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My Enemy, My Ally
Diane Duane
Contents
Dedication
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Dedication
To Ael's godmother—
"—cara mihi ante alias;
neque enim novus iste Dianae
venit amor, subitaque
animum dulcedine movit—"
—arma eraeque canõ!
Acknowledgements
Sometimes people can be of incredible assistance to you without saying a word.
This is the place to acknowledge one such contributor, whose simple existence
made writing this book easier: the stately, sharp-minded, wonderful Dorothy
Fontana (or "D.C." Fontana, as some of you may know her). Dorothy has in the
past done me many amazing and undeserved kindnesses—but the one most in
my mind at this writing is the one she did for you too (if you love Star Trek)
during her stint as the series' story editor, and as writer of some of its best
stories.
Dorothy knows Vulcans and Romulans better than anyone else, having been
intimately involved with their creation. Much of her vision of those enigmatic
and delightful species—as creatures as complex as any other hominid, not mere
logic-boxes or disposable hostiles to be shot up and forgotten about—informs
this work, and I delight to add that influence to the list of my glad debts to her.
When we think of the power that Leonard Nimoy and Mark Lenard have brought
to the Vulcans and Romulans they've played, let's not leave D.C. out of the
reckoning. Without her, Spock and Sarek and both the original Romulan
Commanders would have been very different people. My own feeling (and even
Vulcans these days seem to admit that feelings have value) is that the Vulcans
and Romulans are as marvelous as they are partly because they take after
Dorothy. So—to the Lady Who Knows—great thanks and love.
Also:
Inside the Franklin Institute in Philadelphia (to the right of the statue of the Great
God Franklin, and three flights up) is the Fels Planetarium. Hidden away in the
Planetarium is a door with a very odd doorbell attached to it. And working
behind that door are Don Cooke, the Dorector of the planetarium, and his staff—
a group of people very sanely devoted to that study of the Earth's backyard that
we call "astronomy."
These people share with the author the conviction that "Thataway" is not an
appropriate set of course determination coordinates for the flagship of the Terran
branch of Starfleet. The Fels group's eager (though sometimes bemused)
assistance with some thorny astronomical questions ("George! B minus V?"
"Yes, what about it?…") made it possible to plot not only the positions of major
stars for several thousand light years from Sol, but also the real positions and
shapes of the Galactic Arms, in enough detail so that the structure of the Galaxy
itself made it obvious where the Romulans and Klingons lived. To Don and all
his happy people, and to their doorbell (a never-ending source of merriment),
affectionate thanks, still air, and good seeing.
…Then none was for a party;
Then all were for the state;
Then the great man helped the poor,
And the poor man loved the great:
Then lands were fairly portioned;
Then spoils were fairly sold:
The Romans were like brothers
In the brave days of old.
Now Roman is to Roman
More hateful than a foe,
And the Tribunes beard the high,
And the Fathers grind the low.
As we wax hot in faction,
In battle we wax cold:
Wherefore men fight not as they fought
In the brave days of old….
—Macaulay
Daisemi'in rhhaensuriuu
Meillunsiateve
Rh'e Mnhei'sahe yie ahr'en:
Mnahe afw'ein qiuu;
Rh'e hweithnaef
Mrht Heis'he ehl'ein qiuu.
(Of the chief Parts of the Ruling Passion, only this can be truly said: Hate has a
reason for everything. But love is unreasonable.)
—V. Raiuhes Ahaefvthe [of Romulus
II], Taer'thaiemenh, book xviii,
par. 886: J. Kerasus, translator
Chapter One
Her name, to which various people had recently been appending curses, was Ael
i-Mhiessan t'Rllaillieu. Her rank, in the common tongue, was khre'Riov:
commander-general. Her serial number was a string of sixteen characters that by
now she knew as well as she knew her fourth name, though they meant infinitely
less to her. And considering these matters in such a fashion was at least
marginally appropriate just now, for she was in a trap.
How long she would remain there, however, remained to be seen.
At the moment her patience was mostly intact, but her spirit had moved her to
rattle the bars of the cage a bit. Ael propped her elbow on her desk, rested her
chin on her hand, and said to her cabin's wall screen, "Hwaveyiir. Erein
tr'Khaell."
The screen flicked on, and there was the Bridge, and poor Antecenturion
tr'Khaell just as he had been twenty minutes ago, still hunched over and
pretending to fiddle with his communications boards. At the sight of Ael he
straightened quickly and said, "Ie, khre'Riov?"
Don't play the innocent with me, child, thought Ael. You should have had that
dispatch decoded and translated ten minutes ago . . . as well you know. "Erein,
eliukh hwio' 'ssuy llas-mene arredhaud'eitroi?"
She said it politely enough, but the still, low-lidded look she gave him was
evidently making it plain to tr'Khaell that if Ael had to ask him again about what
was holding up the dispatch's deciphering, it would go hard with him. Sweat
broke out on tr'Khaell's forehead. "Ie, khre'Riov, sed ri-thlaha nei' yhreill-ien
ssuriu mnerev dhaarhiin-emenorriul—"
Oh indeed! I know how fast that computer runs; I was building them with my
own hands before you knew which end to hold a sword by. Of course, you can't
just come out and tell me that the Security Officer ordered you to let her read the
dispatch before I saw it, now can you? "Rhi siuren, Erein."
Poor tr'Khaell's face gave Ael the impression that t'Liun was going to take rather
longer than "five minutes" to read the dispatch. Tr'Khaell looked panic-stricken,
"Khre'Riov—" he started to say. But "Ta-'khoi," Ael said to the screen, and it
flicked off.
Pitiable, Ael thought. Truly I could feel sorry for him. But if he chooses to sell
his loyalty to two commanders at once, who am I to deprive him of the joy of
being caught between them? Perhaps he'll learn better. And after a second she
laughed once, softly, as much at herself as at tr'Khaell. Perhaps the Galaxy will
stop rotating.
She pushed away from the desk and leaned back in her comfortable chair,
considering with calm irony how little her surroundings looked like the cage
they actually were. They truly think they've deceived me, she thought, amused
and contemptuous, looking around at the spare luxury of her command cabin.
Pad the kennel with velvets, they say to each other; feed the old thrai on fat flesh
and blood wine, put her in command of a fleet, and she won't notice that the only
ones who pay any attention to her orders are the ones stuck inside the bars with
her. Ael's lips curled slightly upward at the thought. "Susse-thrai" had been the
name bestowed upon her, half in anger, half in affection, by her old crew on
Bloodwing; the keen-nosed, cranky, wily old she-beast, never less dangerous
than when you thought her defenseless, and always growing new teeth far back
in her throat to replace the old ones broken in biting out the last foe's heart. You
might cage a thrai, you might poke it through the bars and laugh; but it would
find a way to be avenged for the insult. It would break out and tear off your leg
and eat it before your face—or run away and wait till you had died of old age,
then come back and excrete on your grave.
