The Bloodwing Voyages

by Diane Duane

  “Fine, Captain,” Jim said—the old answer—“as soon as you stop that!”

  She did, though not without bubbling briefly with Deirra laughter, a sound like an impending gastric disturbance. “Well enough. Captain, I have to apologize for asking you to hold this meeting here; properly it should have been on Enterprise, since she’s flagship for this operation. But I think we might have crowded your briefing room a bit.”

  “I think you’re right,” he said, looking at the two Klaha, three Eyren and one!’ hew standing at the center of the table, each one of them nearly the size of half a shuttlecraft. “In any case, let’s get introductions over with so that we can get down to business. Captain Rihaul, may I present my first officer and science officer, Mr. Spock”—Spock bowed slightly—“my chief engineer, Montgomery Scott; my chief surgeon, Leonard McCoy.”

  “Honored, gentlemen, most honored,” Captain Rihaul said, taking them each by the hand, though foregoing the jump-start motion she had used on Jim. “Welcome aboard Inaieu.” She led them toward the table. “I present to you my officers: first officer and chief of science Araun Yihoun; chief of surgery Lahiyn Roharrn; chief engineer Lellyn UUriul. And our guests; outside the table, from Constellation—”

  “Jim and I have met, Nhauris,” said Mike Walsh, reaching out to grip Jim’s hand warmly. “Academy—then posts together on Excalibur, ages back. When did we last see each other? That M-5 business, wasn’t it? Horrible mess, machine getting out of hand…”

  Out of the corner of his eye Jim could see McCoy getting very interested indeed. “This meeting’s a lot better than that one,” he said, looking Mike up and down. Long ago, Jim and his classmates had used to tease Mike that it was a good thing Starfleet didn’t have the old space agencies’ maximum height requirement; otherwise Walsh would never have made it past atmosphere. He was six foot six, a slim man with sandy blond hair, a long, loose-limbed lope, and a look of eternal, friendly calculation, as if he were doing odds in his head. Probably he was; Mike had a reputation among his friends for being the biggest gambler in Starfleet. It might have been a problem, if he didn’t always win. Nobody played poker with Mike Walsh—at least, not twice—but people fought to get aboard Constellation. Her command record since Mike took her was almost the equal of Enterprise’s for danger, daring, and success not only snatched from the jaws of failure, but afterward used to beat failure over the head. It was easy enough for Jim to understand. Mike Walsh hated to lose as much as Jim did; and he had carefully surrounded himself with people who felt the same way. It was a good way to stay alive in a dangerous galaxy.

  Mike waved at his officers—a Terran Oriental, and two handsome, intense-looking women, one a Tellarite. “My first, Raela hr’Sassish; my chief surgeon, Aline MacDougall; my chief engineer, Iwao Sasaoka.”

  “And here is the Captain of Intrepid,” Rihaul said from one side. “Captain Kirk, may I present Captain Suvuk.”

  “Sir,” Jim said, bowing slightly—not just because Vulcans were not handshaking types. This was, after all, the man who had saved nearly thirty other ships and the lives of thousands of Starfleet personnel by willingly delivering himself into the hands of the Klingons during their last brief war with the Federation. That war had been won on another front, at Organia. But Suvuk, even after being physically tortured, and then subjected to the Klingon mind-sifter, had still, in rapid succession, broken free of his captors on the Klingon flagship Hakask at Regulus; disabled the ship’s warp-drive and melted down its impulse engines, strewing unconscious, injured, and occasionally dead Klingons liberally along the way as he went; made solid-logic copies of everything of interest in the Klingons’ library computers, then dumped the computers themselves; and had finally made it back aboard his own ship in a stolen Klingon shuttlecraft, well before the Organians’ ban fell and both Klingons and Federation suddenly found their weapons too hot to handle. The Federation had later given Suvuk the Pentares Peace Commendation, with the extra cluster for conspicuous heroism.

  But it did not take decorations to make it obvious that this was a man to be reckoned with. Suvuk was much shorter than Spock, and slighter; that Jim had known from holos he’d seen, and had wondered at, hearing the reports of what he did on Hakask. Now Jim didn’t wonder. What the holos didn’t adequately express was the sheer force of the personality living inside that rather ordinary-looking body. This was someone Jim had suspected might exist, without ever having seen confirmation of it—a full Vulcan so powerfully certain of himself that he had no need to be bound any more than he desired to be by the conventions of his homeworld. The face was sharp, set and cool, like that of almost every Vulcan Jim had ever seen. But it was also still, from within, in some way that most younger Vulcan faces only imitated. There was slight wrinkling around the eyes and mouth, an almost lazy droop to the eyes; a look of ease and relaxation, though the body held itself erect and alert, its power ready, but leashed. This is what Spock might look like in sixty years or so, Jim thought. I hope I live to see it….

  “Captain,” Suvuk said. Jim was surprised again; who would have thought such a powerful voice would come out of such a small person? He held up one hand in the Vulcan parted-hand salute. “I greet you, for my world as well as for myself. We have had cause to acknowledge your contributions to us before this; nor would it be speculation to state that we doubtless will again.” He turned to Spock and Scott and McCoy. “Long life and prosperity to you, Spock,” he said, and Spock lifted a hand and returned the salute and the greeting. “To you also, Mr. Scott, and Dr. McCoy. Doctor,” Suvuk said, letting his hand fall, “I read your recent paper on conjoint enzyme adjustment and cryotherapy as applied to the traumatized Vulcan simulpericardium. May I compliment you on it? It is precise, comprehensive, and conclusive.”

  McCoy’s face was so still that Jim knew he was concealing absolute astonishment under it, saving it for later. “Captain,” he said, “I’m gratified to hear you say so. All I need to know now is whether the technique will work as well in the field as it did on paper and in the lab.”

  “Oh, as to that, you may make your mind easy,” Suvuk said, “for the T’Saien Clinic at the Vulcan Science Academy is already using it on their patients. I should know; I was one of them, some months back.” McCoy’s eyebrows went up; that was all he allowed himself for the moment, though Jim strongly suspected the Saurian brandy would be flowing in sickbay when they got back. “But we may discuss that later,” Suvuk said. “My chief surgeon will also desire to hear what more you may have to say; the syndrome is a problem for us. My chief surgeon, Sobek; my chief engineer, T’Leiar; my first officer, Sehlk.” One after another his officers nodded in acknowledgment—the slightly stout doctor, Sobek; the willowy, blue-eyed T’Leiar, with her long black hair; and Sehlk, a man much like Suvuk, but younger—small, darker skinned than the others, and with a keen, ready, intense look about him, all very much controlled. “Captains, gentlebeings all, shall we sit? Captain Kirk no doubt has a great deal to discuss.”

  Everyone found his, her or its place. Jim heard Rihaul sit down with the usual bizarre noise in her bowl chair, and had to repress a laugh again. Deirr weren’t really wet—their smooth, slick skin just looked that way, and in contact with some surfaces, acted that way. Rihaul had been complaining since the long-ago days at the Academy, where Jim was her math tutor, that the Fleet-issue plastic bowl chairs were the bane of her existence; sitting down in one invariably produced noises that almost every species considered embarrassing, and getting up against the resultant suction required mechanical assistance, or a lot of friends. Nowadays Nhauris and Jim had a running joke that the only reason she had become a captain was to have a command bowl chair that was upholstered in cloth.

  “I think the first matter before us,” Jim said, “is to briefly discuss the strategic situation. Tactics will follow.” Spock handed him a tape; Jim slipped it into the table and activated it. The four small holoprojection units around the table came alive, each one constructing a three-dimension
al map of the galaxy, burning with the bright pinpoints of stars. The map rotated until one seemed to be looking straight “down” through the galactic disk, and the focus tightened on the Sagittarius Arm—the irregular spiral-arm structure, thirty thousand light-years long and half as wide, that the Federation, the Romulans and the Klingons all shared. From this perspective, the Sag Arm (at least to Jim) looked rather like the North American continent; though it was North America missing most of Canada, and the United States as far west as the Rockies and as far south as Oklahoma. Sol sat on the shore of that great starry lacuna, about where Oklahoma City would have been.

  “Here’s where we stand,” Jim said. The bright “continent” swelled in the map-cube, till the whole cubic was full of the area that would have been southwestern North America, Mexico and the Californias. “Federation, Romulan and Klingon territories are all marked according to the map key.” Three sets of very lumpy, irregular shapes, like a group of wrestling amoebas, flashed into color in the starfield: red for the Klingons, gold for the Romulans, blue for the Federation. There was very little regularity about their boundaries with one another, except for one abnormally smooth curvature, almost a section of an egg shape, where the blue space nested with and partly surrounded the gold. “Disputed territories are in orange.” There was a lot of orange, both where blue met red and where red met gold; though rather more of the latter. “These schematics include the latest intelligence we have from both Romulans and Klingons. You can see that there are some problems in progress out there. The alliance between the Klingons and the Romulans is either running into some kind of trouble, or is not defined the way we usually define alliances. This gives us our first hint as to why we’re out here, gentlebeings—unless Fleet was more open with one of you than it was with me.”

  Suvuk shook his head slightly; Walsh rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “I’ve rarely seen them so obtuse,” Rihaul said. “Surely something particularly messy is coming up.”

  “Indeed,” Jim said. “Which is why we will be needing to keep in very close touch with one another. Any piece of data, any midnight thought, may give us the clue to figuring out what’s going to happen. My staff has done some research involving recent Romulan intelligence reports; I’ll be passing that data on to you for your study and comment. Anything, any idea you may come up with, don’t hesitate to call me. My intention is to keep this operation very free-form, at least until something happens. For something will happen.”

  “I wholly agree, Captain,” Suvuk said. “Our mission here is as surely provocatory as it is investigatory. One does not waste a destroyer on empty space, or space one expects to stay empty. We are expected to force the Romulans’ hand, as Captain Walsh would say.”

  Jim looked with carefully concealed surprise at Suvuk, who had flashed a quick mild glance at Walsh. Is it just me? he thought. But, no, Vulcans don’t make jokes. Certainly this one wouldn’t—“Yes, sir,” Jim said. “With that in mind, here’s our patrol pattern as I envision it; please make any suggestions you find apt.”

  The map’s field changed again, becoming more detailed. The long curved ellipsoid boundary between the two spaces swelled to dominate the cubic; stars in the field became few. “Here we are,” Jim said. “Sigma-285 and its environs. I suggest that we spread ourselves out as thinly as we can—not so far as to be out of easy communication with one another, but far enough apart to cover as much territory as possible with any given pattern.”

  “The ships would be a couple of hundred light-years or so apart,” Walsh said.

  “That’s about right; the boundaries I was considering for the whole patrol area, at least to start with, would be defined by 218 Persei to the galactic north, 780 Arietis to the south, and the ‘east-west’ distance along the lines from 56 Arietis to iota Andromedae; about half a galactic degree. This way, any ship in need of assistance can have it within from a day to an hour, depending on what the situation is.”

  “Inaieu should at all times be at the heart of that pattern,” Rihaul said, “so that she will have minimum response time for the other ships.”

  “That’s right,” Jim said. “That was my intention. I don’t propose to hold Enterprise at flag position, out of the way, during the operation; firstly because she’ll better serve us running patrol like everyone else, and secondly because she has something of a name among the Romulans. While out by herself, she may draw their attention, draw them out and give them an opportunity to let slip what’s going on, on the other side of the Zone; either by communication among themselves, or with us. We have experts in Romulan codes and the Romulan common language aboard, awaiting such an opportunity. And should there be an engagement, all steps are to be taken to preserve and question survivors…if any Romulans allow themselves to survive.”

  “Noted,” Suvuk said. “Captain, have you yet assigned patrol programs?”

  “They’re in the table for your perusal. Positions in the task force rotate.”

  “I see that Enterprise is flying point for our first run down the length of the Zone,” Rihaul said, with a merry look at Jim, after she had studied the screen on the table before her. “Well, we could hardly grudge you that, could we? Your campaign, Captain. But do leave us something to do. We, too, get these sudden urges to save all civilization.”

  “Captain,” Jim said to her, grinning, “I have a nasty feeling that this operation will provide every one of us with ample opportunity to indulge those urges. Meanwhile I give your request all the attention it deserves…. Anything else, gentlebeings? Comment? Suggestions?”

  “Only that it would be logical to implement patrol immediately,” Suvuk said.

  “So ordered, sir.” Jim got up; the others rose with him. “Everyone is dismissed to their commanders—would the captains remain? Bones,” he said to McCoy over the bustle in the room, mostly caused by Denebians running out as if to a fire, “no need for you to hang around if you don’t want to—”

  “Jim, are you kidding?” McCoy was obviously far gone in self-congratulation. “Did you hear what that man said about my—”

  “Oh. Well, as long as you feel that way about it—” Suvuk came up to them at that point, along with the Vulcan medical officer, Sobek. “Captain,” Suvuk said, “you wished to see me?”

  “Only to deliver McCoy into your company, sir. He is so retiring that if I didn’t order him to, he would certainly never allow himself the vanity of discussing one of his papers at any length. In fact, I’m sure he’d love to see your sickbay—in detail. Please accompany Captain Suvuk, Bones. Don’t worry about us: we won’t wait up for you.”

  Jim watched in amusement as the Vulcans led McCoy away, politely talking medical terminology at him at a great rate. Bones had no time for more than one I’ll-get-you-for-this look over his shoulder before they had him out of the room. “Spock,” Jim said softly to the Vulcan, who had been solemnly watching the whole process from behind him, “I haven’t had time to read it. Was the paper really that good?”

  Spock looked at him sidelong. “After the spelling had been corrected,” he said, “indeed it was.”

  Mike Walsh came over to Jim with that old calculating look on his face. “How about it, Jim? Got a few free hours for poker this evening?”

  “No,” Jim said firmly. “But I have twenty credits that say you can’t beat our ship’s chess champ with a queen handicap.”

  “Oh really? You’re on. When do we start?”

  Jim looked at Spock, eyed the door, put an eyebrow up. Spock looked thoughtful, nodded fractionally, and headed out for the lift and the transporters. “Right now,” Jim said. “Come on, let’s get Nhauris up.”

  “You two get out of here!”

  “Dangerous business, coming between a captain and her ship. Obviously this chair isn’t doing too well at it…. Why, Captain, I do believe you’ve put on a bit of weight!”

  Chapter Five

  According to a widely-held Rihannsu military tradition, the best commanders were also often cranky ones.
Normally Ael avoided such behavior. The showy, towering rages she had seen some of her own commanders periodically throw at their crews had only convinced Ael that she never wanted to serve under such a person in a crisis. Pretended excitability could too easily turn into the real thing.

  Now, however, she saw a chance to turn that old tradition to good advantage. She came back from her tour of her fleet not positively angry, but looking rather discommoded and out of sorts when she reentered her bridge. T’Liun noticed it instantly, and became most solicitous of Ael, asking her what sort of condition the other ships were in. Ael—hearing perfectly well t’Liun’s intention to find out the cause of the mood and exploit it somehow—told t’Liun what she thought of the other ships, and the Klingons who had built them, and the Rihannsu crews who were mishandling them, at great length. It was a most satisfying tirade, giving Ael the opportunity to make a great deal of noise and relieve some of her own tension, while leaving t’Liun suspecting her of doing exactly that—though for all the wrong reasons.

  Then off Ael stormed, and went on a cold-voiced rampage through the ship, upbraiding the junior officers for the poor repair of equipment that was generally in good condition. Late into the ship’s night she prowled the corridors, terrorizing the offshift, peering into everything. The effect produced was perfect. Slitted eyes gazed after her in bitter annoyance, and in eavesdropping on ship’s ’com, after she had theoretically retired for the night, Ael heard many suggestions made about her ancestry and habits that revised slightly upward her opinion of her crew’s inventiveness. Ael felt much amused, and much relieved by the discharge of energy. But far more important, no one had noticed or thought anything in particular of a small interval she spent peering up a circuitry-conduit—an inspection from which she had come away frowning on the outside, but inside quite pleased. Ael fell asleep late, her cabin dark to everything but starlight—thanking her ancestors that the most immediate of them, her father, had once made her spend almost three months taking his own old warbird apart, system by system, and putting it back together again.