Crossover - Michael Jan Friedman [101]
Eragian’s face seemed to lose some of its color. “The Stugg?” he repeated, suddenly a good deal less sure of himself.
“I see you’ve heard of them,” McCoy beamed. “Well, that’s good, because you must also know that the Stugg are united for the first time in many years. Something about a planetwide tricentennial celebration, I believe. As a result, they’ll be out for Romulan blood. Now,” he said, making a show of how carefully he was choosing his words, “I’m no military strategist. But I’d imagine that with the Stugg knocking on the door pretty hard, the Empire would be in especially poor shape to defend itself against the Federation. That is, if somebody had the bad sense to stir things up.”
The proconsul swallowed. Hard. “I admire your grasp of our strategic situation,” he replied. “I did not think anyone in the Federation knew about the Stugg tricentennial.”
The admiral shrugged his bony old shoulders. “Life’s full of surprises, isn’t it?”
It took Eragian another few seconds to come to terms with his abruptly limited range of options. No doubt he hated the idea of giving up Spock. In his place, Picard would have hated the idea, too.
But in life, one sometimes had to do the things one hated. The Romulan lifted his chin. “What if I were to grant you safe passage as far as the Neutral Zone? That would seem to serve both our purposes, would it not?”
McCoy’s expression turned into one of gratitude. “That would be downright neighborly of you,” he said. “I’d be much obliged.” He winked. “And maybe next time we meet, I’ll stand you to a Romulan ale for your generosity.”
Eragian turned to the commander standing just behind him. “Instruct half the squadron’s commanders to provide an escort for the Federation vessels.”
The commander looked as if he would balk at the suggestion, then thought better of it. He inclined his head. “As you wish, Proconsul.”
Eragian turned back to the admiral. “It is done.”
“Then I guess I’ll be on my way,” the human responded. “Don’t take any wooden nickels, Proconsul. McCoy out.”
Picard saw the image on the viewscreen change again. Once more, he was looking at the Romulan formation— except this time, half the warbirds were coming about. As he watched, they diminished with distance.
He didn’t think Eragian would understand the reference to “wooden nickels.” But then, he would have enough on his mind trying to frame a report to the Praetor.
Stepping forward, the captain clapped the admiral on the shoulder. Gently, of course. After all, the man was closing in on one hundred and fifty. And thanks to his efforts today, they all had a chance of reaching that ripe old age.
“Good work,” said Picard.
McCoy’s eyes seemed to light up at the praise. Nonetheless, he dismissed the idea with a wave of his blue-veined hand. “I was lucky, that’s all. I’m a doctor, not a diplomat.”
The captain smiled. “You may be a doctor,” he observed, “but you are also a great deal more than that.”
Then, taking his leave of McCoy, he addressed himself to the business of obtaining a tractor lock on the Yorktown and setting a course for the Romulan Neutral Zone.
It would be good to go home again.
CHAPTER 25
It wasn’t as if Spock had never seen a badly damaged bridge before. It was just that he had never seen this one badly damaged. Truly, the place had seen better days.
The Vulcan inspected the havoc the Romulans had wrought with their photon torpedo salvos—the charred control panels and the disabled stations, and the place where Mister Data had grabbed the rail hard enough to leave an imprint of his fingers.
But Spock also looked past the recently inflicted ruin, at a mingling of lines and tones and textures that was all too familiar to him.
The bridge of the original Enterprise. Until his abrupt transport from the surface of Constanthus, he had never expected to see it again.
“Mister Spock?”
The Vulcan turned to his stocky, moustached companion who barely looked a day older than when Spock had seen him last—though that was more than seventy-five standard years