Star Trek: The Original Series: Rihannsu: The Bloodwing Voyages (54 page)

She came to stand beside the Empty Chair, looking thoughtfully at what lay in it. “Poor thing,” she said to the Sword. “For a millennium and a half no other weapon less noble has been permitted under this roof for any cause, not even for blood feud. Now they bring in blasters wholesale to guard one poor weak Terran. Or simply to terrify him for their pleasure.”

People shifted where they stood. She ignored them, smiling a terrible smile at the Sword. “It seems nobility is gone from this place…among other things. The kept word…the paid debt. Honor.”

“Traitress!” someone shouted. “You, to speak of honor!”

She turned slowly, and McCoy was glad the look in her eyes was not turned on him. “When I helped the Federation attack and destroy Levaeri V,” she said clearly, “the only thing I betrayed was a government that would have used the technology being developed there to destroy the last nobilities and freedoms of the people it was sworn to guard. I would do the same again. Beware, for if you give me reason, I
shall
do so again. Only respect for this old place that S’task built keeps me from putting a photon torpedo into it to keep you all company.” She grinned, and that wicked look was back. “I have always wondered how one of those would go off in atmosphere.”

She turned again to the Chair. “This is no place for you,” she said. The Sword lay there, a long silent curve of black metal sheath, black jade hilt, so perfectly made that there was no telling where one began and the other left off except for the slight difference in the quality of their sheen. Ael put out her hand and picked up the Sword by its sheath.

The silence that fell was profound. “You have sold honor for power,” she said to the Senate and the Praetors. “You have sold what a Rihannsu used to be, to what a Klingon thinks a Rihannsu
ought
to. You have sold your names, you have sold everything that mattered about this world—the nobility, the striving to be something
right
—for the sake of being feared in nearby spaces. You have sold the open dealing of your noble ancestors for plots and intrigues that cannot stand the light of day, and sold your courage for expediency. Your foremothers would put their burned bones back together and come haunting you if they could. But they cannot. So I have.”

She hefted the Sword in her hand. “I have come paying a debt, to show you how it is done…in case you have forgotten. And meanwhile, my worthies, I shall take the Sword, and if you want it back, well, perhaps you might ask your friends the Klingons to send a fleet to find me. Or perhaps they would laugh and show you how to truly run this Empire as they run theirs, by sending that fleet here instead. They half-own you as it is. You might still change that…but I see little chance of it. Cowardice is a habit hard to break. Still, I wish that you might…and I will gladly serve the Empire again, when it
is
an Empire again…the one our fathers and mothers of long ago crossed the night to build.”

And Ael turned her back disdainfully on the entire Tricameron of the Romulan Empire, and looked at McCoy.

“Doctor,” she said very calmly, as if they had met under more peaceful circumstances, “my business here is done. Are there other matters needing your attention, or shall we take our leave?”

“I’m done here,” he said. “And so’s Naraht.”

“Ensign Rock—or Lieutenant now, I see.” McCoy had a definite feeling that Ael was deliberately “not noticing” things unless they were of some importance to her at a given moment. Passing Naraht by unnoticed was all very well in a garden rock arrangement, but on what had been a flat, bare floor—and which was still reasonably clean, so far as skirmish sites went—he was hard to miss. “You’ve grown, sir.”

Naraht shuffled and rumbled a bit before replying, the Hortan equivalent of a blush. “Madam,” he said, “you are more beautiful than I remembered.”

McCoy put an eyebrow up in mild surprise, then smiled slightly. “Must be the ears,” he said to Ael. “His mother always did have a soft spot for them.”

“Soft spot?” said Naraht. “
My
mother?”

Ael smiled, and bowed slightly to Naraht. “I make no judgment as to that,” she said. “But as regards beauty, if that is your perception, may I remain so. May we all.” She glanced back at the others in the chamber, and her amusement diluted somewhat as she flipped open a communicator. “In any case, I would as soon not overstay my welcome here, and I suspect I did that within the first second of my standing on the floor.
Bloodwing,
three to beam up. These coordinates. Energize….”

Arrhae drifted in and out of consciousness as she lay on the floor, aching. She had seen moments of Ael t’Rllailleu’s visit to the Senate Chamber, but each of those moments had faded to black before anything of interest happened. She opened her eyes again just as Ael, McCoy, and Naraht dissolved in a whirl of transporter effect, and heard Ael’s final words before the beam whisked words and speaker both away. “
Bloodwing
is the only ship of any size here, so we—”

As the darkness rose around her mind again, Arrhae thought she heard the chirp of another communicator opening, unless it was just a memory of the first. The voice that spoke into it was no more than a susurrant mumble, like waves on the seashore, and she wasn’t able to concentrate on who it was or what they said. Her arm hurt, and she was so tired.

“
Avenger,
this is tr’Annhwi…”

So tired…

“Beam me up! Emergency alert…!”

So…

“Go to battle stations….”

…tired…

McCoy had been aboard a Rihannsu warship before, but that had been a Klingon-built
Akif-
class battlecruiser, and it had at least been roomy.
Bloodwing
was nothing of the sort. None of his kinesic-analysis studies of viewscreen recordings that showed warbird bridges had prepared him for the reality of just how
cramped
the rest of the ship might be. Not that it caused him to stoop or anything so obvious; there was just a lot less free space than he was used to on the
Enterprise,
and if Naraht had indulged his appetite any further, the Horta would have been in real trouble.

He recognized familiar faces among the small group waiting for them in the transporter room. With the implant running, they would have been as well known to him as the crew of the
Enterprise,
and even now their names came back like those of old friends: Khoal and Ejiul and T’maekh, big Dhiemn and little N’alae, and his fellow protoplaser-wielder, Chief Surgeon t’Hrienteh. She at least looked pleased to see him there, but the rest had eyes only for their commander, and for what she carried cradled like a child in the crook of one arm. Not a one of them spoke as Ael stepped down from the transporter platform, looking for all the world like a queen—or the Ruling Queen herself.

“Now
there
is a tale for the evenings,” said someone softly and reverently.

Ael smiled a bit and reversed the Sword so that its scabbard-chape grounded with a small, neat click against the deck. “A long tale for many evenings, my children. But not just now. Are the landing party up and safe?”

“All up, Commander,” Ejiul said, checking a readout for confirmation. “They came up by cargo elevator through the rear hangar-bay. Since we had landed, more or less, it was quicker than using the transporter.”

“Excellent.” Ael toggled the wall-mounted intercom and said, “Bridge, all secure. Lift ship.”

“Vectors on line, up and running.”

McCoy recognized the voice as that of Aidoann t’Khnialmnae, and wondered with a little shudder whether Nniol tr’AAnikh was aboard as well. There were thanks he had to make at second hand, and not waste too much time about doing it.

Then Aidoann’s voice came back sounding more concerned than before.
“Commander, we have detected another beam-up from the Senate Chambers. This wasn’t anything to do with us.”

“Tr’Annhwi,” said McCoy to the air. He suddenly remembered that despite not wearing a weapon with his uniform—tr’Annhwi respected that tradition at least—the subcommander had been wearing an equipment belt. That meant a communicator. And
that
meant he could get back to
Avenger,
which if its captain was on-planet, had to be in orbit waiting for him.

“You know one of House s’Annhwi, Doctor?” asked Ael as she made for the door and the turbolift beyond. “Then my compliments on the quality of your enemies.”

If he had thought the transporter room was cramped, that was nothing to being inside a turbolift with a Rihannsu commander and a noticeably oversized Horta. Getting out onto
Bloodwing
’s little bridge was almost a relief—though once Naraht rumbled after them, the situation became much as before. Nobody looked up to stare, even though the news of their arrival with the Sword had probably run through the ship in the few seconds that they were in the lift, and nobody moved from their seat while their commander was on the bridge. Or almost nobody.

None of Ael’s people wore Rihannsu Fleet uniform now, even though they were still dressed in a distinctly military style, but the young man who kick-swiveled his station chair around and then left it in a single springy bounce wore neither Romulan nor makeshift. He was Terran-human, in a Federation Starfleet command uniform, and he was grinning as he reached out to shake the doctor’s hand.

“Well, Dr. McCoy!” he said, shaking as vigorously as someone priming an old-style water pump, “I’m glad to see you’re not dead yet!” And grinned even wider as McCoy gaped in confusion. This was an elaboration he hadn’t expected. “Luks, sir. Ensign Ron Luks, of Starfleet Intelligence.”

“Ah.” Everything became suddenly clear. “So Admiral Perry sent you to hold the old man’s hand. On the wrist, or off it?”

Luks stopping shaking hands and went a little pink. Then he grinned again. “I acted as courier for the access codes on our side of the Neutral Zone, sir—and I
was
hoping to see some action,” he said, “but so far it’s just been a flitter-ride.”

“A very long flitter-ride,” said Ael, sitting down in her Command chair. “Or perhaps it only seemed that way. Starfleet’s ensigns, Doctor, seem to vie with one another in the display of enthusiasm. But I think we’ve found the action that you wanted so badly. Tactical.” Schematics came up on the main screen, showing their position near the surface of ch’Rihan and that of
Avenger
in a high geosynchronous orbit.

“This is more like it,” said Ensign Luks, pointing at the screen. The blue triangle representing the frigate was underscored by a rapidly scrolling column of data, and McCoy suspected he knew what it meant.

Aidoann confirmed it. “
Avenger
was in orbital shutdown until a matter of seconds ago, Commander,” she said, enhancing the image so that more information filled it. “They’ve just gone over to active status, while we are lifting clear…
now.
”

The ship jolted somewhat under McCoy’s feet and the viewer image reformatted, putting the schematic display up into a screen window overlaid on an exterior scan of Ra’tleihfi as the city dropped away beneath them. There were several columns of smoke crawling skyward, last traces presumably of those patrol-craft Ael had mentioned so scornfully. For all that he had to admire the courage of anybody who would attack something the size of a warbird with no more than a lightly armed atmosphere shuttle. It was very much more the traditional image of Romulan behavior than that which he had learned in the past days, and he wondered if it was typical because of the tradition, or traditional because it was a typical character trait. Whichever, it seemed entirely in accordance with the old custom of honorable suicide….

Bloodwing
’s people began bustling about in the way that McCoy had seen so many times on the
Enterprise,
with the same quiet determination—and the same pre-combat nerves that were more or less well hidden.

“This could be fun,” said Luks, grinning again. McCoy snorted. He sat down at an empty station, closed the antiroll arms across his thighs in anticipation of a rough ride, and waited for the “fun” to start. Luks watched him for a second or two, then decided that there might be something to the precaution after all and followed suit.

“Power availability?” Ael said quietly.

“Minimal, Commander. Maneuvering on thrusters, no more. We can’t use impulse power in atmosphere, and the lift tubes—”

“Noted—but hurry it up. Photon torpedoes?”

“Armed. All tubes charged and ready.”

“Phaser banks…?”

“Locked on target. Standing by.”

“Shields?”

“Raised.”

“Screens?”

“Maximum deflection.”

“
Bloodwing,
this is Ael. Battle stations, battle stations. Secure for combat maneuvers. Success to you, and
mnhei’sahe.
Ael out.” She turned around and gazed with dry amusement at Ensign Luks, who had followed everything with the expression of someone whose dreams were coming true. “This is the ‘fun’ part, Ensign,” she said, lecturing him gently. “We are down here.
Avenger,
a more modern and more powerful ship, is up there, blocking our escape route. We must therefore dodge and feint until an opening presents itself, without getting blown up in the process, and without taking too long about it in case somebody recodes or overrides the defensive-satellite chain so that they’ll be waiting for us too. Enough fun for you?”

Luks had gone a little pale during Ael’s recitation, but he recovered fast. “You’ll run?” he said, plainly not expecting such behavior from Rihannsu, even renegade ones.

“Of course. Starting now.” Ael returned her attention to the tactical display, where
Avenger
was running at nominal capability. McCoy watched her, and saw irritation in every line of her body as she sat bolt-upright in her command chair, refusing to make use of its comfortably padded back.

The two ships were engaged in a slow-motion race for viable in-atmosphere power, and the first to get it would win. Normally starships with a landing capability could ascend from or descend to their landing fields only out of parking orbit, but the maneuvering thrusters for attitude control in zero-G dock could be adapted from normal configuration. Ael seemed to be silently cursing herself for not having it done earlier—or perhaps for not firing on
Avenger
when she first had the chance.

Except that doing so was not the Romulan way. Or, at least, not Ael’s way…

“Master Engineer tr’Keirianh, Commander: We have power…!”

McCoy saw Ael’s left hand relax from its fist as
Bloodwing
’s engineer made his jubilant report, then saw it clench tight an instant later as she looked at the screen and realized that
Avenger
’s engineer was probably saying exactly the same words. The schematic flipped out to fill the screen again, and more figures began to flicker across it in pursuit of the tiny ship-silhouettes. Then
Bloodwing
jolted as if she had hit something—or something had hit her.

“Phaser fire, atmosphere attenuated.” Aidoann, at the helm station, transferred the screen to visual again; below was a gray-green-brown blur of land, and above, in the gray sky, were the fading bluestreak traces of hard radiation sleeting from the track of
Avenger
’s phaser beams. “Returning fire—”

“No!”
Ael was most decisive, and although a lesser captain might in very truth have struck fist against seat arm, she allowed her voice to do that work. “Not until we reach space,” she said. “I will not take that responsibility—”

This time
Bloodwing
bucked like a high-spirited horse with spurs struck into its flanks, and McCoy felt the familiar sensation of being pitched in three dimensions at once. For just one instant he thought that he could hear the thunderclap roar of some huge explosion, although that might have been the tinnitus brought on by the implant in his brain. Or he might indeed have heard the sound of a photon torpedo detonating in sound-bearing atmosphere.

“Tr’Annhwi’s mad,” said Ael flatly. “O Elements, to use a torpedo so close to ch’Rihan…” She glanced back at McCoy and Ensign Luks, spared a smile for Naraht, and tightened the smile to a ferocious grin. “Enough. If he was obeying the rules of war, it might be worthwhile to keep running, but he’s thrown out the rules of common sense as well. Take us up!”

Bloodwing
leaped for space with Aidoann and Hvaid performing a two-part chant of countdown before cutting in the impulse drive. It was a fine-spun line they traveled, for using impulse power in atmosphere would not only shatter windows over hundreds of hectares, it would probably cause widespread molecular disruption of the planet’s ozone layer. That was the sort of thing which tr’Annhwi’s casual use of heavy weapons might have caused already—there was no way to be certain, and only one sure way to stop it from happening again.

“Confirming: phasers locked. Firing.”

Needles of fire spat from the warbird as
Avenger
’s vulture shape swelled ever larger on the screen—superimposed now with gunnery and targeting data—and the long, lean, wide-winged shape vanished behind expanding globes of incandescent energy before slashing through them with her shields barely affected and delivering not one but a salvo of photon torpedoes straight at
Bloodwing.

“Evasive,” snapped Ael. It was already engaged, if speed of response was anything to go by, and McCoy felt the gravity grids flutter along a 3-G variant curve during the maneuver stresses, and then cut out completely for a long half-second when the volley of proximity-fused torpedoes exploded beneath and behind them, flinging out enough wild energy for the screen to black out completely as it filtered the glare.
Bloodwing
’s phasers opened up again as
Avenger
twisted past at .25
c
less than eight klicks away, an impossible point-blank full-deflection shot that still succeeded in bracketing the other ship.

Avenger
flipped over, belly-up like a dead shark, and for an instant it seemed that she was beginning the long tumble that would end only when a scratch of brilliant light flared and faded across the Romulan night sky. Then she completed the roll and corrected the plunge planet-ward, skipping across the outer envelope of atmosphere with a flare of friction-heated particles dragging in her wake, opened momentarily to full impulse power, and came back at
Bloodwing
yet again.

“These damned Klingon gunnery augmentation circuits should be—” Ael said fiercely, and didn’t bother completing the curse.

McCoy watched from his seat, listening and trying to remain as detached about this as he had been about the death sentence in the Senate Chamber. It was difficult; space battles, even this unfamiliar dogfighting at low impulse speeds, were situations in which familiarity did not breed contempt so much as terror. Evidently some Klingon-built improvement to
Bloodwing
’s phasers was proving ineffective against
Avenger,
a latest-generation warship built by those same Klingons.