by Diane Duane
“Here we are,” Uhura said, and dropped another tape in the read slot, hit the control. For a second nothing seemed to be happening on the stage. Then a peculiar grinding, wheezing sound began to fill the air. On the platform there slowly faded into existence a tall blue rectangular structure with doors in it, and a flashing white light on top, and what appeared to be the Anglish words POLICE PUBLIC CALL BOX blazoned on the front panel above the doors. There was a pause, during which the noise and the flashing light both stopped. Then one of the box’s doors opened. To Jim’s mild amusement, a hominid, quite Terran-looking, peered out and gazed around him in great interest; a curly-haired person in a burgundy jacket, with a floppy hat, a striped scarf of truly excessive length, and sharp bright eyes above a dazzling smile, ingenuous as a child’s. “I beg your pardon,” the man said merrily in a British-accented voice, apparently looking right at Jim, “but is this Heathrow?”
Brother, have you ever taken a wrong turn! was Jim’s first thought. “Harb,” he said, “is that man happy in xeno?”
“Very.”
“Pity. With a talent like this, we could use him in communications.”
“Uhura thinks so too.”
“Speaking of which—” But Uhura had been watching the chrono. She reached down and thumped on the side of the console. “Jerry, I’m on duty in a few minutes.” She glanced up, caught sight of Jim and Harb standing there, and grinned a little. “Keep up the good work,” she said. “I’ll see you later.”
She left him there with his head still inside the console, and crossed to Jim and Harb. “You really must be bored if you’re getting up early to watch old sterries, Uhura,” Jim said. “Maybe I should find you some more work to do….”
She chuckled at him. “Harb,” she said, “I think we’ve got the last bugs worked out of it. Mr. Freeman wanted to be very sure—he knows how picky Vulcans are. Once he’s done with that last batch for Intrepid, though, he’s ready for requests.”
“Good enough. Thanks, Lieutenant.”
“My pleasure. Coming, Captain?”
“After you.”
They headed for the bridge lift together. “Are you taking up this hobby too, Uhura?”
“Oh, no, sir. Bridge,” she said to the lift as the doors closed. “This is professional interest. Mr. Freeman has some novel ideas in image and signal processing, computer techniques that a communications specialist might not think to try. He’s been doing some specialty programs for the xeno labs that might actually be of some use in cleaning up subspace communication. Interstellar ionization is always a problem, it mangles the highest and lowest bandwidths and slows down transmission speed. The sub-ether carrier wavicles—”
The doors opened onto the bridge. “Uhura,” Jim said, “I’m still working on my coffee….”
She smiled wryly at him. “Noted,” she said. “I’ll write you a report.”
“Do that. And log me in, please.”
“Yes, sir.”
“And a good morning to you, Mr. Spock,” Jim said, stepping down to the center seat as Spock stood up from it. “Report, please.”
“Your initial patrol pattern is running without incident,” Spock said, “and the Neutral Zone appears quiet. Intrepid is at ‘point’ position at this time, two hundred eighty-four light-years ahead of us on bearing one-eighty mark plus six, in the vicinity of 2450 Trianguli. We have dropped back to pace Inaieu, which is at two-seventy mark zero, one hundred fifteen light-years away; and Constellation is flying rearguard at zero mark minus three, two hundred ninety-two light-years behind. The whole task force is maintaining an average speed of warp four point four five.”
“Very good. How’s the weather?”
Spock looked grave. “Generally unremarkable so far. However, Captain, the computer has presented me with some very unusual figures regarding the ion-flux research we were pursuing before this operation.”
Jim nodded at Spock to continue. The Vulcan looked down at the clipboard he was carrying with an expression that suggested there was something distasteful about the data on it. “You remember the analysis of a meteoric debris sample that Mr. Naraht carried out at my request.”
“You were interested in the figure for the iridium, weren’t you?”
“Affirmative. The amount of the isotope—for it was not ‘normal’ iridium—was abnormally high, indicating that the piece of matter in question had been bombarded with extremely high levels of hard radiation in the recent past. That sample was taken from one of the areas we passed through on the way to maneuvers, an area on which I had other data and desired a fresh sample. The peculiar thing is that other samples from approximately the same area, older ones, do not reflect the same bombardment. And there has been ion-storm activity in that area since.”
“Any conclusion?”
Spock looked as unhappy as he ever allowed himself to in public. “None as yet, Captain. It would be possible to indulge in all kinds of flights of speculation—”
“But you are refraining.”
“With difficulty,” Spock said, quietly enough for only Jim to hear him. “The situation is most abnormal. Mr. Naraht is running further studies for me.”
“Yes. How is my favorite pan pizza doing?”
“Sir?”
“Sorry, I couldn’t resist. How is he?”
Jim never found out, for at that moment Uhura’s board beeped for attention. She put a hand up to the transdator in her ear, listened briefly, then said, “Captain, it’s the Intrepid, if you want to talk to them.”
“Put them on.”
Uhura flicked a switch. The main screen’s starfield blinked out—to be replaced by a screen full of static.
“Bloody,” Uhura said under her breath. “Sorry, sir, I can’t raise them now. The Intrepid’s comm officer was reporting the bow-shock edge of an ion storm—force four, he said, and it looked to be worsening.”
“Were they all right?”
“Oh, yes, he said it wasn’t anything they couldn’t ride out. It was just their routine hourly report.”
“Very well. Pass the information along to the other ships and have them take precautions.” Jim sighed in very mild annoyance, then looked up at Spock and saw him still wearing that uncomfortable look. “Well,” Jim said, “here it comes. It’s not as if you didn’t warn Fleet that the climate around here is changing in a hurry. Looks like our operation’s going to get caught right in the middle of it.”
“So it appears,” Spock said. “Though, truly, Captain, I am uncertain what we could do about the problem even if Starfleet Command decided to dedicate all of Fleet to the problem. Relocating entire populations is hardly desirable, or feasible. And there is still something….” He trailed off.
“What?”
“Unknown. I am missing data, Captain. Though I find it most interesting that the subject of our research extends eighteen hundred light-years past the area of the galaxy where we were studying it.”
“Intrepid again, Captain,” Uhura said, working hard over her board to hold the signal. “Their comm officer managed to get a squirt through between storm wavefronts. It’s up to force six, but they predict it’ll stabilize at that force and then break somewhere in the neighborhood of 766 Trianguli. They’ll leave further reports with the unmanned Zone monitoring stations as they pass them—that way they won’t have to waste time trying to punch through the interference. Their status is otherwise normal; the area’s clear.”
“Eminently logical,” Jim said.
—and the ship abruptly went on automatic red alert, lights flashing and sirens whooping. All over the bridge, people jumped for battle stations. “Ship in the area, Captain!” Uhura said. “Not Federation traffic.”
“Identify it!”
“No ID yet. Power consumption reading, nothing more—”
“Warship, Captain,” Spock said, back at his post and looking down his hooded viewer. “An extravagant power-consumption curve. Approaching from out of the Neutral Zone at warp eight.”
> Bingo, Jim thought. At last it’s beginning. “Course?”
“Not an intercept. I would say it has been unaware of us until now.”
“ID now, Captain,” Uhura said, looking both excited and puzzled. “It’s a Klingon ship!”
“The Klingons have been selling the Romulans ships for a long time now—”
“Noted, sir. But the ID is unmistakably Klingon code and symbology. KL 77 Ehhak.”
It was a name Jim recognized from accounts of the Battle of Organia: one of the ships that had invested the planet. “What the hell are they doing here? Mr. Chekov, arm photon torpedoes, prepare to lock phasers on for firing. Mr. Sulu, prepare evasive action but do not execute.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Phasers locked on, sir.”
“Excellent. Hold your fire until my express order, Mr. Chekov.”
“Aye, sir.”
“Intruder’s range—”
“Not a Klingon ship,” Spock said abruptly. “ID is in fact Klingon. But the power-consumption curve is inconsistent with either the old Akif-class or new K’tinga-class warships. Range now six hundred eighty light-years and closing. Course is still not an intersect. If this continues they will pass far above and ahead of the task force—”
“Another contact!” Uhura said. “Romulan this time. ChR 63 Bloodwing—”
Jim’s fist clenched, hard. “Course?”
“Following the first ship,” Spock said. “Closing on it at warp nine.”
“Uhura, messages to Inaieu and Constellation. All screens up, and battle stations. But if either ship comes within range, do not fire unless fired upon! Let them pass.”
“Yes, Captain.”
“We’ll see what they’re up to,” Jim said. “I am willing to be forgiving of an accidental intrusion into Federation space—always supposing the intruders tell me why they’ve come without calling first.”
“Indications are that the first ship will shortly be unable to tell you anything, Captain,” said Spock. “The ship with the Bloodwing ID is closing on it very—More data; the ship ID’ing as Ehhak is actually a ship of the old Romulan warbird class. Cloaking device in place but not functioning. Ehhak is beginning evasive maneuvers, but they are proving ineffectual. Bloodwing continues to close.”
“Range—”
“Two hundred fifteen light-years. Two hundred—Better readings on Bloodwing, now. Its power-consumption curve too is atypical. Warp engines have been boosted, and other alterations are indicated—One hundred fifty light-years—”
“Time till they cross the Neutral Zone—”
“At this speed, four seconds.” Spock watched in silence. “Ehhak has crossed. Now Bloodwing. Visual contact—”
The screen leapt to life with their images—two Romulan warbirds, both screened, screaming out of the Neutral Zone high above the plane of the Enterprise’s travel. The pursued ship veered suddenly, trying to shake its pursuer; to no avail. Bloodwing would not be shaken. “Still closing,” Spock said. “One hundred light-years from us. Seventy-five. They will pass within twenty-two point six three light-years of the Enterprise at closest. Bloodwing continues to close on Ehhak. Within firing range. Firing.”
“Gently, Mr. Chekov,” Jim said, noticing his weapons officer’s twitch. “They’re not shooting at us, not yet.”
“Noted, sir.”
“Good man. Result of fire, Mr. Spock—”
“None as yet. Ehhak is turning again. Toward Bloodwing, this time. Firing now—No effect. Standoff. Firing again—”
The blast of blinding light that suddenly filled the screen lit the whole bridge like lightning. When it faded Spock said quietly, “Evidently some of the alterations installed in Bloodwing have been to its phaser systems. Their intent was apparently to draw Ehhak into range for quick and certain destruction. Obviously they succeeded.”
“Noted,” Jim said softly. “Bloodwing’s location and course, Mr. Spock.”
“Its old course took it somewhat past us, Captain. Turning now: fifty-three light-years away on bearing one-ninety-nine mark plus-eighteen. Approaching us.”
“Status,” Jim said, beginning to twitch a little himself.
“Slowing,” Spock said. “Screens up, but no sign of further belligerence. Down to warp six now; warp five; holding at warp five exactly, and coasting in toward us. If the Romulan continues along this course, Bloodwing will be paralleling our course at a distance of one light-second from us.”
“Neighborly,” Jim said. “Hold the screens as they are. We’ll wait and see what they do.”
And they waited, the bridge becoming very still indeed. Closer and closer Bloodwing glided to them. After about a minute she had no motion relative to Enterprise, but was soaring along beside her in neat formation, a hundred and eighty-six thousand miles away.
Ten seconds passed, and three hundred sixty million kilometers of empty space, and several breaths’ worth of silence.
Uhura’s board beeped.
She listened to her transdator, then said, “They’re hailing us, Captain.”
“Answer the hail. Offer them an open channel if they want it.”
Uhura spoke softly to her board. The screen shimmered.
They found themselves looking, as they had looked once before, at the cramped bridge of a warbird-class Romulan vessel. A man in the usual Romulan uniform—dark-glittering tunic and breeches, with a scarflike scarlet half-cloak fastened front and back over one shoulder—stood facing the bridge pickup. He was of medium height, dark skinned for a Romulan, with even features and a slightly hooked nose; young and well built, with auburn hair cropped short in a style reminiscent of the Vulcan fashion, and light, narrow, noticing eyes. He spoke in Romulan, which the translator in Uhura’s board handled with the usual disconcerting nonsynchronization of mouth movements. “Enterprise,” the Romulan said, “I am Subcommander Tafv tr’Rllaillieu, second in command of the Romulan warship Bloodwing. Do I address Captain James Kirk?”
Jim stood up, feeling an odd urge to match the young man’s courteous tone, even if there might be a trick behind it. “You do,” he said. Then he paused a moment. “Sir—may I ask if by chance you are related to a commander by the name of Ael t’Rllaillieu?” He said it the best he could, hoping the translator would straighten out his mangled pronunciation.
The subcommander smiled very slightly. “You may, Captain. I am the commander’s son.”
“Thank you. May I also ask what brings you into our space under such—unusual—circumstances?”
“Again, you may. The commander’s business brings us here. I am directed to express to you Commander t’Rllaillieu’s desire to meet with you and any members of your staff you find appropriate, to discuss with you a matter which will be as much to your advantage as to ours.”
“What matter, Subcommander?”
“I regret that I may not say, Captain. This is an unshielded channel, and the business is urgent and confidential in the extreme.”
“What conditions for the meeting?”
“The commander is willing to beam over to your vessel, unescorted. As I have said, the matter is urgent, and the commander has no desire to stand on ceremony at the moment.”
“May I consider briefly?”
“Certainly.” The young man bowed slightly, and the screen went dark, showing stars again, and Bloodwing hanging there, silent.
Jim sat down in the helm for a moment, swung it around to face Spock. “Well, well. What now? Recommendations, ladies and gentlemen?”
Spock stood up from a last look down his viewer and folded his arms, looking very thoughtful indeed. “This is a vessel we know, Captain.”
“No kidding,” Jim said. “She’s singed our tail a few times. Of course we’ve singed hers too….”
“However,” Spock said, “while we have often been at enmity with Bloodwing, the ship has never acted in a treacherous fashion toward us. In fact, often very much the contrary. Ael t’Rllaillieu, whoever she may be, has dealt honorably enou
gh with us, though we have never seen her.”
“True enough,” Jim said. He remembered the shock after their first engagement, over by 415 Arietis it had been—on fighting a whole week’s fight-and-run battle with Bloodwing and finding out afterward that the “t’” prefix on the house-name denoted a woman. Oh God, not another one, he had thought at the time. But he had changed his mind since, after a few victories, and a couple of defeats. He wanted to meet this old fox, very much indeed.
And now he had the chance.
“Well, Mr. Spock,” he said, “we came all this way to gather information about the Romulans, and now it seems they’ve got some for us. Let’s see what the commander wants. Uhura?”
She nodded. The screen came back on again; Jim rose. “Subcommander,” he said, “if you will be good enough to come within transporter range, and provide my communications officer with the commander’s coordinates, we will be delighted to receive her. Beaming in three hundred seconds precisely. Uhura, give the subcommander a five-second tick for his reference.”
“Thank you, Captain,” said Tafv, “we have that information. I will confer with your officer. Bloodwing out.”
Jim turned his back on the star-filled screen. “Uhura,” he said, “when you’ve finished that, page Dr. McCoy and have him report to the transporter room. Come on, Spock. We mustn’t keep the lady waiting.”
Chapter Seven
Five minutes later, Jim said to the transporter chief, “Energize.”
Light danced and dazzled on the platform, settling into a woman’s silhouette. The silhouette grew three-dimensional, darkened, solidified. The dazzle faded away.
Jim stood very still for a second or so, simply regarding her. She was little. Somehow he had always thought of her as being tall, lean, and ascetic; or else tall, muscular, and athletic. He was not prepared for this tiny woman, smaller even than the other female Romulan commander he and Spock had dealt with. If she was five foot one, that was granting her an inch or so; if she weighed as much as a hundred and ten pounds, that was on a dense planet. She was wearing her hair braided and coiled at the nape of her neck; exposing the upswept and pointed Vulcanoid ears; there was gray in those neat, tight braids. The woman’s build and facial structure were so delicate that she looked as if she could be broken between one’s hands—but knowing Romulans, Jim knew much better. She had great dark eyes and a mouth with much smiling behind it, to judge by the few wrinkles that showed there; and looking at her, Jim could see where Subcommander Tafv had come by that proud nose. But probably the most striking thing about her was her age, and the way she bore it. Jim had never thought to see a woman with such an aura of power, or one who seemed to take that power so much for granted. She carried herself like a banner, or a weapon: like something proud and dangerous, but momentarily at rest. Jim found himself wondering whether he would look that good when he was—how old was she? Romulans were of Vulcan stock, after all. She could be well up in her hundreds—