bit too smug. Since he wasn’t needed in sickbay, the doctor remained on the bridge and seemed to be relishing the mechanical chaos that ensued the instant the
Enterprise
warped out
“I know you’re not a big fan of technology, Bones. You’ve run a personal vendetta against transporters ever since I’ve known you, but”—Jim squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the bridge of his nose—“you don’t have to rub it in.”
“Who’s rubbing it in?” McCoy’s eyes widened innocently. “I just asked you if you had a headache.”
“You know what I mean.” Jim opened his eyes and sighed. “Dammit, Bones, they issued us a lemon with the name
Enterprise
painted on it.”
“Down south we have a more colorful expression for it.” McCoy’s smile became mysterious.
Jim lifted his eyebrows questioningly and waited.
The doctor leaned closer and lowered his voice so that only the captain could hear. “Piece of sh—”
“Don’t
say it,” Jim warned, with a sudden ferocity that surprised them both. “That’s not funny, Doctor.”
McCoy drew back defensively and shrugged. “Hey,
you ’re
the one who called her a lemon, and now you’re defending her as if she were the
real Enterprise.
Make up your mind.”
Jim opened his mouth, ready to retort hotly; fortunately, Uhura interrupted.
“Captain, we’re receiving the hostage information you requested.”
Jim swiveled to face the main viewer, his anger forgotten. “On screen, Commander.”
Spock left his station to stand beside the conn.
An image—Kirk got the briefest impression of a woman’s face, very young and very attractive—fizzled onto the screen, out of focus, then broke up and faded to black. Uhura worked furiously at her station, muttering something under her breath that Kirk was afraid to guess at, and then the young woman’s face flashed again onto the screen.
This time Kirk had time to notice that she was a Romulan. Biographical data, very scanty, threadedacross the bottom of the screen. It gave her name, rank, age . . . and no further information whatsoever. The Starfleet compiler of the data let it be known that the Romulans had refused to release any more background on their consul, Caithlin Dar.
At the name, even Spock reacted by raising a brow.
“Caithlin?” McCoy wondered aloud. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that an
Irish
name?”
Kirk didn’t answer; the visual had changed to an image of someone he recognized, though the Klingon seemed older and heavier than he remembered. “Not
General
Korrd,” he remarked absently.
“The same,” Spock replied. “He has apparently fallen out of favor with the Klingon High Command. His appointment to Nimbus appears to be a form of banishment.”
“A damn shame,” Kirk said, with a surge of fondness. “Korrd was one hell of a soldier. His military strategies were required learning when I was cadet at the Academy. When they put me out to pasture, I hope I fare better than Korrd.”
The visual changed again, so that the screen displayed a holo of the Federation consul, a fair-haired, middle-aged human male. His name, St. John Talbot, was one that Kirk vaguely recognized as well.
“Not even dead, and already they’ve canonized him,” McCoy said dryly.
Talbot’s picture faded; a tape of uneven quality began. It was a static scene of the three diplomats standing together, flanked by a grim army of impoverished settlers. Many of them clutched crude guns made of metal pipe. The diplomats seemed dazed.Perhaps they had been drugged, Jim thought, but no, their eyes were too wide, too clear.
“This must be the hostage tape,” McCoy said.
Spock studied the scene with intense interest. “Their weapons appear to be extremely primitive—” he began, but lapsed into silence when the Romulan hostage, Dar, began to speak.
She had clearly been designated spokesperson for the hostages. She delivered her talk precisely, without hesitation; Jim suspected she had rehearsed it many
Enterprise
warped out
“I know you’re not a big fan of technology, Bones. You’ve run a personal vendetta against transporters ever since I’ve known you, but”—Jim squeezed his eyes shut and massaged the bridge of his nose—“you don’t have to rub it in.”
“Who’s rubbing it in?” McCoy’s eyes widened innocently. “I just asked you if you had a headache.”
“You know what I mean.” Jim opened his eyes and sighed. “Dammit, Bones, they issued us a lemon with the name
Enterprise
painted on it.”
“Down south we have a more colorful expression for it.” McCoy’s smile became mysterious.
Jim lifted his eyebrows questioningly and waited.
The doctor leaned closer and lowered his voice so that only the captain could hear. “Piece of sh—”
“Don’t
say it,” Jim warned, with a sudden ferocity that surprised them both. “That’s not funny, Doctor.”
McCoy drew back defensively and shrugged. “Hey,
you ’re
the one who called her a lemon, and now you’re defending her as if she were the
real Enterprise.
Make up your mind.”
Jim opened his mouth, ready to retort hotly; fortunately, Uhura interrupted.
“Captain, we’re receiving the hostage information you requested.”
Jim swiveled to face the main viewer, his anger forgotten. “On screen, Commander.”
Spock left his station to stand beside the conn.
An image—Kirk got the briefest impression of a woman’s face, very young and very attractive—fizzled onto the screen, out of focus, then broke up and faded to black. Uhura worked furiously at her station, muttering something under her breath that Kirk was afraid to guess at, and then the young woman’s face flashed again onto the screen.
This time Kirk had time to notice that she was a Romulan. Biographical data, very scanty, threadedacross the bottom of the screen. It gave her name, rank, age . . . and no further information whatsoever. The Starfleet compiler of the data let it be known that the Romulans had refused to release any more background on their consul, Caithlin Dar.
At the name, even Spock reacted by raising a brow.
“Caithlin?” McCoy wondered aloud. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but isn’t that an
Irish
name?”
Kirk didn’t answer; the visual had changed to an image of someone he recognized, though the Klingon seemed older and heavier than he remembered. “Not
General
Korrd,” he remarked absently.
“The same,” Spock replied. “He has apparently fallen out of favor with the Klingon High Command. His appointment to Nimbus appears to be a form of banishment.”
“A damn shame,” Kirk said, with a surge of fondness. “Korrd was one hell of a soldier. His military strategies were required learning when I was cadet at the Academy. When they put me out to pasture, I hope I fare better than Korrd.”
The visual changed again, so that the screen displayed a holo of the Federation consul, a fair-haired, middle-aged human male. His name, St. John Talbot, was one that Kirk vaguely recognized as well.
“Not even dead, and already they’ve canonized him,” McCoy said dryly.
Talbot’s picture faded; a tape of uneven quality began. It was a static scene of the three diplomats standing together, flanked by a grim army of impoverished settlers. Many of them clutched crude guns made of metal pipe. The diplomats seemed dazed.Perhaps they had been drugged, Jim thought, but no, their eyes were too wide, too clear.
“This must be the hostage tape,” McCoy said.
Spock studied the scene with intense interest. “Their weapons appear to be extremely primitive—” he began, but lapsed into silence when the Romulan hostage, Dar, began to speak.
She had clearly been designated spokesperson for the hostages. She delivered her talk precisely, without hesitation; Jim suspected she had rehearsed it many
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