by Diane Duane
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 th
e 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—
But her problem wasn’t what other people should do. McCoy’s question hung fire in her mind, tantalizing her. She had never given him an answer.
Starfleet again. To give up constant fear, and drudgery—being hru’hfe was never easy—and to go back to freedom, the stars, other worlds, other people. To see how her old friends on Earth and Mars were doing. To bleed red.
She shuddered. Abruptly it seemed an odd color to bleed.
McCoy might be doing it right here, very shortly, if whatever he was planning didn’t work out. And she didn’t know how to help him.
You don’t have to help me. Not yet.
She shuddered again.
I’m authorized to ask you this….
Arrhae wished he had not.
And she felt a little tremor in the floor, as if someone had dropped something.
Arrhae looked around. No sound. No one had dropped anything, it had to have been her imagination. McCoy was going on at length about cocktail shakers.
The tremor repeated itself, more strongly this time. Arrhae glanced quickly from side to side, wondering if anyone else had noticed or if it was indeed just a trick of her overwrought mind. It had to be; all the members of the Senate and the Praetorate were settling back into their attitudes of boredom and McCoy was preaching the virtues of first melting the sugar for a julep in a little hot water.
But just as he began to describe how some of the mint leaves should be bruised and others left intact, he stopped talking. Hloal t’Illialhlae and Subcommander tr’Annhwi were on their feet almost simultaneously, grinning. And then the grins were wiped from both their faces as a crack appeared in the middle of the floor, right before the Empty Chair itself.
The crack widened with a small, crisp snap that echoed astonishingly in the silence that had filled the Senate Chamber. Then it exploded wide open with a hiss as of strong reagents and a nostril-tingling scent of acid, and a thing reared up out of the Earth to begin rumbling across the floor, leaving a track in its wake that was eroded into the very marble slabs themselves.
What happened to him? she thought, for Lieutenant Naraht was twice the size that he had been when Arrhae tripped over him only six days ago, and his rank-marked voder now looked like a badge rather than a piece of electronics. Whether Hortas had some sort of silicon-based late-adolescent growth spurt, or whether he’d just followed doctor’s orders and indulged in a bit of feeding-up between H’daen’s house and here, she didn’t know. It was enough that he had arrived, and arrived in such a way as to create the maximum amount of confusion. There was plenty of it, what with normally staid persons of rank running about like hlai with their heads cut off, and screaming, and the air sharp with acid fumes, and the shouting of orders that no one heeded….
Terise began to suspect that McCoy just might manage to pull this off after all.
For McCoy, it all made a most satisfying parallel to the scene on Vega’s bridge after her holds were blown open. A phaser whined shrilly, almost at his elbow, as one of the four guards drew his illegally carried sidearm and sent a bolt of disruptor-level energy crackling into Naraht’s side. The Horta didn’t even notice, but the Rihannsu guard did briefly, before McCoy shifted his stance on the podium and jabbed that so-convenient elbow backward into the man’s throat. One thing about being a medic, he thought as he dived to scoop up the fallen phaser, you know which parts to aim for. Then thoughts of anything other than survival got pushed aside as more phaser fire ionized the acid-heavy air and blew the podium to jagged fragments….
He was lucky; apart from that one attempt to dust him, they kept stubbornly shooting at Naraht despite the fact that it was clear they were wasting their time and ammunition-charges. But when a living Representative of the Elements moved among mortals, those mortals could scarcely be blamed for throwing rational behavior to the winds. Naraht wasn’t being damaged, but he was angry, confronted with ludicrously imbalanced odds and doing whatever had to be done moment by moment, whether that meant barging about like a sentient tank, breaking things and people with the brisk efficiency he brought to everything. “Took you long enough to get here!” McCoy shouted at him across the room.
“Doctor,” Naraht said, ramming a firing guard into the wall, “let’s see you burrow through two hundred fifty-three miles of rock that fast.”
“And another thing,” McCoy shouted, “what happened to you? You’re twice your size!”
Naraht laughed, a sound so bizarre that several Rihannsu who had been about to concentrate their fire on him broke and ran away. “You’re the one who’s always twitting me about needing to put on some weight! So I snacked on the way. Besides”—and the artificial voice got unusually cheerful—“the gran
ite here is very good.”
Several other people concentrated phaser fire on Naraht, three beams together. It must have stung: Naraht charged them. One of them did not get out of the way fast enough, holding his stance and firing. Then the man tried to scream and didn’t finish it before Naraht lunged over him and left a shriveled, flattened, acid-eaten lump behind. Very few corpses looked as dead as those left by a Horta….
McCoy took a chance to do some pouncing of his own, out from behind a sheltering bench that was neither high enough nor thick enough for his liking, to grab Arrhae by the arm and drag her under cover. She tried to wrench free, and lashed out at him before realizing who it was, which was just as well since it made her look just as he wanted, a hostage seized by an armed and desperate man. A hostage, moreover, who was hru’hfe of a House presently riding high in the favor of Imperial Intelligence. With his captured phaser pressed to the side of her head, it looked as though McCoy was uttering warnings and threats, and thanks to Naraht’s rampage, no one was close enough to know any different.
“The ship’s on its way down, Terise,” he said, using her real name quietly despite the noise and violence only a score of feet away. “Not long now—then we can go home.”
She twisted away from him, far enough to turn and see his face, almost far enough—McCoy dragged her back a bit—to put herself at risk again, and took a quick breath of the smoky, smelly air, and said, “You go. I’m staying.”
He looked at her carefully. “You must have expected it, Bones,” she said. “Surely you must. If I go home, I’m just another sociologist with her nose buried in a stack of books, more memories than some, but that’s all. No family, no ties, nothing. Here—here I’m unique. I’m of some use. And I’ve grown used to ch’Rihan, used to the people and the customs, I…Oh, Elements, Bones, I love this place!”
