Claws 6

Tylha

"This whole situation," Ronnie mutters, "stinks worse than Paris in a heatwave on the thirtieth day of a sewer workers' strike. Tylha, do me a favour, will you? Look up those two in the Starfleet intelligence digests. Commanders that senior should have come up on Intelligence's radar at some point."

I check Tallasa's console. "That would be on file under 'Big Bumper Book of Klink Bastiches', right?"

"I've got to get my amusement somewhere," says Ronnie. "I figure Buxton and Gladys Pugh over there must be on the list."

"Why Buxton and Gladys Pugh?" I ask.

"Because if I keep pronouncing R'j Bl'k' properly, I'll wear out the Borg implant in my mouth, and I need that for opening bottles with. The way she talks, I figure she must be Welsh, so Gladys Pugh will do it."

"And Buxton?"

"Evil blue cat." Ronnie doesn't elaborate any further.

She's right, though - there are entries for both R'j and the Ferasan in the database. We read them together, with growing disquiet.

"Both Klingon Academy trained," Ronnie mutters. "Both distinguished themselves in the Fek'lhri incursion... commendations out the wazoo.... OK, they're mercenary commanders now, but only because they've made enough out of privateering on the side to buy their own damn ships. Privateering is a Klink tradition. Used to be part of Earth naval tradition, too... difference between a pirate and a successful admiral was only a piece of paper, sometimes. Look at Sir Francis Drake - hmm. Wonder if he's any relation?"

"To - ?"

"Our boy Frankie. He told me once, he knows you. Kindred spirits, anyway, if not blood relations." I decide not to ask how she knows Franklin Drake. "Anyway. These two. They might be rogue agents, but you wouldn't think it to look at this lot."

"Power shifts happen in the Empire. They're both members of minority species, they might easily fall from favour if their sponsors do."

"Yeah. Maybe. Or this might all be a big set-up." Ronnie gazes moodily at the tactical display. "I'm sorely tempted to say, well, it's a trap, kill the bait and let's go. On the other hand...."

"The Tiaza Zephora thing is probably genuine...."

Ronnie grunts. "If that turned out to be a second Organia -"

Sometimes I wonder what the original Organians are up to. I suppose, in the abstract, it's best if we don't place our destinies in the hands of questionably benevolent super-beings. But, in reality, everyone would welcome some Organian practical pacifism right now.

"Also," Ronnie continues, "I've been talking big, but a Monbosh battleship and a siege destroyer is a pretty nasty combination for one ship to handle. I could take them... I think. But if we can stall them till King Estmere gets here, I'd sleep a lot sounder in my little bed."

"You should get some sleep," I say. "You must be running on empty by now."

"Sleep is for tortoises."

"You've said that before. What is a tortoise?"

"Like a turtle. We called him Tortoise, because he taught us." I knew I shouldn't have asked. "Those Birds of Prey could still be out there somewhere, too. If this is a set-up... and it smells like a set-up.... Better get some proper scans going. Saval!"

The whiskery Vulcan science officer says, "Full three-sixty degree tactical scan in operation, tachyon pulsing for cloaked ships, all sensors on maximum readiness. Targeting lock on enemy vessels is confirmed."

"We can burn them whenever you want, sir," Jhemyl adds from her console.

"Mm," says Ronnie. "They flame-proof those Elachi battlewagons, though. OK. ETA for King Estmere?"

"Just over seven hours," I say, "assuming Anthi maxes out the subtranswarp drive, and they don't hit any difficulties."

"So in seven hours, we can stop worrying," says Ronnie pensively, "or start worrying about something else. Gahh. Maybe I should get my head down for a bit, at that."

"Sir," says Saval. "I have something on long-range scan... possibly of interest."

Ronnie twists round in her seat to stare at him directly. "Like what?" she demands.

"I am unsure at this time," Saval replies, "but... it appears that there is an artificial structure on the third planet of this system."

"Say what?" says Ronnie.

"Attempting to gather more data," says Saval. "The planet is at extreme range, and the irregular activity of Duselva WX itself is generating sensor interference. But, for this to be registering at all, at this range, it must be a structure of considerable size."

Ronnie and I exchange glances. There is no record of Duselva WX ever being used as a base, either by us or by the Klingons. But the chances of a native civilization seem incredibly remote. Life is surprisingly tenacious and inventive, it finds a way in the strangest locations, sometimes - but for a planet of an irregular variable star to develop not just life, but intelligent life, would be... unusual, to say the least.

Unless there's some factor at work we don't know about. Like, for instance, a super-powerful alien entity....

"Can't move off station or we'll lose targeting locks on Gladys and Buxton," says Ronnie. "So. Can we sneak a class II astrometrics probe out without them noticing? Get a closer look that way?"

"They are bound to detect a probe launch," says Saval.

"Yeah, probably," says Ronnie. "What the heck, launch one anyway. We need to get a squint at this thing.... How long till we get some data back?"

"At standard speeds - forty minutes for the probe to reach planetary orbit," says Saval. "Time to gather and relay data will depend on the parameters of the scan."

"Make it detailed," says Ronnie. "I'll take a look later on. Tylha's right." She stands up. "I'm going to get some kip. You guys play nice with the Klinks, now."