said, taking care to sound surprised, for it was no surprise to her; the chip that tr’AAnikh had passed to Arrhae had mentioned there was trouble there. But it had not been explicit about what kind, nor had it mentioned that the planet’s leadership was rising in support of Ael. That a first-generation colony world barely thirty light-years from Eisn was rebelling in so spectacular a fashion would be a blow to the Imperium indeed. “And how does this strike you?”

“As predictable,” he said, “but what strikes me more is the reaction of others to the same news.”

He means tr’Anierh; he would hardly be discussing the matter with me otherwise.
For a moment Arrhae was irrationally distracted by a soft ticking from the heating vessel that kept water hot for herbdraft on her sideboard. But she came back to herself hurriedly. Carefully Arrhae said, “My political patron receives my reports without comment. He does not share his ideas on their content with me.”

“No, that would hardly be his style,” Gurrhim said. “He may use others as his sounding boards, but what song the
ryill
will produce after those first few testing notes, that information tr’Anierh keeps very much to himself. Such was his style in sending you here as observer. Doubtless you will have been reporting to him the reactions of others to the events now unfolding—doubtless mine as well.”

It was hard to know what to do about such unadorned bluntness, a great rarity in Rihannsu of such rank. “That would seem to be a reasonable expectation on your part,” Arrhae said, still watching him carefully.

Gurrhim laughed at her, though it was not an unkindly laugh. “Well,” he said, “the private meeting of the senior negotiators after our whole-group meeting today was unusually lively because of this news. Hloal thought she was the only one who had heard, and thought to wrest control of the meeting to herself with it. But so many of us have come here carrying the wherewithal, in software or hardware, to carry on our business privately…” His smile grew ironic. “I am sure
Gorget
’s poor crew would not know where to begin if told to track down every illicit sending or receiving device aboard, or to start trying to decode all the different kinds of encrypted messages presently flowing in and out of here.”

“‘Us,’” Arrhae said, concentrating on staying calm. “So you, too, have received word from outside…”

“Ie,”
he said, “and found myself in an interesting position. For the Artaleirhin have asked me to take their part and to approach the traitress on their behalf, making her aware of the support which they offer her.”

“But how would you…” Arrhae trailed off. She could feel herself going cold, and probably pale as well.
He knows who I am. He
knows…

“Additionally,” Gurrhim said, the smile going colder now, “Hloal and her faction have found out about the Artaleirhin’s message to me. It is the excuse they have been waiting for. They will certainly kill me tonight, or try to, and dead or alive, I will be charged with treason.”

The sweat broke out all over her, no stopping it. “Praetor,” she said, “if this is so, then even if that does what you say it will”—she glanced at the sphere—“you may have doomed us both by coming here.”

“I think not,” Gurrhim said. “I think you are safe. Though Hloal and her cronies hope to upset the balance enough to oust at least one of the Three, they cannot possibly hope to do so with all of them…and tr’Anierh is the moderate, the balancing figure between the other two, the one most likely to survive the turmoil now beginning. An attack on you would be an attack on him. But my own fate is certainly in the balance, and who can say how it will rise or fall? So this information now passes to you, to put into your master’s hand as a weapon, or to let fall unused. But consider carefully the circumstances, in either case. More—”

He bent close, as if they could even now be overheard. “Hloal and the others of her party are sure that
Bloodwing
’s commander is either already on her way back or preparing to set out. I do not know where they get this information, but they are very sure, and indeed they have so laid their nets that it seems she
must
come back. They think they have played her skillfully. We shall see. But sooner or later she must return, and some of them are intent on striking at her immediately, by surprise, meaning to take her or kill her as soon as she comes. The arguments are going on right now, and though I cannot say how long they will take, I can see already which side is likely to win, for word will shortly come from ch’Rihan to put an end to the arguing. The commanders of our ships will be instructed to take
Bloodwing
’s commander and the Sword if they can; if they cannot, they will simply destroy her and her ship, no matter how the Federation ships or Lalairu try to prevent it. And some other stroke is planned as well, something terrible, something meant to pass unnoticed in the stour that will break out when they attack her. She must be warned, Arrhae;
they
must be warned. For there is no honor in destroying an unprepared enemy.”

She swallowed once, hard, at the sound of her name. Rihannsu were chary about the use of own-names outside of family. When one appeared in conversation, it was best to listen, for one way or another, blood would likely be involved.

“Why do you come to
me
with this information?” Arrhae said.

Gurrhim gave her a sidelong look. “Has not all the world and its wife already seen you talking to Mak’khoi, by the very orders of the intelligence folk here?” he said. “Why will anyone think, should you find a moment to speak to him again, or send him a message, that it is not again at their orders?”

“
One
of them will know it is not,” Arrhae said. “T’Radaik.”

“I count that as of no importance,” Gurrhim said. “You will find a way to work around her. In your past life you will have found ways to do all manner of things without your master knowing. Why else, if you will forgive me for speaking of it, is a good
hru’hfe
so valued, except that in the leanest times there is somehow always food on the table, and no one ever accused of theft?”

The words “past life” had made her go hot and cold within seconds, in a rush of terror. That was passing now, but still Arrhae was not sure what he knew and didn’t know, and half afraid to find out for sure. “Feeling as you feel about
Bloodwing
’s commander,” Arrhae said at last, “—or as you allow others to think you feel—why have the Artaleirhin come to
you
with this information, this request?”

“Partly because there are Ship-clan sympathizers among them,” Gurrhim said, “and my loyalties are known. Partly because we have other connections. Much dilithium has been quietly diverted from its source in the Artaleirh system to other worlds farther out, for other purposes, with the help of trading companies on ch’Havran and elsewhere which I control. But more likely because the Artaleirhin know me to be, in my way, as they are: like a
shaill
of mixed blood, short, scrappy, and hard to ride, but more robust than the narrow-muzzled, thin-legged breeds that the purebreds have become in this latter day, creatures that have to be cosseted and fed their meat chopped up in little pieces. They know I have been doing in my lands, insofar as possible when one actually lives on one of the Hearthworlds, as
they
have been trying to do, farther away: running their lives as they wish to, with an eye to old law, local ways, commonsense justice. The Artaleirhin have become increasingly used to making their own way, and now they wish to do so as a freer people, in association with an empire, but not anymore as its subjects or slaves. They see
Bloodwing
’s lady as a way out of their troubles. They are willing to be a sword in her hand…for a while. At least they are willing to gamble, with their lives, that she will be useful to them.”

She was tempted to smile at his old-fashioned manners. Nothing would bring him to speak Ael’s name, which had been thrice written and thrice burned, and so did not exist, even though he was apparently willing to deal with her, even at one remove. “Why do you bring this news to me and not some other?” Arrhae said at last. “For all the sensibleness of your answer, I do not think it is merely a matter of Mak’khoi.”

“No,” Gurrhim said, standing. “It is because I feel you are one of very few people here who did not come with a preordained agenda. Oh, I know you are tr’Anierh’s creature, or must seem to be. But you seem to
me
to be in a position—and of a disposition—to judge rightly. One who will know what properly to do with this information to make the greatest difference. From what I hear, and what little I have seen of you, you seem like one who truly loves our worlds—our worlds as they ought to be, as they were once and can be again, and would be willing to risk something of value for them.
Mnhei’sahe,
” he said, “you understand that, I think.”

She nodded, uncertain why her eyes were starting to fill.

“And you do not flinch when you hear the word,” Gurrhim said with satisfaction. “I take that as a good sign.” He bent over to pick up the cloaking device, turned it over in his hands, pressed one of the patches on it.

Then he put it, heavy and cool, in her hands. “It has selfed to you, now, and will know your body readings and mask them,” Gurrhim said. “It will extend range to cover me out to the lifts, then collapse the field when I am out of range. This patch”—he turned the sphere over—“will access the documentation. Hide it away, now, and do not use it unless you are in great need. Quiet night to you.”