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The Death House (story)

shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
There was something off-putting about the Klingon, Ensign Bergman thought, as the circular lift took him down to the mid-levels of the Joint Command spire. Du'roQ was a proper KDF officer, true... tall, powerful, athletically built... but there was something about him....

The lift plate came to a halt; the circular Solanae door split into segments and opened before him. Bergman hurried along the curving corridor to the little subsidiary control room. Du'roQ had demanded they meet there... and standard procedure was to cooperate with requests from KDF allies, even though it was not so long since they were KDF enemies.

Du'roQ was pacing impatiently across the floor when Bergman entered. He had opened the narrow lancet windows, letting in the thin cold air, and displaying, outside, the impossible curving landscape of the Dyson sphere. The Klingon smiled. There was no reason it should not have been an affable smile, but something about Du'roQ's face - perhaps the prominent cheekbones, or the slightly slanted eyes, or the smallish mouth with its plump, full lips - made it look insincere.

"Ensign Bergman. Qapla'. You have the data files I require?"

"Yes, sir." Bergman held out the PADD. Du'roQ took it, and turned to a console.

"Excellent. You have done well, Ensign. I think you will go far."

"Sir." The Klingon's arrogant carriage was intimidating all by itself, but Bergman was determined to stand up for himself. "Sir, what's it all about? Those security codes - well, properly speaking, they should have been authorized by a higher-ranking officer -"

"It would take time, and I've no desire to deal with Starfleet bureaucracy. Besides, this is a sensitive project - I'll explain. In a moment." Du'roQ laid the PADD down on a console, and started to type in commands with blinding speed. "That will do," he said, after a few seconds. "But I'll need to make sure you have the proper clearances yourself. Give me your combadge."

He held out his hand. Bergman reached for the badge, then hesitated. But Du'roQ seemed so certain, so self-assured - He pulled the badge free from his uniform tunic, held it out to the Klingon.

Du'roQ took it in one hand. His other hand came round with blinding speed, striking a fast, accurate, lethal blow at the base of Bergman's neck. Before the body had time to fall, the Klingon seized it by the collar and, with an explosive effort, flung it through one of the windows, to fall far down, onto the surface of the sphere.

He strode to the window, watched Bergman's body diminish to a dot, lost against the vast and complex tapestry of the sphere's surface. Then he plucked a tool from his belt and made a swift adjustment to the combadge. He tossed it casually to the floor, then returned to the console.

He typed in commands for some minutes, then leaned back and stretched. "All done," he remarked to no one. He rose, turned to another console, tapped in another brief series of commands.

A square panel brightened into life on the console display, showing an abstract design - a holding pattern. Du'roQ waited. The pattern disappeared, was replaced by a face - a heavy-featured, humourless face, with mottled grey skin.

"General Jhey'quar," said Du'roQ. "We're ready at this end."

"We?" Jhey'quar's voice was as heavy and humourless as his face.

Du'roQ glanced at the combadge. "Me and Ensign Bergman, who's... with us in spirit." He touched the console. "Transmitting the clearance codes now. You'll be able to join the normal run of traffic through the gateways, but your passage won't show up in Joint Command's records... and once you're on the right side of the galaxy, General, you and I can get to work."

Jhey'quar nodded, slowly, once. "I have the codes. I will proceed. We will meet, soon, in person, Du'roQ."

"Ah," said Du'roQ, "well, as I'm sure you know, I've used more than one name in my time. And Joint Command will, eventually, manage to link Du'roQ to the very sad end of Ensign Bergman.... No, I'm afraid it's time for Du'roQ to retire. As it were."

"I see," said Jhey'quar. "So, by what name shall I know you?"

"I've used many names." A hard edge came into the Klingon's voice. "But there's one name... one name I used when I tried something, tried and failed. That name, now... that name needs redeeming...."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Personal record: Shalo of the House of Sinoom, officer commanding, IKS Garaka

    "And this," says Director Da'mas, "is the main routing control room."

    I nod politely. It is - well, it is a room. There is one technician on duty at a central control console, and a great many status display panels around the walls. There is one window, just past the control console, through which I can see the lowering grey-green clouds of Qo'noS over First City.

    "From here," Da'mas continues, "we can monitor transporter traffic throughout the whole of First City, apart from those secure military transfers which must be routed through KDF stations only."

    "It is one such transfer that I am trying to arrange," I murmur. Da'mas pays no attention. He has paid my words no attention since he first saw me. It is very easy to see where his attention is concentrated. My white-leather KDF uniform is not an Orion costume of silks and jewels, but it fits fairly snugly; I could wish, instead, that I had worn a shirt like the ones some human females wore in the past, the ones with a directional arrow and the printed message, My eyes are up here.

    "Garaka has a secure cargo which must be transferred to registered storage vaults," I continue, uselessly. "I have all the details on my datapad." Well, not perhaps all... this is why I am trying to arrange the transport discreetly, after all. I silently curse my ill fortune. A simple clerk in the transporter logistics office would have been amenable to persuasion - but no, I had to cross paths with the Director himself, anxious to impress me with his authority....

    "Bulk cargo is processed between these terminals." Da'mas makes a sweeping gesture at a row of status displays. "Impressive, is it not? The commercial lifeblood of the Empire flows along my pathways here! Millions upon millions of darseks flashing through the ether at any instant!"

    By now, I could content myself with some few darseks - Something catches my eye. I frown, and step closer to one of the status boards. "What is that?"

    "What?" Da'mas turns his attention away from my chest for a brief moment, to glance at the board.

    "There is an overload building -" I step up to the display myself. I have monitored enough transporter traffic myself to see when there is a problem. "Freight reception pad - if I am reading it right, here in First City. Something is very wrong with it."

    "It is nothing, I assure you. Automatics will handle it." He lays an overly familiar hand on my shoulder. I shrug him off.

    "Automatics are clearly not handling it. Pad four one five dash three seven three - where is that? Physical location!" I snap at the technician.

    His mind, fortunately, is on his work. "That's main freight reception - this building itself. Working to isolate that circuit -"

    "No!" I snap back. "That is a massive overload - put it through and the pad will blow! Emergency cross-patch to the EPS grid!" First City's EPS grid, like that of a starship, is hardened to resist overloads - it can take this power surge and spread it over the whole of the grid, dissipating it harmlessly.

    "Yes, sir!" the technician says, but he is drowned out by Da'mas's sudden shout of "No! Do not give orders in my control room, Orion!" It is all too easy for a Klingon to switch between lust and anger, when they even bother to make the distinction. "Let the automatics handle it!" He reaches over and strikes the technician's hands away from the console.

    An alarm bleats, loudly, from the status board. "Connect to the grid!" I shout.

    Da'mas turns on me, striking me in the face, hard enough that I stumble back. "Keep quiet!" He turns back to the control console. That is when I draw my disruptor and shoot him through the head.

    But it is already too late - the thud of his falling body is drowned out in the sudden roar of an explosion below. The technician curses freely. "You were right - automatics failed - I shifted some of the load, but not enough -"

    More alarms are screaming. I peer over the technician's shoulder at the main board. "Explosion, yes - fire in the infrastructure. Activate all failsafes."

    "On it." His hands swipe across the board, throwing row after row of switches - shutting down the transporter network, before the fire can take hold of this station and send its signals into chaos. I hit my wrist communicator. "Shalo to Garaka."

    "Here Garaka is." The scrambled syntax of the Gral Temm warrior, Foojoy - a capable officer, nonetheless. "Of interference, comms and transporter, much there is -"

    "I know. We have an overload and explosion at the main commercial transporter control. Send an alert to the civil authorities and dispatch shuttles with fire-fighting and rescue gear."

    "Of orders, confirmation there is. At your location, interference too much is, safe transport of living matter to permit."

    "Can you transport non-living matter? Equipment?"

    "Affirmative."

    "Then lock on to my current coordinates," I say, "and beam down my CRM 200."

    ---

    The Breen weapon is bulky, unwieldy, nearly as long as I am tall. It is also the most effective device I can think of using, in this situation. Its cryonic projection beam should make short work of the hottest wildfire.

    Actual fire-fighting equipment will be on its way - First City responds quickly to disasters and attacks. There will be a delay, though, precisely because the transporter network is now down. I have every intention of surviving through that delay.

    I do not know how extensive the damage is, but the overload was more than enough to blow up one transporter pad - the wailing alarms indicate structural damage and fire hazards aplenty. Thankfully, the layout of the facility is fresh in my mind, from the late Director's guided tour.

    I make my way down the corridor, away from the control room. The overhead lights are flickering, and there is a distinct odour of smoke in the air. This private passage connects to a main thoroughfare, and thence to a bewildering maze of transit halls and loading bays, all with their adjacent transporter pads - I do not know how many more of those pads might have blown out and caught fire, as the power surge spread through the system. I curse Da'mas's memory. We could have spread that surge through the whole city - no one would have noticed it, except for a brief flicker in the lights -

    There is plenty of flickering light ahead of me - hot and orange-red. The door at the end of the passage is already gaping open, and there is fire beyond. I narrow my eyes, take aim, and fire.

    The beam from the CRM 200 is pallid and greyish, and it makes a savage hissing sound, and it is cold - I have only used this weapon while wearing a protective EV suit, before, and I have not felt the savage, bone-aching cold that radiates from it. But, where that grey beam strikes, the fire dies in a wide circle around it. I advance, cautiously.

    The fires are out - in the immediate vicinity. But the air is hazy and choking with smoke, starved of oxygen, bitter in my eyes and my nostrils. Without breathing gear, I will not make it to an exit. Perhaps I can smash out the control room window, and get one of my shuttles to hover close enough to pick me up -

    There is a frantic hammering sound from somewhere nearby. I turn, quickly. The hammering is repeated. Someone is pounding on a door, some way down the thoroughfare. I squint through the smoke, my eyes filling with tears. There is more hammering, and shouting.

    I advance down the passage, holding the gun out in front of me. There is the thud of an explosion, the dull roar of more flames, somewhere nearby. Sparks jet from a ruptured conduit in the wall - I swing the gun around, quell the incipient blaze with a hissing jet of cold. The air feels as though it is gripping my throat. The shouting is hoarse and urgent. A doorway, a doorway to a transit hall - temporary accommodation, I think, for civilians awaiting transport to a colony ship. The metal of the door is warped, and the pounding from the other side is growing ever more frantic.

    I slam the butt of the big gun against the metal door, once, twice, a third time. "Stand back!" I scream. No alternative. "Going to blast! Stand back!" I drop the CRM, pull out my disruptor, set it for wide beam and maximum power. Subtlety will not help, here.

    I fire. The metal door dissolves at once, reduced to red-hot particulate debris. Anyone standing too close will have received severe burns - well, they might get those in any case. The air beyond is filled with a black haze, with redness glowing dimly through it - and a figure stumbling out, and then another, and another -

    "We were trapped!" someone yells at me, and bursts into a coughing fit.

    "I do not know a safe route out -" I begin.

    Another door bursts open nearby, and fire bellies out of it, spreading over the ceiling, starting to take hold of the walls. I curse, holster the disruptor, snatch up the CRM. It shudders in my hands as I activate the wide-area setting. "Stand aside!" I yell, and the smoke bites inside my throat. A wavering cone of frigidity blasts out of the CRM's muzzle, and the light of the flames dims. I cough. The weapon is doing nothing to improve the quality of the air - and I still do not know a safe route -

    Then there is an unearthly screeching noise - the sound of armoured ferroconcrete yielding to precision sonic disruptors. Light abruptly brightens in the passageway. Daylight. The end wall simply vanishes, and the smoke billows out, and there are shining shapes coming in through the hole, humanoid shapes reduced to silvery abstract forms - firefighters, in full protective gear. I lean back against the nearest wall. I can leave matters to the professionals, now.

    ---

    By the time I return to the control room, J'mpok is there.

    It is a measure of the Klingon character, I suppose. If there were a terror attack on Earth's capital, considerable effort would be devoted to getting the Federation President away from it. But, in a crisis, a Klingon Chancellor must be seen to lead from the front. He scowls at me, and kicks at Da'mas's body. "Was this necessary?" he growls.

    "It was," I snap back at him.

    "Chancellor." The technician is on his feet. "The Director obstructed the General - if he had heeded her advice, we would not have had an explosion."

    J'mpok wheels round to glare at him. The technician glares back. Again, it is hard to imagine a Federation citizen speaking so to their President.... "You understand what happened?" J'mpok demands. He sounds more aggressive than usual. Of course, he has been in a foul mood since that last assassination attempt.

    "Someone sent an unstable mass of high energy density to one of the pads in this building," the technician snaps. "We diverted some of the overload - I think the whole structure would have been wiped off the map, if we had not! I have put an emergency forensic hold on the transporter logs -"

    "Good," says J'mpok. "You acted correctly. And, clearly, you know the systems and procedures. What is your name?"

    The technician stands to attention. "I am Karak, son of Dral, of the house of Qar'lak."

    "Very good," says J'mpok. "You are now director of civilian transporter operations. Serve well. Or, at least, better than him." He kicks Da'mas's corpse again.

    Karak salutes smartly. "Qapla', Chancellor."

    "We will need those transporter logs," J'mpok mutters. "If there are to be explosions in First City, they will be at my order, and mine alone. And I have a dozen esteemed and heroic Councillors screaming already about interruptions to their commercial operations - I do not need this."

    "Garaka is ready to offer any assistance you require, Chancellor," I say, and cough.

    "So is half the KDF fleet," J'mpok says sourly. "If I need things shot at, I have more help than I can manage -" His heavy-lidded eyes glitter. "But you, now - yes, perhaps it is as well that you are here." He glances at the CRM, and gives a derisive snort. "You fought the fire with that thing?"

    "It was most convenient to hand," I say.

    "No doubt. Well, we make use of the tools most convenient to hand." His gaze rests on me - and not in the insulting fashion of Da'mas. "Work with the new Director. Check those sealed transporter logs - I want to know where that cargo came from, I want whoever sent it to answer for their actions." He picks a datapad off the console. "Eighty-six dead. More than three hundred wounded. And it could have been much worse. You are subtle, General, I know you are. Use your subtlety to find the culprit."

    "Yes, Chancellor." There is no arguing with J'mpok when he is in a mood like this. "Though, if I might make a suggestion -?"

    "Oh, of course you have a suggestion. Out with it!"

    "There are other resources," I say, "that I would like to use...."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    My words: Rrueo-Captain, Rrueo-Thinker, owner and master of the IKS Brathana

    I walk through the ruins of the two men's minds.

    I am in the habit of constructing metaphors for the minds I touch... but there is nothing, now, to distinguish these; they are wrecks, blasted into wildernesses of ash and pain by physical torture, by previous interrogation, by the use of a mechanical Klingon mind-sifter.... Crude tools, by comparison with the probing power of a Ferasan mind. I wander through the ruins, picking out from the rubble an image here, a memory there, assembling them into coherent wholes. I am no more subtle than the mind-sifter, of course.

    The sentient brain is surprisingly resilient. They will recover from this treatment, given time, and medical care. But it seems unlikely they will be given time. These two are dead, already, in all but the most literal sense. My task is to glean what I can. I need not be gentle. And I am not.

    When I am satisfied, I raise my head. "Rrueo is finished," I say.

    The two men - one Orion, one Klingon - are seated in medical monitoring chairs before me. A Klingon meditech is supervising the process - I need pay him no attention. The ones who matter are standing against the wall, behind the chairs.

    Shalo invited me here, to perform this task. Her green Orion face is unusually stern, and her mind is as always, layer after layer of masks of ice, lit from behind by the cold white light of her self. Beside her, J'mpok stands, his face forbidding, his mind a high mountain wreathed in thunderclouds. A mountain whose slopes I will not climb - had best not, if I value my life. Which I do.

    "Well?" the Chancellor demands.

    I point at the Klingon. "This one," I say, "is nothing. A venal fool. He accepts corrupt payments for transshipment of illicit goods. He accepted such a payment from this one -" I indicate the Orion. "The shipment was meant to be sent by shuttlecraft, but he found that inconvenient. So he put it into the transporter system instead. The results speak for themselves."

    J'mpok scowls. He says nothing, but simply steps forwards and hauls the Klingon out of the medical chair. The man is too stupefied to offer resistance. J'mpok half-drags, half-carries him across the room, shoves him through a metal doorway, bangs his fist on the control panel beside it. A hiss as the door closes, then another, louder hiss which trails away into silence. I say nothing. It is a waste of a lock full of air, and some hapless shipyard worker will have to recover the body later for proper disposal - but the Chancellor will have his gesture. It is both futile and unwise to deny him.

    "This one, now," I indicate the Orion, "will repay further examination, Rrueo feels. At the very least, his contacts must be traced in detail."

    "What was the shipment?" Shalo asks. "Exactly?"

    "Rrueo finds that interesting. It was a substantial quantity - some forty kilograms - of compressed and enfolded decalithium."

    J'mpok snorts and shakes his head. "Trilithium, decalithium - I am old enough to remember when dilithium was all we had to worry about. What is so special about this form of decalithium?"

    "Rrueo has, oddly enough, come across the substance before - in her travels in the Delta Quadrant. It is used for some commercial applications by the Hierarchy. The structured crystalline matrix can contain and store energy in substantial quantity. But it requires special handling in transporter operations, or the stored energy can be liberated - uncontrollably. Rrueo suspects that is what has happened here. Not a deliberate attack - a simple error. An expensive and destructive error."

    "The Delta Quadrant," says Shalo thoughtfully. "Are they exporting their problems, their quarrels here?"

    "Why not?" growls J'mpok. "They exported that lunatic Talaxian.... Does this one know the purpose intended for this - decalithium?"

    I shake my head. "A simple intermediary, nothing more. There are images of persons in his mind - no names, that Rrueo could detect, but some faces. One in particular stood out - there were associations with it, of both authority and menace."

    "Well, that is of no use," says J'mpok, "unless you can make us see what you see with your mind's eye."

    "Oh, give Rrueo a stylus and a datapad," I sigh. "Rrueo has heard many such requests.... Rrueo cannot grant you a psychic vision, but Rrueo can draw perfectly well."

    J'mpok snorts, in amusement rather than anger. Shalo steps forward, with a datapad and a stylus. I call the image to the fore of my mind, and sketch, quickly and accurately, for some minutes. When I am finished, I hold the picture before the Orion's eyes, and watch an ember of recognition flare red inside the ashes of his mind. Satisfied, I hand the datapad back to Shalo.

    Her eyes widen, and the light of her mind brightens. She passes the picture to J'mpok, and lightnings flash in the stormcloud of his mind. Shalo turns back to me. "Let us be quite sure of this," she says, and takes another datapad. She taps a series of commands into its interface.

    "You recognize this face?" I ask.

    "Possibly." Shalo passes the fresh datapad to me. I glance at it. "No," I say, "the face was definitely Klingon, not Orion." Then I take a second look. "Although... the shape of the features, though, that is similar enough - apart from the forehead, of course -"

    "Yes," says Shalo, and her voice and her mind-tone are bleak. "That is neither a Klingon nor an Orion face. It is the face of a rogue human genetic augment, capable of modifying his appearance. His name is Kalevar Thrang, or was when we knew him."

    Kalevar Thrang. Yes, I have heard the name - the renegade who attempted to foment a fresh war between Empire and Federation. I frown. "If he can change his appearance, why does he not change it enough that you cannot recognize him?"

    "I do not know," says J'mpok, "nor greatly care. But if Thrang is involved in this business, somehow, then that is reason to investigate thoroughly. If the explosion was, in truth, an accident - then it is something he could not have planned, or planned for -"

    "You think that, somehow, we could steal a march on him?" Shalo asks.

    "It is possible," says J'mpok.

    He and Shalo look at each other. I say nothing. The medical technician is wisely silent, and the man in the chair... is unable to speak.

    "We have only an image in this one's mind to suggest that it is Thrang at all," I say.

    "We must follow any possible lead," snaps J'mpok. "We still do not know all Thrang's resources - oh, he lost much when his stratagem failed, but he spent his assets recklessly; he would not have done so, if he did not have more reserves. No. If there is even a chance that Kalevar Thrang can be taken and killed, we must pursue that chance."

    He takes a step forward, to stare down at the broken man in the chair. "This is now a matter for Intelligence, I think," he says. "They are best suited for the details of investigation, and I will know every aspect of this one's life." His eyes flash; his gaze darts between me and Shalo. "But I will use the tools ready to my hand, too. You two. With me, to the conference room." He stalks out of the room, and we follow.

    ---

    "The cargo was intended for transshipment to a First City based holding company," says Shalo, as the turbolift carries us up to the higher levels of the shipyard satellite. "Obviously, it will be a blind, a shell - but it is possible they do not yet know that their shipment was the cause of the disaster. If they can be tricked into accepting a cargo of our choosing -"

    "They will know what to expect," says J'mpok. "Where can we obtain a quantity of this compressed decalithium, quickly?"

    "We can provide a reasonable facsimile. Their response will tell us something, in any event. We must take some steps to find the final destination of this cargo, no matter what."

    "Rrueo thinks we must also work backwards," I add. "It is at least possible that the cargo originated in the Delta Quadrant -"

    "Yes," says J'mpok shortly. "We must make careful inquiries at Delta Command, assuming they have not suffered another security breach -"

    The lift doors hiss open. J'mpok strides out, then stops abruptly, and his back stiffens.

    There is someone facing him, a Klingon, tall and imposing in physique, wearing a much-decorated sash over the robes of a High Councillor. After a moment, I place him: Sarv, of the House of Kungan. He is young for a Councillor - a replacement, I think, for one of the many who were murdered by the Iconians. His mind-tone is... unpleasant. Ambitious Klingons usually have much drive and energy, but this one's drive is an all-consuming force, like a forest fire. More lightnings flash in the stormclouds of the Chancellor's mind... but I do not need to be a telepath, to see that these two dislike each other.

    "Chancellor," says Sarv.

    "Councillor," J'mpok replies. "I am busy."

    "I will not detain you long, then," Sarv says. "I, and others, would like to know, though, when we can expect transport restrictions to be lifted. There are hundreds of ships, now, with cargoes in transit, awaiting clearance."

    "Once I am finished with my investigation of the transporter logs," snarls J'mpok, "normal functions will be restored."

    "And how long -?"

    "Longer, if I must stand here answering your questions!" J'mpok roars.

    "I have responsibility for this shipyard," Sarv snarls back, "and I must know when its functions will return to normal!"

    "In due time." J'mpok's voice has dropped to a dangerous mutter. "I will need to pick those transporter records apart, to account for every action taken by our prisoner. Kalevar Thrang is involved in this, somehow, Councillor. You remember that name?"

    Sarv's eyes flash, and there is something behind them, a flaring up of the fires in his mind. "I do."

    "Then you appreciate the need for thoroughness. I am going, now, to instruct my agents."

    Sarv's gaze leaves J'mpok for an instant, rakes across me and Shalo, dismisses us. "These? An Orion and a Ferasan? Matters of this importance should be handled by Klingons!"

    "They are senior KDF officers," says J'mpok. His tone of voice is quite mild and reasonable. It suggests that someone is very likely to die, soon.

    Sarv is evidently not alive to such nuances, though. "Thrang is an enemy of the Empire. If he is to be pursued, it should be with the full power, the full prestige of the Empire -"

    More lightning in J'mpok's mind. He has had an idea - and it amuses him. "Very true, Councillor Sarv. So, we will act in accordance with your excellent suggestion. Allocate resources from the shipyard's discretionary budget. We will outfit my agents with the very latest, the very best, in Imperial technology. Thrang will know fear, when we send our finest ships after him, no?"

    Sarv's mouth works. "Our - finest ships?" he says.

    "You will give my agents free choice of the newest available vessels. And they will have authority to choose crew members, too. We have some experimental androids, no? Patterned after the Starfleet models?"

    Sarv's mind is in a turmoil. The Chancellor is within his rights, technically, to make this request... and, technically and arguably, it is Sarv's own suggestion. But part of the Councillor's wealth, at least, comes from his control of the shipyard's funds - and this will make a very considerable dent in them. I keep my face studiously neutral. A small part of me feels sorry for Sarv. The rest of me... the rest is excited, at the prospect of choosing a new ship. One of the Empire's finest....

    "We will certainly need tactical backup, too," says Shalo.

    J'mpok waves an airy hand. "Make your requirements known to the Councillor," he says. "He will accommodate you. For the honour of the Empire. Am I right, Councillor?"
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    By the Twelve Virtuous Mysteries and the Nine Auspicious Cycles of the moons, I swear and attest this record to be mine: R'j Bl'k', Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom, Knight-Acolyte of the Phocine Temple, Dahar Master and honorary General in the Klingon Defense Force, owner-master of the IKS Nuru-Or

    "Yes," I say. I settle myself in the command chair - it is stiffer and more upright than the Goroke's Elachi-designed command couch, but somehow it is still more comfortable. "Yes," I say again, "it was good of Shalo to bear me in mind. I must thank her when we meet again."

    On the main screen, Rrueo's face appears - vaguely sullen. She has changed little since last we met - she still wears a tangle of Ferasan earrings, her pelt is still midnight blue save for one light stripe across her eyes. But she twitches in her own command chair, as if she is uncomfortable in it.

    "What is bothering you?" I ask. "Some aspect of our mission -?"

    "No," says Rrueo. "No... it is a trivial point, but -" Annoyance evidently gets the better of her. "Every time Rrueo transfers to a new ship, the bridge is larger than before! It is impractical! Rrueo must use the intercom, now, just to address her officers! And there are targs browsing on the lowest level! Why are there targs? Rrueo is not hungry!"

    I smile at her. "Buyer's remorse? Perhaps you should have chosen differently. My own bridge, I assure you, is quite cosy. Intimate, even."

    To one side of me, at the main science station, my Klingon exec, Laska, sniffs and mutters something that sounds like "Dream on."

    "Rrueo does not doubt it. Rrueo did not expect you to pick something so small... Rrueo's own ship carries one like that as an auxiliary."

    "S-s-s-s-s. Oh, no," I say. "Not like this."

    The standard Bird of Prey spaceframe has seen many modifications, many elaborations, over the centuries it has been in use. This latest version - technically, the Kor class - is the culmination of certain schools of design. It is definitely not roomy... indeed, it is a compact mass of drives and weapons systems, in which its crew live like parasites in a host. A strong and muscular host. Strong, muscular, fast and dangerous.

    "Well," Rrueo says, "you will have a chance to prove it, in perhaps twenty more minutes. If you are satisfied with the tactical plan -"

    "I am." I formulated it myself, after all.

    "Then Rrueo will hang back, with the Skaldak under cloak, and will move in to protect your toy when it looks in danger of getting broken."

    "I will be generous, and leave you something to kill." I turn one eye to look at the tactical console. "We should probably begin to observe subspace silence. There is no point announcing ourselves - prematurely."

    "Rrueo agrees. Skaldak out." The screen blanks out, then displays a schematic of the target system. Air hisses out of the ancillary breathing tubes at the sides of my jaw. A sweet sense of anticipation rises within me. "Like old times," I say to Laska.

    "Sir?" The small, flat-featured alien, Siowershoe, speaks up from the other side of the bridge.

    "The General's career began in a B'Rel class Bird of Prey," Laska explains. Her craggy face breaks into a brief smile as she adds, "Bloodily."

    "All the best careers do," I say. "At least in the KDF. Make preparations. Battle stations."

    Alarms sound. I rap out the M't-Kh'rhyii sutra with my tongue as I review the mission parameters, one last time, in my mind.

    The compressed decalithium, we have learned, was being transported between two branches of the Daggers of QarS - essentially, a home-grown terrorist group in the Empire. The House of QarS was discommendated around the time of the Hobus supernova - I do not know the details - and from then on, its rogue elements have been attempting to win back legitimacy, and to harass and attack those they consider responsible for the House's disgrace. Incompatible goals, but no matter. They are one of dozens of such minor irritants in the Klingon body politic.

    And we are approaching their main base - a Class L planetoid on the fringes of Orion space. Here, we have benefited from Shalo's contacts. The Daggers bought protection, originally, from a minor house within the Orion Syndicate; the armistice with the Federation, though, meant an end to commerce raiding for several minor Klingon houses, and they had to turn to other sources of income. One, the House of Verga, decided to... take over... the protection contract. They were not subtle about expelling the Orions - and those Orions were happy to pass details of the security setup to Shalo, when she asked.

    So. A raid. Against a comparatively weak enemy, whose forces and dispositions are known to us in advance. Hardly sporting, perhaps... but excellent practice for us, in our new vessels.

    "Coming out of warp," Siowershoe reports.

    "Battle cloak," I order. Somewhere, Rrueo's ship is doing the same - I will not see her, I hope, unless pressing need arises. It should not. "Long-range telemetry?"

    "As expected," says Laska. "Three heavy defence satellites, a wing of Birds of Prey, another of fighters, and a Vor'cha class cruiser to back them up."

    "They should have further support nearby, under cloak. S-s-s-s-s. An error. Intercept course for the nearest satellite. Maintain cloak." I swivel one eye to look at the latest addition to my bridge crew. "Tachyon detection?"

    She looks like a Klingon at first glance, but she is wearing a monochrome variant on a KDF uniform, and open panels in her face expose circuitry for our inspection. For social purposes, she has a name - Goota, a meaningless pair of syllables. "Tachyon detection grid is - operational," she says in expressionless tones. "Its parameters are - as we were informed. Our battle cloak is - stable. We will not be - detected."

    "Excellent. But warn me if that is likely to change." The android's mechanical efficiency, though, will be a major asset in maintaining our cloak. "Range to target?"

    "Two thousand kellicams."

    "Arm plasma torpedoes. We will fire at minimum safe distance." I allow myself a smile. "I see no reason to drop the cloak, not at this stage." The Verga ships are flying a standard patrol pattern. I am not greatly concerned over them - not at this stage. The firepower of the static satellite platforms is considerably greater, though. So, it is those I must destroy first.

    "What of the QarS?" I ask, off-handedly. "Are any of their ships in evidence?"

    "Shuttles docked at the surface station, nothing more," says Laska. "I am not sure the QarS have a meaningful fleet, at present. Their Daggers are... distinctly blunted."

    "No doubt they are being bled dry, paying what is, effectively, protection money to the House of Verga. If I were not a warrior of the Empire, I would venture to criticise the peculiar social structures of you Klingons...."

    "Is Mlkwbrian society any better organized?" Laska pronounces the name of my people... as easily as any humanoid with a normal vocal tract can manage. I could find fault with her lateral consonants, but they are the best she can do, her tongue lacking any transverse keratinous ridges.

    "I suppose we, too, have our foibles. If you have a few days to spare, perhaps I can recite the historical epic of L'l'l-th'kr'h-t'a for you. You would understand us so much better, then."

    "Perhaps you should keep your mystique, sir," says Laska. "In range."

    "Fire torpedoes!"

    Nuru-Or shivers as bolts of flame burst from her forward launcher. The first of the hyper-plasma torpedoes slams into the satellite's shields, overloading them, bringing them down. The second punches into the hull armour, spraying it over the sky as flaming vapour. The third proceeds into the satellite's exposed vitals - and its detonation vanishes instantly in the far brighter blast of a core breach. Siowershoe, at the helm, mutters and curses to herself. We do not need to drop the battle cloak in order to fire the torpedoes - but that means we have no shields, and Siowershoe is working hard to avoid any collisions with the debris of the satellite.

    "Tachyon detection is - intensifying," Goota reports. "Compensating - as planned. Cloak is - stable."

    The Verga forces know of our presence - there can be no doubt of that. Their attack groups are wheeling about. But my new ship has the best cloaking technology known to the Empire, and they have no clue where they should wheel. I watch the tac display with one eye, while checking the sensor repeaters with the other. There is no response from the ground station. That is perplexing.

    I sketch out a course on the tac console. "That one next."

    Nuru-Or slices invisibly through space while her opponents cast about in confusion. The next satellite explodes towards us on the viewscreen.

    "Fire."

    And again the torpedoes rage out of the launcher, and again their target burns and dies.

    "This is where it gets interesting," says Laska.

    Indeed. With only one satellite left, our next target is obvious. The Verga ships are already converging on it. One cruiser, two flights of light vessels, and the guns on the satellite itself - that is more than adequate to set up a killing zone.

    If I am foolish enough to permit that. "Drop cloak. Raise shields. Cannons to wide area fire." I study the tac display, target one Bird of Prey. "That one. Subspace jump...." I count off seconds in my head. "Now!"

    Nuru-Or is visible, and the Verga ships come about sharply to engage her. And as they do, the subspace jump flicks us across kellicams of space - and we reappear, just behind the target I have indicated.

    "All cannons fire!"

    And the Nuru-Or shows her full strength. My species has comparatively limited colour vision, but even I can see the difference between our weapons and theirs - the Verga ships have standard disruptors, whereas mine is equipped with retrofit Herald technology, antiproton weapons with an eerie, spectral gleam. Cannon blasts rave out of my ship in a cone of widespread destruction.

    The ship ahead of us stands no chance; her screen goes, and then one wing, and then chunks of her hull explode and she spins away uncontrollably, venting air and reaction mass and warp plasma in one cloud of flame. The light fighters stand no better chance, a single bolt is enough to shatter one. The cruiser, comparatively slow and sluggish, is out of position; one of the surviving Birds of Prey vanishes into battle cloak, while the other veers wildly aside on a rapid evasion pattern. That leaves the satellite, and its guns are already speaking. Disruptor blasts savage my forward shields.

    "Sustained fire on the satellite, now! Fire torpedoes!"

    The plasma torps are, by torpedo standards, large and slow - they can be targeted and brought down before impact. If I give my target that chance. I ignore the battering of my forward shields, ignore the first flash-bang of a transient overload on a bridge console - concentrate on sending a barrage of antiproton fire into the satellite's shields, bringing them down, clearing a path for the plasma torps. If just one of them gets past the satellite's fire and hits the target, it should be enough -

    In the event, two do. More than enough. "Hard about, three hundred mark four!" And Nuru-Or swerves aside, away from the core breach as the satellite goes up. Two Birds of Prey and a Vor'cha left. The cloaked one shimmers back into visibility, close on my tail, weapons stabbing at my aft shield. A good tactic. I applaud it, with my rear-mounted turrets. The enemy ship slews away and explodes.

    That still leaves two, and they are trying to bracket me between them, to blast my shields down from both flanks. My shield strength is lower than I would like - I send the ship into an evasion pattern, then bring her around again, to target the last Bird of Prey. Nuru-Or is not only stronger than that ship, she is faster, too. The starfield whirls vertiginously on my screen, and then the enemy settles neatly into the targeting reticle, and my cannons blaze with their ghostly bolts again, and the enemy is dead.

    The Vor'cha is coming up fast, and her heavy disruptors are becoming a problem. I wheel the ship about once more, to bring the cruiser into my forward arc -

    - and suddenly it is gone.

    I reacquire the target in seconds, but by then there is no point. Rrueo's Skaldak has come out of cloak. The Gorkon-class battlecruiser has engaged its subspace snare, drawn the Vor'cha in front of it - and now, it engages another specialist weapons system, the fore-mounted disruptor autocannon. I watch almost in amusement as the blinding storm of disruptor bolts shatters the cruiser's shields and starts to chew through the armour and the hull itself. I wonder if it will chew all the way through the ship and out the other side. As it happens, it chews as far as the warp core, and that is enough.

    "Incoming communication from - Skaldak."

    "On screen." Rrueo's face appears. "Well, I let you have one," I say.

    "Rrueo appreciates it. How is your toy?"

    I glance over the damage control board. "Barely even play-worn. Yourself?"

    "Rrueo must remember this vessel is not so agile as Brathana. That last core breach was almost close enough to damage Rrueo's shields. However. We are both intact, and the Daggers of QarS await us."

    "Indeed." Though there has still been no reaction from the surface station, and that worries me. "Well. Let us go down and reason with them."

    ---

    Nuru-Or comes in for a landing on a low ridge, overlooking the dome of the QarS base. Just one environment dome - and I count three Toron and four Kivra shuttles on the apron beside it. There are fixed-mount disruptor emplacements, too, but they are silent. The whole base is silent.

    This bothers me.

    Further along the ridge, a gleaming skeletal shape drops from the sky to settle onto the rock: Rrueo's auxiliary Hoh'SuS Bird of Prey - not as effective as my ship, but still more than enough to cope with any shuttlecraft. Between us, we can blast those disruptors, crack open that dome, any time we wish.

    "Still no response to our hails?" I ask Goota.

    "Negative."

    "Strange. S-s-s-s-s. I could have sworn we made ourselves noticeable. Well. We must knock at their door, it seems. Laska, you have the conn. Siowershoe, Goota, with me. Security detachment will meet us at the main lock."

    And we leave the ship. The planetoid is small, its gravity light; we move easily - in armour, with full personal shields, and with weapons ready. I carry a polaron pistol in each fist, trophies from a fight with the Vaadwaur. Out of the corner of one eye, I spot another force moving down the ridge, led by a familiar loping figure. Rrueo leads from the front, like any good Ferasan warrior. Our two groups come together at the edge of the landing apron.

    "Rrueo is perturbed." She has a disruptor pistol in one hand, a tricorder in the other, and a frown on her face.

    "So am I. S-s-s-s-s. They should not be so - silent."

    "Rrueo detected no power to shields or weapons, no change in alert status, as we approached. Those shuttles are empty. The cannons are powered down. Rrueo does not like this." Her slit-pupilled eyes grow vague, unfocused. "Rrueo feels no mind-tones. Beyond ourselves, that is."

    I stare at the dome. "Are they all out?"

    "Rrueo is beginning to think so." She stalks forward, scanning with her tricorder, muttering to herself.

    It seems there is nothing to shoot. I holster my pistols. I stride towards the dome - it will be better to be inside it, in any case. The temperature out here is barely above freezing, and there is only just enough oxygen to breathe. I see an airlock entrance let into the side of the dome, and I make for that.

    The control panel for the door is standard Klingon design. I study it for a moment, but I see no security measures. They have not even locked their doors.... I reach for the control.

    And there is a sudden blue blur in the air beside me, and Rrueo's hand slaps mine aside, hard. I turn to face her. "What -?"

    "Rrueo has readings." She holds up her tricorder. "Complex organics in the air, inside the dome. Alpha-furanizol - a rapid respiratory poison. Rrueo is reading, also, other organic masses. Bodies. Dead ones. None living." Her whiskers twitch. "That is the reason for their silence. It is the silence of the grave."
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  • dalolorndalolorn Member Posts: 3,655 Arc User
    I think I share J'mpok's sense of humor. :)

    Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.p3OEBPD6HU3QI.jpg
  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    J'mpok ability to stage poetic and dramatic justice at all times never fails to amuse.

    (Also - Thrang again, and someone in the KDF is either dumb enough or furious enough to maintain contacts with him. Hoo boy).

    So if Rrueo grabbed a Gorkon, and R'j grabbed a Kor - knowing Shalo's tastes run to carrier, and these are Empire ships specifically, I'm guessing she picked up a Qa'tel?
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Mostly, it's been kind of a while since these guys came out into the stories, and by now they've all acquired new ships - I just wanted some in-story reason for them to have them! (Well, that was one reason.)

    It seems unlikely, by the way, that we will be getting any Starfleet high-mindedness and diplomacy and respect for sentient life in this one. Sorry about that.
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  • dalolorndalolorn Member Posts: 3,655 Arc User
    Eh, between J'mpok and Rrueo, I think we'll be fine. *beams in and hunts targs*

    Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.p3OEBPD6HU3QI.jpg
  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    shevet wrote: »
    It seems unlikely, by the way, that we will be getting any Starfleet high-mindedness and diplomacy and respect for sentient life in this one. Sorry about that.

    Well, Thrang doesn't have any either. Fair's fair.

    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

    My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Tharval looked at the door. It was a blank stretch of metal, covered in grimy, peeling paint, typical of the First City slums. His black eyes measured and appraised it, noting the edges of the door. When he had left, that morning, there had been little wedges of plastic inserted between the door panel and the frame. They were gone, now.

    His leathery demon mask of a face was not equipped for frowning. He stood before the door for a full minute, concentrating intensely. His hand went to the pocket of his worn work tunic, where he kept his disruptor. It was old, military surplus, used and battered - but it still worked. He made very sure of that.

    He reached up to the door control and tapped in his personal code. As the door slid open, he moved inside, quickly, drawing the disruptor from his pocket -

    The single room within was still in darkness, but Tharval could make out a figure sitting in his one comfortable chair. He covered the man with his disruptor as he closed the door and switched on the light.

    "Tharval. Good to see you. Make yourself at home - oh, yes, this is your home, isn't it? How are you getting along, these days?"

    Tharval kept the disruptor pointed squarely at the other's head. "I am contemplating my good fortune," he said. "It seems I am about to become an exceptionally wealthy man."

    "Oh, yes," the other said casually, "the price on my head - I gather it's still an attention-getter. I think you'll find, though, I can still beat the authorities' best offer." He looked around. "I'd say pull up a chair, but you don't seem to have many to spare."

    "I may as well claim the bounty as the first imbecile patroller to spot you," said Tharval. "You are walking around, openly? Still with that face? You must be mad."

    "Yes, well," said Kalevar Thrang, "people need to get used to this face, it will be on their currency soon enough. However - well, those facial recognition algorithms for the security cameras, it's amazing how forgetful they can be, sometimes."

    "They will find that security hole and plug it. Then you will be dead, Thrang. You are still using the same name, too, of course."

    "Of course. Though I'm going back to being human, for a while." Thrang indicated his forehead, where Klingon whorls and ridges had already subsided into smooth skin. "All those grooves, they're dirt traps. And as for being Orion, again... I never really liked myself in green. So, how are you getting along, Tharval?"

    The Lethean sighed. He thumbed the safety catch on the disruptor, and put the weapon away. "As you see. I survive. It is unwise for me to do more."

    "Imperial Intelligence is still displeased with you?"

    "Not even your head would be enough to buy me back into their favour, Thrang."

    "But you're still alive. Because they can't kill you without generating some terminal embarrassment." Thrang smiled broadly. "You know where the bodies are buried."

    "You might say that."

    "Even now? You still have enough dirt on the current members of the High Council, even after all the changes?"

    "The High Council? Do not make me laugh, Thrang. I have always concerned myself with people who matter." Tharval found an empty packing crate, dragged it round, sat on it, facing his visitor.

    "And that's what makes you useful," said Thrang.

    The Lethean's eyes narrowed. "I have seen how you use people, Thrang. I remember J'Negh, for instance."

    "Ah, yes," said Thrang. "Fond memories. J'Negh was an idiot - he went around accepting drinks from strangers. I don't think you're that level of idiot, Tharval."

    "Then what sort of idiocy do you ascribe to me? You are a wanted fugitive across two quadrants of the galaxy, Thrang. I see no way in which you could be of use to me - except, perhaps, in ameliorating my living conditions."

    "I still have resources." Thrang sat up, leaned forward in the chair. "Yes, there's a price on my head. But it's not enough to get you what you want, Tharval. K'men."

    "No one can give me K'men."

    "But you want him."

    "I want that sanctimonious one-eyed dwarf's head for my footstool, yes. But it is a fantasy, Thrang, it will never happen. It is impossible."

    Thrang reached into a cargo pocket of his leather trousers and pulled out a datapad. "Talisa Sheardlove," he said.

    "Starfleet Intelligence - now ex-Starfleet Intelligence, very much so. What about her?"

    "She had insurance policies. All good agents do. She had a little arrangement with you - a carefully planned bolt-hole if she felt a sudden urge to change sides." He flipped the datapad through the air to Tharval. "That is the private comms code you were to use, isn't it?"

    Tharval looked at the pad. His eyes widened. His hand shook. "Impossible. Only she and I knew that code - and she is dead, and I have told no one. This is impossible."

    "Yes, it is." Thrang sank back in the chair with a satisfied smile. "So let's talk impossibilities."
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  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Ah, so I suspect this might be the 'Death House' in question then. Intriguing.

    And Thrang continues to aim high. I wish I could get voice to come through as clearly.
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Shalo

    "The power requirements are too high." The Gorn science officer, Thraak, looks down on the components of the assassin drone, dismantled and spread across the engineering lab's workbench. "Yes, it is a highly potent device - or it would be, if it could operate for longer than three minutes before exhausting its power supply!"

    I pick up a datapad, input some new parameters. "And with a power source like this?" I ask, handing it to Thraak.

    "Like this... hmm." He studies the figures. I pick up a segment of the drone's sleek matte-grey outer casing, turn it over in my fingers.

    "That is... much better. At least half an hour at normal output." Enough power for the drone to travel several kellicams, to spoof sensors with a cloaking field, penetrate force shields with its polycyclic drill... identify a target with its onboard AI, kill with its disruptor. "But where would they get a power supply with this energy density?"

    "Compressed decalithium, from the Delta Quadrant," I say shortly. "So. The Daggers of QarS did not plan a massive explosion... they intended a series of targeted assassinations. But whose deaths did they desire?"

    "It must have been many," says Thraak. "The power cell is not large - and I gather the shipment was."

    "Indeed. Enough to make power units for... two hundred such drones, at least." I consider. "It may simply have been a marketing exercise. They could eliminate their chosen targets, then use that as proof of concept, as it were, to sell the surplus drones on to other markets. A discommendated House needs revenues... the Daggers of QarS need them urgently."

    "But of course we cannot simply ask them what their plans were," says Thraak.

    "No. It is regrettable. I could have wished the Council Police had followed my advice - tracked the QarS cell, discovered more of their contacts and their movements. But - they took no prisoners." And that worries me.

    "Klingons." Thraak makes a dismissive noise.

    "Klingons are capable of subtlety, given cause." And they had cause... but they were not subtle. That bothers me. It is as though someone wanted no survivors. I stand up. "Well," I say, "continue your studies. Let me know if there are any interesting refinements that we can use."

    "I will look," says Thraak, "but do not expect much, unless you have a source of compressed decalithium for the power cells."

    I walk out of the laboratory. I suppose I should head to the bridge... instead, I turn and wander the corridors. I still do not know my way around this big new command cruiser. It is a good ship, though. I should probably thank Sarv, or J'mpok, for it.

    I make my way to an external viewport, stand beside it, look down pensively on the clouds of Qo'noS.

    The compressed decalithium almost certainly came from the Delta Quadrant - and, almost certainly, it was brought across the galaxy by Kalevar Thrang. The renegade must have been hiding out in the Delta Quadrant, comparatively safe from Starfleet, the KDF, and the Republic, all of whom had strong reason to dislike him. So... if he is back, now, he must have some pressing reason. And he comes bearing gifts, for terrorists, for a fallen House.

    I frown. Thrang's ambitions were imperial, galactic in scope. Running weapons to petty terrorists seems - beneath him.

    So, if I am right about that, he must have some long-term purpose in mind. What might it be? We cannot know, unless we learn what the QarS were offering. And we cannot learn that, if the QarS are dead.... I resolve to make some discreet enquiries among the Council Police, to learn precisely who sent them out, and with precisely what orders -

    My wrist communicator chimes. I raise it to my mouth. "Shalo."

    "Sir." The voice of the Klingon operations officer K'Rina. "I have a subspace call for you - priority."

    I look around. There is a wall screen nearby. "Patch it through to my current location."

    It takes a few seconds, but the screen clears, and a familiar face appears on it - sharp and feral, with skin the colour of old bronze, silvery eyes, and a prominent bony crest that holds back a mane of green hair. "We are at the QarS base," R'j Bl'k' says without preamble. "They are all dead. Poisoned, before we even arrived."

    I raise an eyebrow. "Poisoned?"

    "Their dome's air recycler was tampered with. A canister of alpha-furanizol, apparently rigged with a time delay. There were no survivors."

    I nod. "I know that poison. It is efficient."

    "S-s-s-s-s. We thought you might. We are studying the dome's records now, and interrogating the surviving members of the House Verga guardians."

    "With what results?"

    "As yet, nothing of consequence. The Verga and the QarS were not on good terms - there was no casual contact, no communication beyond payment of the fees House Verga demanded. S-s-s-s-s. The Verga had been guarding corpses for two days, all unknowing. They were notably unamused when I told them of this."

    I sigh. "It is a bad time to be an associate of the former House of QarS. Their cell on Qo'noS has been comprehensively obliterated. No survivors there, either. We are searching their devices, their records -"

    "As are we. The base's logs are heavily encrypted, but Rrueo is working hard to break the code. Her new ship's computer is being thoroughly tested. Also -" R'j hesitates. "It may be nothing. But while we were exploring the dome, the Skaldak picked up a transient warp signature on long-range sensors. It appears a ship passed through the fringes of this system, went sublight at least long enough for a sensor scan, and then departed."

    "Do we know what type of ship?"

    "We do not. There was no scheduled traffic, and Skaldak did not receive a transponder code. And the warp signature itself is - unfamiliar. Also, by the time we investigated, well degraded. But it was not a ship of any class we are familiar with."

    "Can you track it?"

    "Not with any certainty, no. The signature is too degraded for anything more than a general direction."

    "I see. Well. Did the Verga have any expectations of a visitor?"

    "I will inquire. The survivors are not highly placed, though, so they have little information. S-s-s-s-s. Their commanders seem to have had romantic notions about dying bravely in battle."

    I shake my head. "If they have gone to Sto'vo'kor, I cannot help - I have no contacts there. It seems all you can do is being done, then."

    "Yes. We will inform you of Rrueo's findings, as soon as she has any. S-s-s-s-s. I wonder over this. The QarS are no loss to the universe, but there are machinations behind this matter."

    "Quite. I will share whatever information I can glean - which, currently, is precious little. Garaka -" I wince, then smile ruefully. "Knobos out."

    The screen goes blank - and then instantly brightens again. The logo it displays is that of Imperial Intelligence. I respond instantly - it is unwise to do otherwise. "Shalo here."

    The logo is replaced by a stern, impassive face, grey-bearded, one-eyed. K'men, the head of Intelligence. "General Shalo," he says without preamble. "You make it your business to be informed about the Orion Syndicate. What do you know of Yeveus of Zorb?"

    "I know the name. One of D'ian's more... egregious... advisors. What has he done?"

    "He has died," says K'men. "Poisoned, we believe."

    "I see." I consider. "This is a great loss to manufacturers of intoxicants and some of the viler forms of pornography, but I do not see how it concerns me."

    "You do not know anyone who might have wished him poisoned?"

    "Only in the most general sense - people who disliked him, people who might profit by his removal. I am afraid that would make rather a long list."

    "No doubt." K'men is evidently not amused. "The Chancellor regards you as knowledgeable concerning Orion customs." His tone suggests that he cannot believe J'mpok is so foolish. "Is there any particular reason someone might have for, say, visiting indignities upon the corpse?"

    I think. "I cannot think of anything in particular. A corpse is a corpse, it cannot feel any - indignities. What has been done to Yeveus's body?"

    "That, we do not know." K'men frowns. "It was stolen from the morgue."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    "J'mpok is an old man," said Dillan.

    He was sitting with Sarv and another High Councillor, T'Khal, on the verandah outside Sarv's country house; the three of them contentedly sipping bloodwine after a heavy meal, watching the sun set through the heavy clouds to the west.

    "He has not lost his skill with a bat'leth," T'Khal observed. "Do you recall what happened to K'Tag? Or that Nausicaan, what was his name, Sgramash?"

    "K'Tag was old too," said Dillan. "And Sgramash was a Nausicaan dolt, prey for anyone who can handle a true blade. But, in any case, fighting skill is not everything. J'mpok is old. He has held the reins of power too long."

    "And who is to challenge him?" asked Sarv. "The House of Martok has bided its time so long, it has forgotten how to do anything else. Captain Ja'rod, now, he seemed plausible, for a time - the uncoverer of the qameH' quv, the hero of the Borg wars... but the Borg were beaten back, and the Undine, and then the Iconians, became J'mpok's wars. He took credit for them. He led the Empire, and the Empire still honours his leadership."

    "He is not unassailable," said Dillan. "His personal estates are nothing - the three of us could buy up his property in Pheben and not even notice the money. He must maintain a coalition of supporters on the High Council, or he would fall."

    "He had the support of the House of Torg," said T'Khal. "But, when they proved faithless, he discommendated them. And thus showed his own integrity. When J'mpok talks of Klingon honour, he means what he says. And he is respected for it."

    "I do not say that he is dishonourable, or that he is weak, or that he is cowardly," said Dillan. "I say only that he is old, and that his time is done."

    T'Khal shook his head. "The galaxy is still in turmoil. J'mpok has led us through difficult times, and, with more such yet to come, he is trusted to lead us still. He is... a safe pair of hands."

    Dillan drained the last of his bloodwine and stood. "The Empire did not become a major galactic power through safe pairs of hands," he snarled. He went to the vat and filled his mug again.

    "J'mpok leads the coalition of the High Council that ensures... stable government," said T'Khal. "We must have stable government. The Empire is too large, too complex, for internal disputes to be settled by honour duels between Councillors. Perhaps that should not be so - perhaps it is not Klingon tradition - but it is, nonetheless, a fact."

    Dillan returned to his seat. "Bureaucracies," he said with a sneer. "Bureaucracies are best left to the Federation."

    "They do well, with their bureaucracies," said T'Khal.

    "As do we, in a way," Sarv said. "Alliances. J'mpok has forged alliances - with the Gorn, with Slathis and S'taass; with the Orions and Melani D'ian. For them, he speaks for the Empire - and with them, the Empire is strong. I wonder...."

    "Wonder what?" demanded Dillan.

    "I wonder," said Sarv, "what... other alliances... might be forged. The Gorn are not always trusted, and everyone knows D'ian is wholly self-serving. Suppose someone made other alliances, spoke for the Empire to stronger friends than Slathis and D'ian?"

    "An interstellar power base, separate from J'mpok's? Where might such allies be found?" asked Dillan.

    "Well, the galaxy has grown larger, these days," said Sarv.

    "But J'mpok's alliances are backed by the High Council," T'Khal pointed out. "No matter how attractive your new aliens might be, many on the Council would vote to keep our existing ties with the Hegemony and the Syndicate."

    "Perhaps," said Sarv. "So we come back to the same issue. J'mpok's supporters in the Council must be persuaded to change their allegiance. I do not specify how this change might be effected... but it is desirable, I think. J'mpok is not a man, not when you consider him politically. He is the sum of his allies, a figurehead for a web of power." He gazed into his bloodwine mug, as if he saw some vision in it. "Perhaps it is time he was replaced by a more amenable figurehead."

    "But this simply magnifies the difficulties," said T'Khal. "We do not need merely to discredit J'mpok... we need - we would need - to tear down his allies, and he has many of those."

    "But that means, also, we would have many potential targets," said Sarv. "And once momentum started to build... once support started to shift away from J'mpok, it would shift faster and faster, as more of his supporters saw his weakness." He was still studying the surface of the bloodwine. "Perhaps we could start by making his agents look foolish."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Rrueo

    File after file scrolls across the screen before my eyes, until I begin to wonder if my vision will remain pixellated for life. They tell me little. We have interrogated the QarS computer network remorselessly, we have swept the dome and gathered up every datapad, every stray isolinear chip.

    We have the records of the former House of QarS. And they tell us surprisingly little.

    "Security," the human renegade Oschmann mutters, as she catalogues and files another data archive. "They must have implemented proper security. Damn them."

    "Our computer core can break their codes!" my exec K'Rokok snarls at her. There is still no love lost between those two. Sooner or later, they will kill each other, I am sure.

    "There's stuff which isn't stored on computers," Oschmann says. "Stuff, I'd guess, which was only stored in some people's heads. The raw data is there, and yes, our computer can crack it. But we'd need someone to provide a context for that data, and all the QarS -"

    "Are dead," I finish for her. "Rrueo fears you may be correct. Oh, our forensic teams will gather much information, there is no doubt of that. Enough to put an end to whatever remains of the QarS.... But Rrueo fears we will miss much that is essential."

    I turn and pace the deck of the huge, impractical bridge. Through panels of transparent aluminium, I can see the nameless planetoid turning, sluggishly, below the Skaldak. Down there are hundreds of corpses, felled by the poison gas... and some of them have taken secrets to their graves with them. Loresingers. The QarS still had their Loresingers, who could recite tales of the glory of the House... and what else might they have committed to their memories?

    As far as I know, their dealings with Kalevar Thrang were not recorded... and there is another detail which bothers me, too. The QarS were experienced - terrorists, dissidents, criminals, whatever one might want to call them. They were accustomed to the practice of security. Yet, somehow, they allowed someone to connect a canister of alpha-furanizol to their air supply. How was that managed?

    Questions without answers. I turn back towards the data displays.

    "Sir." The Gorn, Toriash, speaks from the comms console. "Signal from the Nuru-Or."

    "On screen." R'j is out of the system, hunting - no doubt uselessly - for the anomalous warp signature we detected. A slim lead, but all our leads are slim.

    Now, her face appears on the main screen. "Do you have news?" I ask.

    Her silvery eyes flicker. "Where - oh, there you are. S-s-s-s-s. Yes, that bridge is inconveniently large. We have a contact on sensors, inbound to your location."

    "Our mystery?"

    "No. Council identification - transponder reads IKS Gamak. They are heading your way at high speed. I thought you might appreciate forewarning."

    "Rrueo thanks you. Do you have any details as to what you warn Rrueo of?"

    R'j smiles. "High Council identification. Diplomatic privilege. I suspect we have drawn the attention of high-ranking bureacrats."

    I roll my eyes. "Rrueo will try to be polite. Do you have an ETA?"

    "At the rate they were going, very soon. Within minutes, I think. I will bring Nuru-Or back to the planetoid. This search is proving fruitless, and it might be as well for both of us to hear what the Council's functionary has to say. Nuru-Or out."

    The screen goes blank. I stroke my whiskers with one claw. "Well," I say, "it is as well to have warning... but Rrueo does not believe we have anything to hide from the High Council. Perhaps some trivial looting in the dome - but that is only to be expected." I shake my head. "Rrueo's conscience is clear. Rrueo must savour this moment - it is unlikely to come again soon."

    "Contact on long-range sensors," K'Rokok reports. "At the fringe of the system.... There. Dropping out of warp. Estimate rendezvous in thirty minutes."

    "Incoming hail," says Toriash.

    "On screen."

    The image that forms - I blink. It is a face the colour of ancient bronze, with strange silvery eyes, and a massive bony crest that holds back a mane of green hair - but it is a heavy-jawed masculine face, and the voice that whisper-rasps at me is a strange one. "Attention. I am -" the name is an interrupted slushy rustling noise, sounding something like V'l' R'st'l " - Magnate of the Nine Exalted Triskaidecagons, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom, Master of the Prygonian Chapter, Knight-Commander of the Necessary Schismatics of S'krr'j-h'ya, honorary General in the KDF, Commissioner of the High Council, aboard the IKS Gamak."

    "Rrueo-Captain, Rrueo-Thinker, aboard the IKS Skaldak," I reply. "How may we be of assistance?"

    "You are in orbit around a possession of the discommendated House of QarS," says R'st'l. "The High Council has an interest in the activities of these criminals. My orders are to carry out an investigation into their facility on the planetoid."

    "Then your purpose is also ours," I say. "We are already carrying out an investigation - we will gladly share our results with you -"

    "That would not be compatible with my orders," says R'st'l. "The Gamak is to land at the QarS base and take possession. Neither interference nor -" the whispering voice takes on an ironic tone "- assistance is to be permitted."

    I think. I must be careful, here. "Rrueo is acting under the express orders of the Chancellor," I say, "and she must be cautious that she does no less than her duty. It would be as well if you and Rrueo were to avoid situations where our duties might clash."

    "S-s-s-s-s. Do you refuse the orders of the High Council?"

    I must be very careful, it seems. But this is one of R'j's people, and I know they are sticklers for their rituals and their formalities. "Rrueo makes no refusal. Rrueo notes, however, that she must obey the orders of the Chancellor. Rrueo puts it to you that the High Council and the Chancellor should be in harmony - and so should you and Rrueo, as the officers of both."

    R'st'l seems to consider this. Again, it is fortunate that I know how to interpret Mlkwbrian facial expressions. "S-s-s-s-s," he says, at length. "You raise a valid point. Do your instructions, though, forbid me to land at the QarS base?"

    "No. Land as you wish," I say.

    "I am not supposed to permit any obstruction or molestation - any interference of any kind, in fact. Will you withdraw your forces from the facility?"

    "Rrueo has no pressing need to maintain control of it. Rrueo will issue orders for her search teams to beam up immediately, if amity requires it of her."

    "S-s-s-s-s. Yes," says R'st'l. "Yes, I think it does."

    ---

    "Well, it is no matter for Rrueo," I explain to R'j, later. "Not any more. We have all we need from the QarS base. Now, when your compatriot finds the base's records have already been gutted, he may require explanations - but Rrueo is happy enough to share those records with him. A trouble shared is a trouble halved - or, at least, a trouble passed on to the High Council's representative, and Rrueo will wish him joy of it."

    R'j paces across the middle tier of Skaldak's bridge. Her expression is pensive. Behind her face, her mind-tone is as ever, a bundle of dry sticks, ready to flare at a single spark of insight - or violence. "S-s-s-s-s," she says. Sometimes I wonder if the Mlkwbrians are related to teakettles. "I wonder at this."

    "If Rrueo were a cynic," I say, "she would think that someone on the High Council was trying to gain some share of glory from this investigation, or trying to cover up some illicit entanglement with the QarS, or possibly seeking personal profit from some venture on the side. If Rrueo were a cynic. Of course, it is possible that the High Council is genuinely concerned to expose and capture Kalevar Thrang, and is setting out to help us -"

    "Oh, any number of things are possible," R'j says sourly. She looks over the edge of the deck. "You have still not eaten those targs."

    "Rrueo is still not that hungry. Do you have any insights to offer? This Commissioner R'st'l is one of yours - perhaps you and he can have a quiet chat about how the Grand Maelstrom is getting along, these days."

    "He is of the Nine Exalted Triskaidecagons," says R'j, "he is not to be trusted. Do you recall that I told you, once, the seven permitted circumstances in which I may utter untruths? He has nine permitted circumstances."

    "Rrueo sees...." Actually, I do not. I think. "So... is it one permitted circumstance for each... polygon?"

    "That is not the point," R'j snaps at me. "The point is that a man who wears the three-cornered hhh-dr'ka is not to be trusted." She waves her hand angrily at the air. "I have no comparable reference points in your culture. But a man with his - combination - of influences and interests... is most likely a politician and an equivocator."

    "He must be honourable enough to rise to a commissioner's post with the High Council," I protest.

    "The High Council is made up of politicians," says R'j. "Oh, I have no doubt that some of them are honest - Klingons value that. But they are all self-interested, and it is not always clear where their interests lie. Even to them." She mutters something under her breath. Sparks are flying in her mind.

    "What is bothering you?" I ask directly.

    "This seems too... too limited, for the High Council's involvement," R'j says.

    "A Commissioner sent with sweeping authority?" I am puzzled. "This is insufficient, in your eyes?"

    "A Commissioner, yes. But - s-s-s-s-s." R'j pulls a face. "My species is... not highly ranked, nor highly regarded. A serious investigation would surely be headed by a member of a majority species - most likely a Klingon, and one with family influence. And the Gamak is a single Bird of Prey...."

    "Well, perhaps they want a small, landing-capable ship, so they can take it directly to the dome," I suggest.

    "S-s-s-s-s. Perhaps."

    "And this R'st'l might not be so inconsiderable as all that. You are a single Mlkwbrian with a Bird of Prey. Perhaps he is as capable as you."

    "Perhaps." R'j's mood seems to lighten a little. "You are flattering me. Do you wish to borrow money?"

    "Never at your rates." I look pensively out at the planetoid. Night has fallen over the QarS base, over R'st'l's ship, sitting beside it, over the mysterious Commissioner himself -

    My eyes widen. Suddenly, there is a star shining, bright and vivid, on the dark side of the planetoid. It burns brightly for but a moment, then dims and winks out.

    I turn and leap across the bridge to the nearest science console. Behind me, R'j utters some stuttering noises that suggest surprise.

    "Scan the QarS base!" I demand. "What is the status of the Gamak?"

    "Working." Toriash, at another console - his eyes widen. I am seeing the same thing myself. "Explosion," the Gorn continues. "Consistent with... a core breach. Both the ship and the base - totally destroyed."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    R'j

    I settle the breath mask in place, and step out of Nuru-Or's airlock, onto the ravaged rock of the planetoid.

    A core breach in a grounded ship leaves... consequences. The ridge on which the Gamak landed is simply gone, replaced by a crater nearly half a kellicam across. Smoke is still rising from the centre - the ground has stopped glowing, but it is still too hot to approach. Ejecta has been scattered over a wide area; that, and the initial blast wave, demolished the QarS dome. There is significant radioactive fallout, but my personal shield - and the breath mask, another trophy from the Vaadwaur - will suffice to protect me.

    Science teams from the Skaldak are busily assessing the damage, salvaging whatever remains to be salvaged - which, I suspect, will be precious little. My crew has orders to assist them if needed. We will need, I think, to present a very complete report on this to the High Council.

    I am not here to help them, though. I have my own ends in view. I lope easily over the rocky ground, moving swiftly in the low gravity. And my eyes are on a scorched and battered form, almost blending into the landscape - the wreck of a Toron-class shuttlecraft, one of those left abandoned on the landing pad. Now, it is some distance from the pad.

    It could, of course, have been thrown there by the blast wave... but I would expect the shuttle to be much more heavily damaged, even torn apart, if that were the case. Explosions are never entirely predictable, I know... this might be some mere chance, some freak of the blast.... Or it might be what I think it is.

    I check my tricorder as I approach the shuttle. It is what I think it is.

    The access hatch has lost power, but the hydraulics are intact; I crank it open. The interior is dimly lit by a few surviving emergency lights.

    "In the name of the Protecting Powers and the Auspicious Dawning, I ask permission to enter," I say in my own language.

    A faint wheezing noise answers me, and then a weak voice. "Enter and be welcome."

    I step inside the shuttle. My eyes adjust to the dimness, and I can see him lying among the wreckage. "Your life signs were only detectable from very close by," I say.

    V'l' R'st'l chuckles without mirth. "So they should be," he says. "I am dead, Bl'k. The Grey Dragon ascends to take me even now, I hear the beating of its wings."

    I take a step forward. "There is nothing that can be done?"

    "I am impaled on a broken stanchion. It passes between my inferior pancreas and my transverse aorta. One or both would rupture if I were to be moved. Even if I survived that, I have been exposed to so much radiation... you could drown me in hyronaline, and it would not be enough."

    He makes no mention of his other injuries - lacerations, broken bones. His headcrest is fractured, one side broken away completely; he will never wear the three-cornered hhh-dr'ka again, that is certain. His eyes move, surveying me. I think for a moment, then take off the Vaadwaur mask.

    He smiles. "Yes," he says, "it is good to see one of my own people... now, at the last."

    "Do you suffer?" I ask. "The Grey Dragon may be called more swiftly, if you desire it. It and I are... old friends."

    "No," says R'st'l, "no, let me have the minutes that remain. They will not be particularly comfortable, true, but I would have them."

    "As you wish."

    "So," he says, "what made you think of me?"

    "The shuttle is in the wrong position. Oh, it might have been flung here by the blast... but it was more consistent, in my opinion, with someone taking it, attempting to flee, but failing to reach minimum safe distance before the core breach. What warning did you have?"

    "Not enough. A report from my engineer concerning fluctuating readings - it might have seemed nothing, but one develops an instinct, over time. I made for a shuttle at once, but lost precious seconds overriding its security.... You look scandalized. Of course, you are a warrior, you would have thought first of alerting your comrades in arms, of saving their lives - I am a politician, I do not have comrades in arms." He coughs, and blood dribbles from his lips. "Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri. Do you have a dispensation?"

    "No. I am celibate."

    "A pity."

    One of his eyes is moving, looking me up and down. I regard him coldly. "If you were not dead," I say, "I might kill you for that."

    "But I am dead, and a dead man may speak freely." He coughs again, and there is more blood. Some is seeping from the ancillary breathing tubules along his jawline, too.

    "Do you wish to speak freely of why you are dead?" I ask.

    "I wish I knew. Oh, I suspect certain things, but I can be sure of little. There are younger members of the High Council, and they are impatient for change. They arranged for me to be sent on this mission... it is not impossible that they arranged other matters, too. I had thought that I was too valuable an instrument to be sacrificed in this fashion... but I am not Klingon, and Klingons see me as a tool, only. To be used as required - and, it seems, to be broken at need." His gaze fixes on my face. "The same is true of you. Never forget that."

    "I will not."

    "You should not. The death of a High Council agent in your presence - that will require explanations, and you may find that no explanations are sufficient. Even though you are innocent. Innocence counts for very little in Klingon politics."

    "But you have no specific information," I say.

    "I have not. My personal communicator may have recorded the final message from my engineer. Or it may have been wiped by the electromagnetic pulse from the core breach. It may be enough to demonstrate that you were not involved. Or it may not. I can make no promises."

    Talking is weakening him. "You can keep no promises," I say.

    "This much is true. Will you stay to the end? I will not delay you excessively."

    "I will stay. Do you desire a sutra? I may recite one."

    He nods. It evidently hurts him. "Do you know the Waters of Life?"

    "I do." I clear my mind, and begin the recitation. So often, when I recite, it is simply a noise to those near me; it is good to be understood for once.

    "The Waters of Life fall from the sky,
    or rise from out of the ground.
    From small beginnings they grow to a stream, to a river,
    making their own path across the parched ground.
    They may gather in still pools,
    or rush in spates and torrents.
    They may nourish gardens and orchards and the fertile fields,
    or they may dash buildings asunder and drown armies beneath their waves.
    They take their own path, long or short,
    tranquil or raging,
    across the lands of history.
    But all their paths come to one ending,
    as they wend their way down to the sea,
    to the great Ocean of Being, whence everything comes,
    where everything returns.
    "

    By the time I reach the end, his breathing has ceased. I do not close his eyes. My people go to the afterlife with their eyes open and unafraid. I put the breath mask back in place, and go out, to make my report.
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    "Geterian. Welcome."

    The heavy-bodied man with the mottled grey face blinked and looked up at the speaker. He took a step forward, and his movement was slow, nervous, uncertain. He blinked. One hand went to his head, feeling the high, domed, near-conical form of his skull, as if he could not quite believe it was shaped like that.

    Jhey'quar strode down the ramp to the lower level of the Ostigon's bridge, holding out a hand to the man he had called Geterian. After a moment of blinking and bemusement, the other took it.

    "You are still newborn," said Jhey'quar. He was tall and burly, and his deep voice carried calm assurance with it. "Confusion - we all knew confusion, at the first. It will pass."

    "They showed me records," the man called Geterian said. "Images and - data. I am...." He touched his long skull again. "I am confused."

    "There is much to assimilate," said Jhey'quar. "The first thing you must know, though, is that you are among those who love and value you."

    "Yes," said Geterian. "Yes... I do know this.... This is part of my confusion. I know many things, and I do not know how I know them."

    "Your brain is complex, and it is adapted for the rapid retention and assimilation of ideas," said Jhey'quar. "Birth is a frightening and confusing time for all of us, my friend. The thing to do is to find certainties, and hold on to them."

    Geterian swallowed hard, nodded slowly. "So... what certainties can you offer me?"

    "Your people are the Kobali," said Jhey'quar. "You are Kobali. First and foremost, you must remember that. I am Jhey'quar; you may regard me as your father. You are aboard my ship, the Ostigon."

    "A starship," said Geterian, and turned his head, looking from side to side across the bridge. "A starship. One of ours... Samsar class?"

    "Very good," said Jhey'quar. "Yes, one of our finest."

    "I have... been shown images," said Geterian. "But one thing puzzles me. Images... the images show Kobali - our - starships, our military. But they are dressed in greys and browns - the uniforms...."

    "Yes," said Jhey'quar. "Most Kobali military are as you describe them. But we are a special unit, with a somewhat special ship, and we wear -" He touched the sleeve of his black uniform. "As you see. We wear the colour of austerity, of self-abnegation, and of decision. We are a definite presence in the galaxy, my son."

    "I... see." Geterian looked, long and hard, at the man who called himself his father. "So... what is my purpose? Will I too wear this uniform? What am I to do with - with my life?"

    "For the time being," said Jhey'quar, "you will learn, you will serve on this ship. For the time being. Once you are fully educated, once you have completely come to yourself as a Kobali - then, we will discuss your choices. You will have choices, my son. You will not be compelled into anything against your will. For now, though, you are among us, and you must learn among us. I will assign you to a mentor who will guide you in basic duties." He pointed. "Hanchon Lilitsia." The Kobali woman looked up from the operations console. "She will instruct you in basic ship operations, and you will learn how to help her."

    "It will be my honour," said Lilitsia. She was slim and sharp-featured, her voice high-pitched. Geterian looked at her, then at Jhey'quar.

    "You are... not much alike," he said. "Are you... am I... was I...."

    "We are alike in what matters," said Jhey'quar. "Focus on that. We are Kobali. Whatever we may have been... is no longer important."

    His hand went, apparently unconsciously, to the side of his thick neck, where a vertical seam was visible, as if a thick fold of flesh had shrivelled and atrophied there, once.

    "I... will remember," said Geterian. "I will learn."

    "Of course." Jhey'quar smiled. "Let me show you -"

    "Sir." Another black-clad Kobali was standing, now, at the communications console. "I have an incoming message on channel X."

    Jhey'quar scowled. "I must attend to this," he said. "Lilitsia, please perform the introductory orientation." He put his hand on Geterian's shoulder. "We will speak again."

    Geterian nodded. "You have... duties. I understand this."

    Jhey'quar strode up the ramp to the upper level of the bridge. "Show me," he ordered the comms officer.

    "Here." The officer touched his console, and a screen glowed into life. "Privacy control - here," he added, indicating another control.

    "I understand," Jhey'quar grunted, and sat down at the console. He touched the control, and the sounds of the bridge turned dim and muffled as the sonic damping field switched on. "What do you want?" he asked.

    "Nice to see you, too, General." Kalevar Thrang's face grinned out of the small screen. "Just checking to see how things are going."

    "How things are going?" Jhey'quar repeated, heavily. "Things are unaccountably still spaceborne, Thrang. Your efforts to provide us with a colony world - and a markedly ill-favoured one, I note - seem to have miscarried."

    "Yes, right." Thrang appeared completely unruffled. "Things don't always go to plan, General - you know that, I'm sure. There was a foul-up on Qo'noS and the High Council were alerted to the QarS situation. Pity, really. That planetoid would've made a good starter home for your people -"

    "It is barely habitable, Thrang!"

    "- and I could have made good use of those little toys of theirs, too. Still, never mind. Water under the bridge. Unless the High Council investigators picked up on your ship?"

    "They will have noticed our warp contrail, certainly. But with the modifications to our engines, they will not be able to track or identify us." Jhey'quar narrowed his eyes. "That part of your planning, I admit, has worked thus far."

    "Of course it has. I never claimed to be perfect, General, and there are things outside my control. But I know how to adapt. And I think you're going to find your next destination even better than the QarS planetoid."

    Jhey'quar glared. "It could hardly be worse. Do you mean to say that you have a plan, Thrang?"

    Thrang laughed. "I always have a plan, General. I'm transmitting the coordinates of your new home now. Check your data channel."

    Jhey'quar glanced at the other console readouts. "I am receiving. This had better meet our requirements, this time."

    "It meets mine, General, and yours are a part of mine. Keeping you and your people happy is a major concern of mine. This is a class M moon, nice and handy for your new allies... currently occupied by your new enemies, of course."

    Jhey'quar glared. "My people do not need new enemies, Thrang."

    "Nobody needs enemies, General, but everybody's got them. The trick is to pick the right ones. The really neat trick is to pick ones nobody else likes either. That's one of the things you need me for."

    "Your vaunted local knowledge has not yet served us well, for all your promises."

    "Early days, General, early days. Besides, where else are you going to find my sort of assistance, at such a low price?"

    Jhey'quar's glare intensified. "I know your price, Thrang." With a contemptuous gesture, he cut the channel.
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  • cheshirecat#6232 cheshirecat Member Posts: 27 Arc User
    he cut the channel

    For reasons I'm not quite sure of, this triggered my remembering the opening line of "Neuromancer": "The sky above the port was the color of TV tuned to a dead channel."

    And to paraphrase a line from Steve McQueen's "Le Mans": "Reading Shevet's fanfiction is life. Anything before and after is just waiting."

    Please don't ever stop writing, Shevet.
  • jonsillsjonsills Member Posts: 10,354 Arc User
    For reasons I'm not quite sure of, this triggered my remembering the opening line of "Neuromancer": "The sky above the port was the color of TV tuned to a dead channel."
    Of course, with modern TVs that evokes something different - Gibson was going for a sort of grainy gray, while a current TV tuned to a dead channel will usually display a brilliant blue... :smile:​​
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  • dalolorndalolorn Member Posts: 3,655 Arc User
    And to paraphrase a line from Steve McQueen's "Le Mans": "Reading Shevet's fanfiction is life. Anything before and after is just waiting."

    Please don't ever stop writing, Shevet.

    *nods*

    You should take a look at all the threads he's started, even the non-story ones. It was... quite rewarding. :smile:
    jonsills wrote: »
    For reasons I'm not quite sure of, this triggered my remembering the opening line of "Neuromancer": "The sky above the port was the color of TV tuned to a dead channel."
    Of course, with modern TVs that evokes something different - Gibson was going for a sort of grainy gray, while a current TV tuned to a dead channel will usually display a brilliant blue... :smile:​​

    Technology marches on, I suppose. :tongue:

    Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.p3OEBPD6HU3QI.jpg
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    The transparent bubble cockpit of the mining pod was insulated against the heat, but Tharval flinched away from the sight before him; the steaming, smoking basalt surface, turning from black to red to sun-bright yellow-white as the laser drill stabbed into it. Beside him, in the operations seat, Kalevar Thrang stroked the control console with meticulous care.

    "Nearly there. There's an updraft coming - hold her steady."

    Tharval's hands were on the pod's flight controls; he flicked at a slider, boosting the inertial dampers. The flight stick trembled in his other hand, and he steadied the little ship. Beneath them, smoke belched and billowed from the hole Thrang was cutting.

    "Confirmation." Thrang smiled. "Deploying charge now." The pod shivered again as the silvery cylinder detached from its undercarriage, floated down on a tractor beam, and descended into the hole. "Timer set, telemetry is nominal. Heat shields are holding - which is just as well for us!"

    "I would prefer, I admit, not to be quite so close to an antimatter explosion," Tharval remarked. He turned his gaze to another readout. "Scans are clear. No local traffic."

    "I wasn't expecting any. It's not a terribly interesting volcano, after all. One hundred metres... seventy-five... fifty... twenty-five... slowing, now... ten... five... and down. All done."

    Tharval pulled back on the flight stick, and opened the throttle, sending the pod up and out of the volcano's mouth. Around them, on the walls of the crater, he could see the bulky, rounded shapes of the other part of their cargo, the packages now securely attached to the rock face. "Engaging visual camouflage," Thrang said, and touched a control. The packages wavered and blurred, vanishing into the rock walls as their holo-emitters engaged.

    "Traffic scan is still clear," Tharval said.

    "Well," said Thrang, "the only thing to worry about was some probing overflight from the Grand Imperium, and that wasn't very likely. Set course back to the ship, and engage the autopilot. We can relax for a while."

    Tharval grunted. He punched commands into the flight console. "It puzzles me," he said, "where you find the money for all this, Thrang."

    "Oh, I have my resources. All perfectly legitimate, too - though under different names, of course. I've got quite a little network of patents, licensed intellectual property - I could live pretty comfortably, if I was inclined to settle for that."

    "But you are not."

    "Of course not." Thrang eyed his companion carefully. "Problems, Tharval? Regrets? Are you unhappy at the way we're treating your people?"

    "They are not my people. They made that quite plain." Bitterness edged the Lethean's voice. "I was one of the architects of the alliance between the Letheans and the Klingons - oh, you will not find my name in any history books, but it is a fact for all that. Enough of my people thought that a betrayal - I had to go to live among the Klingons - and then - well, you know what happened then."

    "So. No regrets."

    "Only that it is not more of them." Tharval glared towards the eastern horizon, where the Lethean colony buildings made a smudge of grey against the green of vegetation.

    "Well, it's enough for the present," said Thrang. "Convenient of them to gather in one bunch like that, of course."

    "Standard Imperial colonization doctrine. Begin from a single defensible location. A Federation colony would be different, would operate from multiple, dispersed nodes around terraforming stations or resource-gathering centres -"

    "Not all of them. Federation colonies are very diverse. Like our new neighbours, in fact."

    Tharval snorted. "The Grand Imperium," he said with contempt.

    "The Federation lets them have their self-determination. Even to the extent of letting them out of the Federation altogether. There were dozens of these little protest groups, back in the twenty-third century - remember Doctor Sevrin and his little coterie?"

    "I do not." The sky was fading from blue to black, now, as the pod climbed out of the atmosphere and into space. Tharval checked the scanners again. Theirs was still the only craft in the area.

    "Well, those idealists wouldn't really have met my needs in any case. But the Grand Imperium, now, that has possibilities."

    "One world. One thinly populated colony with a delusional ruler and a social structure notable for its absurdity. I fail to see what you can make of that, Thrang."

    "Symbolism, Tharval. Symbols are important. Our main target is the Klingons, after all, and symbols matter to Klingons. The symbolism of the Grand Imperium and its ruler... I can use that."

    "Klingons are not so foolish as to confuse the symbol and the reality," said Tharval. Thrang's ship was visible, now - a squat, compact assemblage of curves in a roughly triangular configuration. A Nihydron destroyer, Thrang had said; something from the Delta Quadrant. Like the Kobali....

    "Symbols can be manipulated, my friend," said Thrang. "And it can be a neat conjuring trick, to swap the symbol for the reality. You just have to choose the right moment, and be... adroit."

    "You will need to be more than adroit to best J'mpok," said Tharval.

    "J'mpok needs a fair amount of adroitness to keep his own allies," said Thrang. "The Nausicaans, the Orions, your people... none of them exactly improves on long acquaintance. So, if our friends on the High Council offer more interesting alliances...."

    "Alliances with whom?"

    "The Grand Imperials are human, Tharval. That's symbolism right there - the old adversary recruited into the Klingon way of life, fighting at the Empire's side. And a solid alliance with a Delta Quadrant power, too - that's important." Thrang looked at a data readout. "And when the prevailing winds are in the right direction, over that crater... and the charges blow... and our little extras get mixed in with the volcanic ash... why, then, we'll have the makings of a Kobali colony, right here. Prevailing winds will be right in six hours and fifty-three minutes. God bless precision weather control."

    "You assume much. You assume your tame Kobali general will be able to deliver a practical agreement with his own government. And you assume the Grand Imperium will cooperate with your plans -"

    "Jhey'quar will present the Kobali government with a fait accompli, and they'll go along with it. They are nothing if not pragmatists. As for the Grand Imperium -" Thrang grinned. "The clone of Kahless died nobly in battle, right? The Grand Emperor is well aware of that. And the Grand Emperor can spot a job vacancy when he sees one."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Shalo

    The bar does not advertise itself. It is a featureless block of concrete, one of many such in the poorer quarter of First City. There is a crude depiction of a targ on the lintel of the door, and that is all. I step inside and stop for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting.

    The clientele are... the dregs of the Empire, as one might expect. Klingons in worn leathers, Orions in... very little, for both sexes. A couple of Nausicaans, engaged in what seems to be a drinking competition; at least one Lethean, lurking in the darkest corners; a scattering of less identifiable species. The bartender, behind a high counter at the end of the room, appears to be an Orion hybrid of some kind. Exactly what kind, I would probably prefer not to know.

    I walk up to the bar; I waste no effort in sauntering or otherwise trying to appear casual. I reach into the cargo pocket of the bulky spacers' coveralls I am wearing - bulky, because they conceal Omega Force standard battle armour beneath them. The bartender watches me impassively.

    "Saurian brandy." I put two items down on the counter. One is a square of card, blank except for a symbol - a monogram composed of tlHingan Hol characters. The other is a thousand-darsek note. The bartender's jet-black eyes widen only a little as he sweeps them both into his hand. He draws a long-necked, curving bottle from behind the bar, and pours my drink.

    I sip it. It is actual Saurian brandy. I suppose that is something.

    I take a seat on a stool and lean against the bar. The House symbol of the QarS should get attention, and the money sends its own message. I will see, soon enough, if the QarS will speak to me - if the Council police left any of them alive to talk.

    A drunken Klingon comes up to me with... certain suggestions. I say nothing, only gaze at him coldly. Eventually, he goes away.

    In the meantime, the bartender has vanished briefly through a back door, returned, and given me a dubious look. I hope he has been in touch with the QarS. This should be the right place to go - but the QarS are in disarray, at the moment -

    "Shalo," a hoarse voice says behind me. I turn.

    Two Klingons are standing behind me. They wear the rough leathers of workmen, but there are bulges of weapons at their hips, their shoulders. Both are bearded, with close-cropped hair, not the more common Klingon manes. One stares at me with hot, dark eyes. The other bares his teeth and says, in that hoarse voice, "I am right, am I not?"

    "You are," I say. I slide off the bar stool and stand before them. "And I have the honour of addressing - ?"

    "If you address us," the hoarse one says, "you lose all honour." The other gives a disquieting chuckle.

    "Honour must, on occasion, give place to practicality," I say, "and it is practical matters that I wish to discuss."

    "Oh, yes," says the hoarse one. "Practical matters." He points towards the doorway. "Walk with us, and we will talk."

    "I will make a counter-proposal," I say. I pick up the glass from the bar. "The brandy here is... adequate. Stay and drink with me, and we will talk."

    "Not here." Perhaps he is hoarse because he does all the talking; his companion does not speak. "Too many ears. Walk with us."

    I have body armour, concealed weapons, tracking devices... some other little surprises, too. If things turn violent, I can cope. Probably. Though I prefer not to take foolish risks... if I terminate this interview now, I gain nothing for my troubles. "Very well. Do we walk far?"

    "No, not far."

    But the silent one has a nasty-looking smile on his face. Well, I must see what transpires. "Very well. Lead the way."

    And the three of us walk out of the bar. I am careful to keep to the rear, to keep the backs of my - companions - very much in view. And they, it seems, are content to let me. We thread our way through a maze of alleys, moving briskly and with evident purpose in our stride. No one challenges or confronts us.

    "I hope this will not take excessively long," I say to the hoarse one. "I have many duties to attend to."

    "It will not be much longer now," he answers. The other one gives another unpleasant chuckle.

    We cross an empty space - an abandoned construction site, I think - and a building looms up before us; square, undecorated, with broken windows and its concrete facade scarred by weapons fire. I raise one eyebrow. "You are still meeting here?" After the raid by the High Council's police, this particular QarS rendezvous should, surely, have been abandoned.

    "Not usually. But today it is suitable." The hoarse one goes to where the doors were, before the Council troops blasted them off their hinges. "Inside," he says.

    It does not look inviting. It is dark, but not so dark that I cannot see patches of dried blood on the concrete floor, more scars of disruptor fire on the walls. Not so dark, too, that I cannot make out flashes of movement, deep in the shadows. It could be vermin, of course... but it is more likely to be other members of the QarS. So, still vermin, but vermin with disruptors.

    My two - hosts - lead the way inside. A cargo crate has been positioned by one scarred wall; the hoarse one makes his way to it, clambers up on it, stands as if poised to make a speech. I slip one hand into a pocket of my coveralls.

    "Daggers of QarS!" the hoarse one shouts, and there is a rustling and a whispering all about, as figures step out of the shadows. At least a dozen of them, and it is too much to expect that they should be unarmed. My fingers clasp the cold shape of my disruptor. It may well not be enough.

    "We are honoured," the rasping voice drips sarcasm, "by the visit of the Chancellor's emissary today, General Shalo of the House of Sinoom. Oh, yes," he turns to me, "we know who you are."

    "I have not sought to conceal it," I say. "I sought a meeting because -"

    "We do not need to know," he interrupts. "The Chancellor has sent one of his lackeys to speak to us! Not even a Klingon! What shall we do with her?"

    There are shouts from around the room - suggestions. None of them appeals to me.

    "We will show the Chancellor what we think of his emissary! We will have retribution for our kinsmen who died, here, on this spot!" The other one, his companion, is laughing loudly now. The hoarse one glares down at me. "We have disabled your tracking devices, General! A score of our people died here - there is only one of you, so we will have to kill you a score of times over!" He leaps down from the crate, and there is a knife in his hand. "Do not fear," he sneers, "we will leave you in a fit state to be identified. They can do wonders, these days, with DNA scans."

    Movement on all sides of me, now. I try to gauge where the first shot, the first blow will come from, but there are too many of them. I pull the disruptor out of my pocket. The laughing one has a weapon in his hands now, a Ferengi energy whip, crackling with blue fire. His laughter is a demoniac bellow -

    Then there is a flare of sick green light, and he explodes.

    I dive to one side, fire at the hoarse one. The bolt from my gun splashes off a personal shield. But there are other guns firing, now, too - heavy assault disruptors, from somewhere outside the building, and slicing lines of killing light from attack drones. The QarS are firing back, but they seem surprised, uncoordinated - they are falling -

    I shoot one lurker through the head, then charge the hoarse-voiced spokesman. He roars an inarticulate challenge. The knife is in his right hand, there is a gun in his left - I drop-kick him in the chest before he can shoot, and he stumbles backwards, collides with the cargo crate, and falls. I am back on my feet and on him in an instant. Disruptor light flashes green about me - I do not know who is shooting at whom, but there are screams, and the smell of burned concrete and burned flesh.

    He has dropped his gun. He still has the knife. I seize his arm with my free hand. At this range, my own disruptor beams would reflect back and incinerate me before I burned through his shield, so I let go of my gun, grab his knife arm with both hands, and twist. He is strong. We roll across the floor, writhing and struggling, his face a mask of fury. He is very strong. Desperation makes me stronger, and I force his hand back, back and down, until with a last convulsive effort I drive his blade into his own throat. Blood wells out of his mouth along with his curses as he dies.

    The firing seems to be dying down too. I shelter behind the crate, and risk a peek over the top.

    Flames and glare, burning bodies, a bright light shining through the open doorway, and figures moving through it - mercenary troops in armour, with heavy assault guns, advancing into the building to gun down the remaining QarS. All save one, who stands there, silhouetted against the light - there is a pistol held negligently in one hand, but she is clad only in the silks and jewels of a high-ranking Matron.

    "General Shalo," says Melani D'ian. "Are you comfortable down there?"

    ---

    "The Daggers of QarS are not disposed to be reasonable." D'ian sits down on the cargo crate as if it is a royal throne. "They have lost too much. It was only to be expected that they would take the opportunity for vengeance."

    "I am the Chancellor's agent," I say, "not the Council's."

    "A distinction without a difference, in their minds," says D'ian. "Yes, you are J'mpok's agent - you provide him with Orion perspectives, untainted by the views of the Syndicate. How many more such advisors does he have, I wonder?"

    "Only J'mpok could tell you that," I say with a shrug. "It would be foolish to assume I am the only one."

    "No doubt. Well, J'mpok will have his little ways, and I see no harm in indulging him." In the middle distance, there is shouting and the sound of disruptor fire. "I think my troops are finishing the last of them."

    "It would be helpful," I say, "to have one or two alive, for questioning."

    The head of the Orion Syndicate, the queen of Orion space - and the author of my House's ruin - smiles a dazzling smile. "You may question me," she says. "Very little happens in First City without coming to my notice. The movements of an investigating General, for instance.... And you and I, General, are on the same side, today."

    "Perhaps," I say. "Today."

    D'ian frowns. "I do hope you are not going to be unreasonable. The QarS were unreasonable, and look what has happened to them. I fear you would not have learned much, in any event. Their dealings with Kalevar Thrang were purely mercenary - he sold them what they wanted, that is all."

    "A compact power source for their assassin drones," I say. "It seems a curiously limited transaction, from Thrang's point of view. His ambitions were - imperial."

    "I have no doubt they still are," says D'ian. "He gained the confidence of the QarS, provided their materials, promised them - so I am told - a return to honour for their House. He gained their trust, General. Then he murdered them."

    "He had access to their facilities? He planted the poison in their base?"

    "So far as I can ascertain, from my remaining contacts with the QarS and the House of Verga. The question, of course, is why? Oh, I grant you that the QarS are no loss to the galaxy, but Thrang does not act gratuitously. He has some end in view."

    I sit down on the crate, beside my enemy. "Something that requires the destruction of the QarS? That would not suffice to buy him into favour in the Empire, and I cannot imagine what other end it might serve. It is not as if he had any use for the bodies, after all."

    "Quite. Though you may underestimate Thrang's ability to ingratiate himself.... You are highly placed enough to know of Thrang's involvement in the affair of the Rehanissen Archive and the aborted attack on Gimel Vessaris. The average Klingon in the street, or even in the Council hall, is... not informed of these things. Kalevar Thrang is a discreet enemy." D'ian looks away for a moment. "Possibly also an even more discreet friend, to some. His Gorn and Nausicaan tools died in that affair, but I am convinced they were not his only tools."

    "Thrang retains some friends on the High Council? It would explain the Council's ham-fisted behaviour to date, I suppose." The QarS, being dead, cannot testify to Thrang's criminal acts - and it was either Thrang, or the Council police, who killed them.

    "It would take a considerable upheaval on the High Council," says D'ian, "for Thrang to become... acceptable... within the Empire. But such upheavals have happened before." She turns her lustrous eyes on me. "You understand the implications, I think."

    "I believe so." I will not be beguiled.

    "For a new power structure to arise, the old one must fall. J'mpok would have to fall. And his agents, and his allies, would fall with him. Now do you understand why you and I are on the same side?" Icy conviction laces her voice. "I do not mean to fall."

    I look at her, at this imperious beauty who has made my people... whatever they are, today. It would be better if she did fall - but how many would fall with her?

    "I am of the House of Sinoom," I say. "I am not your friend."

    She says nothing, but raises one exquisite eyebrow.

    "But I am not a fool. Kalevar Thrang is a plausible madman. If he gains power, he will bring the Empire and perhaps the galaxy to ruin. I will not set up a greater evil to replace a lesser - no matter how much, personally, I may despise the lesser. You may have my cooperation in the matter of Kalevar Thrang."

    "Wise of you," says D'ian. "And I hope you will come to appreciate, some day, the wisdom of letting go of an outmoded attachment. The House of Sinoom is gone, General."

    I lean towards her. "I am still your enemy," I tell her, "and, someday, I will make you eat those words - along with your own liver."

    She purses her lips. "You have been associating with J'mpok for too long. He, too, has offered to feed me my own organs.... Well. I have many enemies, General, and you would have to stand in line and wait your turn. Kalevar Thrang is among those enemies. Destroy him, and -" she smiles, now "- you may have his place in the line."
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  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    I do enjoy your Orions. It's probably a worrying sign when the bad guys seem to have more stable relationships than the good guys, right?
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

    My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Rrueo

    "You were supposed to bring an auxiliary," the dockmaster snarls at me.

    I glance back over my shoulder, looking at the Hoh'SuS; it nearly fills the station's shuttle bay. "Rrueo did bring an auxiliary. If you were watching, you would have seen it undock from Rrueo's ship. Never mind. Where is the person Rrueo is to meet?"

    The Klingon dockmaster scowls. "Through the main accessway. The concourse." He directs me with a jerk of the head. Well, we could scarcely expect to be popular, here. I stride off towards the arched doorway indicated, with K'Rokok and Toriash behind me. K'Rokok's hand is on his disruptor pistol; Toriash has polished his massive Gorn claws. As bodyguards, they look... acceptably fearsome.

    The doors slide open at my approach, revealing a short passage with dim red lighting - perhaps a little dimmer than one might expect. And there is a prickling sensation, as if my fur is rising - and it is not from nervous excitement, I think. There is a static charge in the air. This station's EPS system is overdue for maintenance, it appears.

    The doors at the other end of the passage open, to disclose a large empty space - the concourse, evidently, of which the dockmaster spoke. It should be a busy place, I think, bustling with activity. But it is a long time since there was bustling at this station.

    There is a deputation there to meet us, though. A half dozen warriors in worn spacers' leathers, and in front of them, a burly Klingon with iron-grey hair and beard. He is wearing a floor-length leather coat with an impressive array of decorations on the wide lapels, and his expression is sour. He steps forward as we approach.

    "I am Kudak, gin'tak to the House of Verga," he says. "You have requested an audience. Speak. And be brief."

    "Rrueo-Captain, Rrueo-Thinker, owner-master of the IKS Skaldak," I say. "Rrueo will be brief. We require records - sensor logs, comms recordings - of your protection and service contract in the system LTX-3192."

    "That is commercially sensitive information, and restricted to our House," says Kudak. His expression is not lightening.

    "This is a matter of importance. Rrueo and her associates are acting on the personal instruction of the Chancellor. A known criminal, one wanted at the highest levels of the Empire, has had dealings with the... inhabitants... of that system. Rrueo must inspect whatever records you have, in order to establish the nature of those dealings. They may prove informative - or they may not, but Rrueo will not know, either way, until she has studied them."

    "You and your associates," Kudak spits out the words, "were responsible for the termination of that contract."

    "And we have recovered what records we could from the wreckage of your patrol squadron. We need more. An unidentified ship visited that system. Rrueo is seeking ways to identify it."

    "I should sue you in the Imperial Courts for our losses!" Kudak shouts.

    I can see this will be tiresome. "Do so. Rrueo will watch with interest when you explain your commercial contract with a discommendated House to the Imperial Judge."

    Kudak bears his teeth. "Then we must step outside the law," he says. Behind him, his bravos shift position. "We can take compensation out of your hide, here and now -"

    "Rrueo's ship is outside your station. You may possibly have noticed it." Indeed, the Skaldak is hard to miss. "Rrueo's science officers are monitoring her life signs. If those life signs should cease, or even vary too far from certain established parameters... Rrueo's officers have orders to take appropriate action. This station is no match for Rrueo's ship."

    "That would be no consolation to you!"

    "Rrueo is a soldier of the Empire. Do you think Rrueo fears death?" I cast a swift glance over the House Verga warriors before me. "Though Rrueo will send several of you to Sto'vo'kor ahead of her, you may be quite sure of that."

    The House of Verga made a living, in the days of the war, by raiding lightly-armed Federation merchant convoys. Since the armistice, they have sunk to extorting money from the likes of the QarS. They are not anxious for a real fight, I can see that in their eyes... and in their minds. Even Kudak's bluster is an invention, a screen of false fires before a shaky edifice that is his confidence. He cannot afford to pick a fight. It galls him, for he is Klingon, and he has been brought up to believe in the glories of battle. But he is chief advisor to his House, now, and he knows to the last darsek how much those glories cost.

    "We are not the Chancellor's lackeys!" he shouts. "Unlike you! Our House has rights, Ferasan, rights that only a Klingon would understand. We do not bow the knee to the whims of an overlord on Qo'noS. We may not be wealthy enough to buy battleships - oh, you have seen to that - but we have our honour and our rights!"

    "Rrueo does not encroach upon them. Rrueo desires no dishonour for you, no disgrace. Hence, Rrueo will not bring up the matter of your contract with the Imperial Courts. Rrueo requires only the data records she has asked for. A trivial thing for you to grant, yet an act which may serve the Empire. To the honour of your House." It can be wearisome, trying to reason with Klingons.

    "You would pay us only in promises of honour? Honour which you have no standing to grant?" Kudak's tone drips contempt, but I see the meaning behind his words - would see it even if I were not a telepath, I think.

    "Rrueo has authority to make a more substantial payment," I say with an ill-concealed sigh.

    Too ill-concealed. Kudak's back straightens, his resolve stiffens. "I will not deal with a mere servant," he says. "Bring the Chancellor himself before me, and then he and I will talk as Klingons!"

    I have had enough of this. I pounce, gripping Kudak by the collar of his much-decorated coat, twisting it to choke him with all my Ferasan strength. He struggles in vain as I lift him, one-handed, off the deck. His men make abortive movements towards me - then freeze, as K'Rokok's gun snaps out of its holster, and Toriash gives vent to a loud snorting sound, like some primaeval monster rising from a swamp. My eyes lock with Kudak's as he writhes and kicks in my grasp.

    "Rrueo has tried being reasonable," I say, "and now Rrueo will take what she needs." My eyes narrow as I search his mind, my probing will focused into a needle that picks through his brain. "And you have already downloaded the information... well, Rrueo will take it. It is good that you came prepared." With my other hand, I pull the datapad from the pocket of his coat. "No need to talk of payment, now. Consider it your tribute to the ever-glorious Empire. And if you think of objecting, Rrueo will know, and Rrueo will rip off your head and feed your body to her targs. No doubt there will be consequences, since your House has its rights. Rrueo will have to spend many weary hours filling in paperwork, and her targs may get indigestion. Of course, that would be no consolation to you."

    His face is swollen and suffused; I do not think he is in a condition to offer any more objections. And it will cause problems if I kill him - I let go. He collapses, gasping, on the deck plates.

    "Rrueo has what she came for," I announce to the world at large. "Rrueo will now depart."

    And I turn and stalk back towards the docking bay. I have turned my back on seven armed and hostile Klingons. Let no one say I lack courage.

    K'Rokok and Toriash cast their gaze warily behind us as we walk back to the ship, but there is no pursuit. K'Rokok's mind-tone, though, is... troubled. He glances at me, as we approach the boarding ramp.

    "I... have concerns, sir," he says in an undertone.

    "Speak them," I say.

    He shoots a look back towards the passageway. "You have made an enemy here, today, sir," he says.

    "We destroyed their patrol force above the QarS base. They were already our enemy," I point out.

    But K'Rokok shakes his head. "That was battle, sir. This.... You have humiliated the gin'tak on his own territory, before his own House troops. The loss of their ships could have been - not forgotten, exactly, or forgiven, but... accepted. This, though, cannot. The House of Verga will always be your enemy now, sir."

    Klingons. I sigh. "Perhaps you are right. But Rrueo must do her duty as she sees fit. Rrueo needs facts. This -" I hold up the datapad "- may contain them."

    K'Rokok shakes his head. "I hope you are right, sir."
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  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    R'j

    The face of the Chancellor glares down at me from the main viewscreen. "Progress?" he demands.

    "Little, at present." There is no point in denying it. "My colleagues are investigating leads among the Vergas and the remains of the QarS. I am scouting space for warp signatures in the vicinity of the planetoid. It is weary work, and there is no certainty of results, but it must be done."

    J'mpok's features relax, slightly. He is not a patient man, but he is not a fool, either. "What of the QarS base?"

    "We have the materials we recovered before the... incident. They are undergoing forensic analysis, mostly aboard the Skaldak, which has full facilities. Some of the data has already been deciphered, and, though it does not seem to bear on Kalevar Thrang, it should probably be forwarded to Intelligence or the Imperial Police."

    "The QarS were linked to much criminal activity, I know. Release anything you deem useful, that is not linked to Thrang." J'mpok pauses, and there is a gleam in his heavy-lidded eyes. "As to that - incident -"

    "We have provided what information we can. S-s-s-s-s. We are lucky to have that."

    "I know, I know... forensic reconstructions after a core breach are a waste of time. The Gamak's records at the shipyard are under investigation. Apparently, it was delayed in its launch some thirty-six hours - a collision between two freight haulers caused a lockdown of the docking bays. Does this suggest anything to you?"

    "Let me think. S-s-s-s-s." I consider. "I think we have been fortunate."

    "Fortunate?" J'mpok quirks one shaggy eyebrow.

    "My assumption is that the warp core was sabotaged before the Gamak's departure. If that ship had arrived thirty-six hours earlier... that is time, I think, for enmities to be established. The destruction of the Gamak could, then, plausibly have been blamed on a clash between ourselves and R'st'l. As it is... even General Rrueo and myself do not make mortal enemies that quickly."

    "Yes," says J'mpok. "But the High Council's agent died. Someone will need to make an accounting for that. Bear that in mind, General."

    "I shall, Chancellor."

    "And - I know these things cannot be hurried - but it would be good to have results." He wastes no more time, but closes the channel.

    I sigh, lean back, and whisper a mantra to compose my mind. "That went well," I say, at the end.

    "It did?" Laska sounds surprised. She, like all the bridge crew, remained carefully silent throughout the conversation.

    "We are not yet being recalled to Qo'noS or arrested for murder. I suspect that is the best we could hope for. S-s-s-s-s. Continue the search pattern. We need to give the Chancellor his results."

    "Yes, sir." Laska does not sound happy. This searching of empty space is grim, tedious, wearying work.

    I turn my attention to the game board. I have not brought all my collection with me from the Goroke, but I find a few board games an essential diversion, for exercising the mind. I have set up a classic problem on the Y-shaped gdorab board, and am analysing it in hopes of finding new solutions. I move one blue cube forward a space. The board's computer responds immediately, indicating the movement of a yellow pyramid in reply. I shake my head. Gdorab is a Tellarite game, it really needs a live and argumentative opponent. There are fourteen separate and conflicting protocols for deciding the winner when a fight breaks out over a match.... Some things cannot be adequately simulated by machines.

    "Sir." A machine speaks now; the android, Goota. "I have been reviewing - sensor data. From - remote devices. I have detected a - possible match, for the - anomalous signature."

    And machines have their positive benefits, it appears. "Where?"

    "Sensor buoy - DL-2244-T-117. In the former - Neutral Zone. Twelve light years from our - current position."

    "An active sensor platform in the Neutral Zone? What is it monitoring?"

    "Buoy is tasked for - intelligence traffic analysis in the - 54 Eridani system. Imperial Intelligence notation is - category 7a, independent neutral with conflict possibilities."

    An independent system with the potential to break into a brushfire war. "Set a course. And consult main references - I want more information about this system. Independent neutral?"

    "Conflict possibilities," Laska says. "That might be worth worrying about."

    "We must tread carefully, yes. But those are precisely the possibilities which Kalevar Thrang has tried to exploit in the past. And, at least, this is something to investigate -"

    "Yes, sir." Laska sounds almost resigned. "Setting course. Coming about."

    ---

    There is time, even at Nuru-Or's speeds, to access the databanks and review the situation before we arrive in the system.

    "Interesting," I comment. Siowershoe and Goota have provided the requisite information, and now a schematic of the 54 Eridani system is glowing over the desk in my ready room. 54 Eridani is a red subgiant with a wide habitable zone; it is not surprising that it can support two M-class worlds. But the political arrangements....

    "The fifth planet is an independent human settlement," Siowershoe reports. "Founded in the early twenty-third century by Federation malcontents. It seems they espoused a warrior ethic -"

    "Humans?" Laska sounds both amused and outraged.

    "Why not?" I say. "The Klingon pacifists founded their colony at Tiaza Zephora somewhere around the same time.... I think it must have been a simpler age. Space was a final frontier, then, and every civilization had its dissidents, who sought freedom for themselves and their beliefs beyond that frontier...."

    "The self-described Grand Imperium of 54 Eridani V would seem to fit that pattern, sir," says Siowershoe. "They even provided valuable intelligence to the Empire at the time of the Organian conflict. Since then, though, they seem to have been content to remain in the one system. They have rejected offers of formal alliance with the Empire."

    "It is - possible that they have political - factions," Goota adds. "Intelligence assessment indicates that there are - three main political groupings. One which prefers rapprochement with the - Federation. Another which would seek links with the - Empire. The third, apparently dominant, espouses - a policy of isolationism."

    "That may prove hard to sustain," says Siowershoe, "in light of the developments on the class M moon of 54 Eridani VI. The Lethean settlement is an intrusion into their claimed territory."

    "Where does that stand, in relation to Imperial policy?" I ask.

    "The Lethean colony is not approved by the Empire," Siowershoe states. "It is entirely an independent venture... but we must assume it has the active backing of someone, at least, in the Lethean government. This is why Intelligence rates the system as a potential flashpoint. If the humans were to strike at the Lethean colony, the Letheans might appeal for Imperial support."

    "Would they get it?" Laska asks.

    "Impossible to tell. If it were a matter of this so-called Imperium alone, then very probably. But the Federation is sometimes protective of its wayward children - even if they are estranged - and the Chancellor is not anxious to re-start the war. It would depend on the stance of the Lethean government, and what claims of honour they could bring before the High Council - and on the likelihood of a response from Starfleet."

    "Well, we can hardly ask Starfleet," I say, "and it would be futile to approach the Lethean government - they are notorious for keeping their own counsel. S-s-s-s-s. We must approach with care, I think."

    "But we do approach?" Laska asks.

    "We will interrogate the data banks of that sensor buoy and see if we can obtain a positive match for our unknown warp signature. If we are reasonably sure that the unidentified vessel has visited that system - then we will go in and make inquiries. The humans will most probably be useless, but the Letheans have no reason not to cooperate - unless they are already enmeshed in Thrang's plans, somehow...."

    "We approach, then," says Laska.

    ---

    We approach. Even at a distance, 54 Eridani shows on the screen as a ruddy, bloated disc. Nuru-Or has entered the system under cloak, naturally... but I must run active sensor scans, and those will reveal us. For our check on the sensor buoy has confirmed Goota's suspicions; the unknown ship that called at the QarS planetoid has also visited this system.

    We still have no idea what that ship might be. Among his other talents, Kalevar Thrang is an expert on warp propulsion systems; it is possible he has modified some vessel so that its warp signature is not recognizable. It is possible - and the possibility worries me. I would like some idea of what to expect....

    Though, for the present, there seems to be nothing. The system is almost empty of traffic - there are low-power impulse signatures among the moons of the barren outer worlds: ore haulers and similar commercial vessels, no doubt. But the Lethean colony -

    "Hailing on all - frequencies," Goota repeats, over and over. "No response."

    "Why not?" I wonder aloud. "They can scarcely hope to conceal themselves, since we know they are there."

    "Could be some mechanical failure, sir," says Laska. "I'm reading... some sort of activity at the colony site. Lots of atmospheric disturbance, and possibly heavy-element contamination."

    "They have been attacked, perhaps?" I ask.

    "Could be...." Laska's craggy face is thoughtful. "I'm not sure, though, sir. That moon's got some serious tectonic activity going on - like most gas giant moons, there's a lot of gravitational stress on it. It's at least possible there's been a volcanic eruption in the vicinity. That'd put a lot of junk into the atmosphere."

    "It would not blank out all subspace frequencies," I object.

    "No sir, but it might give them more to worry about than monitoring subspace radio. But I can't be sure of anything at this range."

    "S-s-s-s-s. I see your point. Drop cloak, move in. Run continuous active scans. If something has happened in this system, I want to know about it."

    "Yes, sir." The deckplates quiver for a moment as the impulse drive goes to full power, and the light on the bridge shifts in tone as the cloak drops.

    On the main viewscreen, there is a tiny pallid dot, a few degrees away from the red disc of the star. The gas giant, 54 Eridani VI. At this distance, the habitable moon is invisible.

    "The colony has a - commercial standard satellite defensive grid," Goota says. "Our priority codes from Intelligence should enable us to - interrogate it."

    "Set it up. We need to gather all the information we can." If the Letheans protest... well, no matter.

    "Active scans running," Laska reports. "Looks like the gunk in the atmosphere is consistent with volcanic ash and dust, at least. I'll need time to do a thorough analysis, and -" She breaks off. "Sensor contact. Warp signature."

    "Our unknown?" I ask.

    "Don't recognize the signature, but... not that unknown." Laska bites her lip. "I should recognize any normal warp drive.... Looks like it just did a micro-warp jump from somewhere in-system. Scanning now... and feeding the results to the databanks...."

    "Put it on the tactical display. And go to yellow alert."

    The view of space is replaced by the tactical schematic. A single dot is blinking at extreme range - moving towards us, now, at impulse power. "Hail that ship."

    "Hailing," Goota replies.

    "Got it," says Laska. "Turned up in historical records. Power output, warp signature, configuration match... for early Starfleet. Pioneer class."

    "What?" I rack my brains. "That is an antique. It must be well over a century since those were decommissioned." I reach the logical conclusion. "They must be retained in service by very minor Federation-related groups... such as this Grand Imperium."

    "Vessel responding to - hail," Goota reports. "Transmission channel - established."

    "On screen."

    And again, the viewscreen changes. Now, it shows a human male, seated in an elaborate command chair, with an ancient Starfleet bridge setup visible behind him. He is muscular and bearded, with the white hair that indicates advanced age in humans, and he wears a sleeveless tunic with many, many medals and decorations on it. He scowls at me from the screen. "I am Grand Admiral Johan ter Horst," he announces in a harsh voice, "commander of the battleship Renown, Knight Commander of the Order of St. Anthony and St. Jude, Margrave Emeritus of the Lancastrian Sector, and High Consul of the Grand Imperium."

    Oh, is he? I can match him title for title. "R'j Bl'k'," I say, " Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom, Knight-Acolyte of the Phocine Temple, Dahar Master and honorary General in the Klingon Defense Force, owner-master of the IKS Nuru-Or. How may I assist you?"

    "Your ship is violating Imperial territory," ter Horst says flatly. "You are instructed to heave to and surrender to Imperial questioning. No further warnings will be given. You have sixty seconds to comply."

    "I am here on official business from the Chancellor of the Klingon Empire. It will not be possible for me to comply with your instructions. And it would be in the highest degree inadvisable for you to attempt to detain me."

    "If you claim diplomatic privilege," ter Horst replies, "then you must present your credentials. Otherwise... forty-five seconds."

    "This is not an ambassadorial mission. We are investigating a crime against the Empire. Our investigations led us here. My orders from the Chancellor require me to follow up all leads. I say again, do not attempt to impede me."

    "Thirty seconds." His face is fixed, intransigent.

    "Screen off," I snap at Goota. The human's image vanishes. "What is he thinking? He cannot hope to engage us -"

    "I think he can, sir," says Laska. "His sensor suite is wholly inadequate - to him, we might well look like a standard Bird of Prey. Against an old B'Rel class, he might be evenly matched."

    "Possibly." I snort. "He will learn differently if we open fire on him! - But I am not sure that we can."

    "Sir?" Laska looks puzzled.

    "Politics. S-s-s-s-s. If we destroy that ship, we commit to war with this Grand Imperium. A war that would last half an hour at most - but it is not the war we must worry about, but the diplomatic consequences." I spit. "Break off. Prepare to warp out of the system."

    "Enemy ship is - closing," Goota reports. "Inside weapons range in - three minutes."

    "Veer off." There is a restive muttering around the bridge. "There is no honour in destroying that relic," I snap. "And it would interfere with our actual mission. Veer off. We will return later and approach the Letheans under cloak."

    Laska looks disgusted, but she turns to her console and starts to work. The stars swing across the screen as Nuru-Or comes about.

    "Enemy vessel has gone to full impulse. Closing fast," Siowershoe reports.

    "Ignore it. Prepare for warp speed." I settle into the command chair and mutter a sutra to myself.

    "Enemy ship is - firing torpedoes."

    "Ignore it. Warp speed."

    The stars stretch out into streaks of light, and we are away.

    "We got some information off the Lethean satellites, anyway," Laska says sourly.

    "Such as?" I am angry, myself. I do not need these inconveniences.

    "Volcanic dust, confirmed. An eruption near the Lethean settlement." Laska scratches her brow ridges. "I'm worried about the Letheans. I picked up life signs, all right, but they looked - off, somehow. Might just be sensor interference.... Also, we have records of some warp signatures. Antiques like our friend back there. And some Lethean commercial vessels - but there are two strange ones, too."

    "Two?"

    "One of them is definitely our unknown. The other one... I have a possible match. Delta Quadrant technology. A Nihydron drive system."

    "Delta Quadrant? We will need to return, to check this out further. Thrang's compressed decalithium came from the Delta Quadrant.... We need to know more. And we must consult with our superiors... regarding how much latitude they will give us, in dealing with pests."
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  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    shevet wrote: »
    "Enemy vessel has gone to full impulse. Closing fast," Siowershoe reports.

    "Ignore it. Prepare for warp speed." I settle into the command chair and mutter a sutra to myself.

    "Enemy ship is - firing torpedoes."

    "Ignore it. Warp speed."

    "Should we, I don't know, fire back?"
    "No." *bites apple*
    "Of course not."
    Og12TbC.jpg

    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    The Baron looked down and smiled at the man he had decided to kill.

    Behind him, his samurai-praetorians stood in gleaming ranks, the light of their power glaives reflecting from their burnished helms. All around the circular Arena of Justice stood his retainers, his servants, his bondsmen and vassals. In a curtained box of their own were his wives and concubines, all eager to see the spectacle begin. The only person who showed no eagerness at all was the man out there on the arena sands, standing between two armoured guards who maintained a firm grip on his arms.

    The Baron advanced. "Let justice be done," he declaimed.

    All around, the murmurs of conversation died down, until the Baron's voice was the only sound under the high stone dome of the ceiling.

    "Let justice be done," he repeated, "in the grand tradition of our forefathers, who left Old Earth's weakness to carve a truer path among the stars. Let justice be done in the old ways, in the true ways, by the strength of a man's sword arm and the honour of his cause! We come to witness justice against this -" he sneered "- this person, who has given us more than one name, the better to show his faithlessness! Well, it does not matter how many names he wears - there is only one heart beating behind them, and that heart will be stilled today. Does the accused have any words for us?"

    The man on the sands raised his head. He had an unpleasant face, the Baron thought, with oddly slanted eyes and a mouth too small for lips so plump. "I'm a Federation citizen," he whined, "you've got no right -"

    "Right? Right? He talks of rights!" The Baron forced a laugh. "Will your Federation help you? Or will it hide behind its Prime Directive, as it always does? This is the Grand Imperium! You have no rights here except what you can take and hold!"

    The man made no reply. The Baron took another step forward.

    "We are not barbarians. We are not unjust. You will have the chance to vindicate yourself. I declare this - I, Baron Erwin Fitzwilliam Mugabe, Knight of the Order of the Chalice, landholder of the New Balearic Islands under his grace the Duke of the Napoleonic Sector. That is my name, man of the Federation. I charge you with trespass on my territories with criminal intent, of smuggling and tariff-breaking. And I will prove my charges on your body in trial by combat!"

    And he leaped, from the vantage point where he stood, landing with both booted feet firmly planted in the arena sands. He repressed a wince as the jolt sent twinges through his knees. He was getting old - too old for many more of these, that was certain. Sooner or later, he would have to choose a champion from among the samurai-praetorians - and that would have to be a careful choice, of a man talented in combat, but loyal and without personal ambition....

    Of course, that might not matter. Not when he won this combat, and took this man's assets, including his ship - a finer vessel than the Sector Duke owned. Oh, and let the Duke try to claim it from him, a prize won in trial by combat - he would go to the Grand Emperor's Court and appeal for judgement by tradition, and if all went well, he would come out of it with the Duke's own ermine on his shoulders....

    He shook his head. A pleasing fantasy, but first he had to win this fight.

    He strode across the sand, his cape swirling behind him, black and silver - like his own hair, now. He stood before the Federation weakling and glowered at him. His harsh features and bristling eyebrows were particularly suited for glowering, he knew that... and he knew it again, as the man cringed visibly before him.

    He gestured to the two guards. "Release him, and fetch the weapons." To the man, he said, "Turn craven now, turn to run, and you will be shot down in your tracks. Do you understand?"

    The man nodded, and swallowed loudly.

    "Trial by combat!" the Baron bellowed. "The only true test! I pledge my life, my honour, all my holdings, and by that pledge I hold you guilty as charged! I will prove my honour on your body, and you will forfeit all that you have, in death and infamy!"

    The guards had gone to the sides of the arena, and now returned, bearing the power-swords with them. The Baron stepped back three paces. "Take your weapon, and prepare for combat."

    One guard came to him, offered him a power-sword. The Baron took the weapon, felt the familiar heft of it in his hand. He thumbed the actuator switch, and arcs of electricity began to flow between the two metre-long tines of the sword, to discharge in showers of sparks from the needle-sharp points. The Baron raised his sword in the obligatory salute.

    The man from the Federation swung his power-sword awkwardly in his hand for a moment or two; then he, too, found the actuator, and copied the Baron's gesture.

    "These foils have all a length?" he said, and smiled.

    The Baron frowned. "The weapons are identical," he said shortly. Something about his opponent had changed. Where he had been confused, cowed and cringing, now he seemed - poised, almost... confident. His feet had shifted position, the Baron noticed, into a fencer's stance.

    In many a previous trial, the Baron had used his skill with the power-sword to beat and burn his opponents, forcing them, whimpering, to cry for mercy and accept whatever terms he chose to set for his clemency. There would be none of that today. This man's assets would be his, this trial would end in death. And, the Baron now realized, there would be no toying with this victim - he would have to move fast and kill quickly.

    He lunged. The fool was no doubt waiting for some formal signal -

    He lunged, but his opponent slipped away, and his power-sword traced a sparking line through empty air. The Baron turned, fell back into guard - and just barely parried the return strike, the power-swords meeting in a blaze of energies. The impact nearly knocked the Baron's weapon from his hand. The man from the Federation was strong, as well as fast.

    And the smile on that too-small mouth with the too-full lips was savage and merciless.

    A flurry of blows, tines ringing on tines, lightning crackling until the sand on the arena floor began to lift into the air, drawn by the static discharges. The Baron fell back, panting and trying not to show it. His opponent was not even breathing heavily.

    This had to end, and end quickly. Already, he could hear mutterings of disquiet from the spectators - He darted forwards again, stabbing at the man's face. Blind those eyes, and he could kill at leisure -

    The man's power-sword clashed against his in a parry that became a bind. Sparks flew and metal creaked as the weapons ground against each other, and then there was a loud double bang, and the electrical flashing abruptly stopped.

    "Overload," the Baron wheezed. He pulled back. "The circuit breakers tripped - we must wait a minute or so, while the weapons reset -"

    "Oh, why bother?" said the other. "These things may not be charged any more, but they're still nice and pointy."

    And he lunged, faster than the Baron's eyes could follow him, and drove the sharp points of his dead power-sword into the Baron's throat.

    Agony flooded the Baron's body and blood flooded his mouth. Through dimming eyes, he saw the savage exultation on his opponent's face, felt himself lifted, bodily, into the air on the points of the weapon - and then he felt nothing more, ever again.

    ---

    The man from the Federation flung the Baron's corpse away from him, and it landed on the sand. It made a dull, muffled sound, which was still the only noise in the arena.

    "I believe I stand vindicated," the man said. "Trial by combat. As he said, the only true test. I have proved my honour on his body. And now I claim... all that was his." His voice had grown hard and commanding. "All that was his is now forfeit to me, under the law of the Grand Imperium." His searching gaze swept the ranks of the dead Baron's retainers, settled on one. "You. High Seneschal."

    The official stepped forward, cleared his throat nervously. "It will take some time," he began, "to, ahh, calculate and evaluate the Baron's assets and arrive at a fair financial settlement -"

    "Did I ask for a financial settlement?" the man demanded. "I claim all that was his. That is now mine. His lands, his assets, his title. I find the Federation doesn't have the scope for a man of my talents. I think being a Baron in the Grand Imperium will be much more to my taste. At least," he added, "for a start."

    The High Seneschal licked his lips. "You claim... all the assets, privileges, and perquisites? The rank and the powers... of the Barony?"

    "Is that not the law of the trial by combat?" There was a dubious muttering of assent from around the arena. "Oh, yes," the man said, "I claim the rank and powers. And all those assets, privileges... and perquisites." He smiled at the wide-eyed concubines in the curtained box. "It needn't be unpleasant, I assure you."

    "There are - certain formalities," the High Seneschal said faintly.

    "No doubt. Expedite them." The man walked up to the wall around the arena, reached up, grabbed the top and pulled himself up. Another minute, and he had clambered up onto the high point where the Baron had stood. He grinned at the stolid ranks of the samurai-praetorians.

    "The - alleged - offence," the High Seneschal said nervously, "involved - the use of multiple names. How - how are you to be styled, my lord?"

    "My lord," said the man. "Yes, I rather like the sound of that. I had to adopt a cover identity in my dealings within the Federation - that's where the confusion arose, no doubt. But I will rule this Barony in my name." His eyes gleamed. "Kalevar Thrang."
    8b6YIel.png?1
  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    edited August 2016
    Well TRIBBLE.
    Og12TbC.jpg

    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • hfmuddhfmudd Member Posts: 881 Arc User
    the former Baron got himself hustled. and then dead.
    Join Date: January 2011
  • antonine3258antonine3258 Member Posts: 2,391 Arc User
    Thrang's meglomania, on top of all the other things he could have done that would be better, was a tremendous loss to the acting world. :(
    Fate - protects fools, small children, and ships named Enterprise Will Riker

    Member Access Denied Armada!

    My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
  • themetalstickmanthemetalstickman Member Posts: 1,010 Arc User
    Love the power swords. "Still nice and pointy," indeed.
    Og12TbC.jpg

    Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.

    I dare you to do better.
  • shevetshevet Member Posts: 1,667 Arc User
    Shalo

    The Knobos is a huge ship, but she is dwarfed by the shipyard station - and even by the tangle of debris beside it. Two R-class freighters, colliding at a sharp angle, now with their superstructures inextricably crushed and tangled together... the warp cores are stabilized, at present, but the whole mass will need to be tractored carefully clear of the station and towed to a disposal orbit for breaking and salvage.

    Standing beside me on the bridge, Councillor Sarv folds his arms across his chest and stares, brooding, at the screen.

    "Well," I say, "at least it is now clear of the docking bays. The IKS Gamak was hardly the only ship to be delayed."

    "Every single Imperial courier," Sarv growls. "If this was part of some plot -"

    "It would appear not. A regrettable knock-on effect from the explosion at the transporter station. With freight transport suspended, every cargo ship in orbit was delayed... and their captains were in a hurry to resume offloading." I wave a hand at the screen. "An excessive hurry, in this case."

    "Pilot error," Sarv grunts.

    "We could ascribe it to that. The truth is, though, somewhat more... Klingon. A dispute over right of way, during the approach to docking bay 77-C. Both captains claimed priority based on House status. Neither would back down. The results -" I gesture again at the screen.

    "It might still have been a plot. To gain time, to sabotage the Gamak."

    "Conceivable. Though it seems inefficient, and expensive." I am glad to have Sarv pursue this train of thought - if he thinks the Council emissary's vessel was sabotaged here in Qo'noS orbit, it diverts his suspicions from Rrueo and R'j at the QarS planetoid. I have no doubt that they are innocent, myself... but innocence is not always an important factor in the High Council's deliberations.

    "Perhaps," says Sarv. He turns to face me. "I must return to the shipyard. Accompany me to the transporter room."

    Arrogant. I do not let my displeasure show on my face, as I say, "Of course, Councillor," and rise from my command chair.

    "So," Sarv says, as we enter the turbolift, "how do you find your new command, General?"

    "I have no complaints. Of course, we have yet to see a true test of this ship's abilities - in combat."

    "The Ty'gokor class is more than adequate in that area. At least," Sarv adds in barbed tones, "when handled properly."

    "I am sure the Knobos will not disappoint," I say. The turbolift doors hiss open. "Transporter room."

    Sarv grunts, and strides over to the pad. "Main shipyard receiving," he snaps at the operator.

    "Obtaining clearance," the lieutenant says. Sarv shifts restlessly while the necessary clearance codes are exchanged. I sigh inwardly. It would be so easy to joggle the lieutenant's arm and introduce a fatal scanning error... but it would be impolitic to assassinate a High Councillor on the spur of the moment.

    "Keep me informed of all your investigations," Sarv orders me. "Energize." And he vanishes in a column of red light.

    I turn to the transporter operator myself. "I will travel to First City. Arrange it, immediately." Keep him informed? I will keep J'mpok informed, and let Sarv shift for himself. Not that I have much to show for my investigations, as yet.

    ---

    I make my way to the barracks, to my assigned private quarters, where I can sit, and think, in reasonable security. Aboard ship, I am subject to a thousand well-intentioned interruptions at any moment. Here, I can meditate in peace, and try to put the current events in some sort of order in my mind -

    The comms panel flashes and squeals for attention. "I said no calls," I snap at it.

    A face appears on the screen, regardless. "You should take this one," says Melani D'ian.

    Of course she has override codes for the secure military comms system. Well, she must have a reason for using them.... "What is it?" I ask.

    "You are to be brought in for questioning by an aide to the High Council," D'ian tells me.

    In spite of myself, I stiffen. "A warrant from the Council?"

    "Not yet. A request from the political aide to House K'Vegh." D'ian frowns. "That House was always strongly influenced by a former associate of mine. Yeveus of Zorb. It is conceivable that whoever removed Yeveus has - inherited that influence, somehow. I am puzzled, though. Yeveus was close-mouthed about his sources and his methods."

    "But whoever has replaced him... is an enemy."

    "To both of us, General. In any case, this request is sufficient to bring you under Council supervision. You may find it convenient to avoid that."

    Council supervision could become house arrest, imprisonment, even execution, at a High Councillor's whim. And I am not sure how much J'mpok's influence could protect me - if he even chose to exercise it. "I see. I should thank you for the warning."

    D'ian smiles. "You will serve my interests if you seek out Kalevar Thrang. And you cannot do that from inside a First City cell. Act promptly, General." And the screen goes blank.

    I think furiously. If D'ian has taken this step, the danger must be imminent. It is clear that someone on the High Council is at odds with us - the business of the Gamak can only be an attempt to discredit our mission, to confuse and muddy the waters. And the only person who would clearly benefit from stopping us is - Kalevar Thrang. Somehow, we must have come close to Thrang. But how? The QarS are a dead end, with the emphasis on dead. Where else have we touched on Thrang's schemes?

    While I think, I act, stripping off my KDF uniform, finding an Orion-style top of silk and platinum filigree, and a warrior's skirt of leather strips that fall to mid-thigh. I consider boots, decide to go barefoot. I ready myself.

    It is only a few more minutes before the buzzer sounds at the door.

    I go to it, and it slides open. Two Klingon enforcers, both male - that will make it easier. They are already looking at me, looking where an Orion costume is meant to make them look -

    "General Shalo. Your presence is commanded in the annexe to the Great Hall, by D'Kal of the House of K'Vegh. Your compliance is required."

    "Of course," I say, and I make my eyes wide and my voice husky. "But - your associate, there - I fear he has - bad intentions. Protect me, please!"

    A naked, transparent, and feeble ploy - if it were not backed up by the full force of my pheromones. People often fail to appreciate how practical Orion clothing is. Bare skin, after all, equates to unimpeded scent glands.

    One enforcer growls, draws a d'k tahg, and buries it in his companion's side. That one roars in anguish and pulls out a mek'leth, slashing across his assailant's head. In moments, they are a bloody, fighting tangle on the floor, and I leap over them and take the stairs down to ground level at a run. Perhaps they will kill each other... but, in any case, having two dead Council enforcers in my quarters is a matter that will require explanation.

    I take pains to bring my breathing under control as I reach the ground level of the barracks. My heart is pounding, though. The pheromone burst is physically taxing... and that is in addition to my other concerns.

    I am not challenged, though my appearance draws a few coarse remarks, as I make my way to the transporter station. The operator on duty gives me no more than a cursory glance as I set up for transport to the Knobos.

    Red light surrounds me, and I am aboard my ship. Foojoy is in the transporter room to greet me, and he is taken aback.

    "Of surprise, this one feels, at your so soon return," he says.

    "We have a possible crisis," I snap as I stride past him to the turbolift. "Bridge."

    He does not question me, but comes with me into the lift capsule. Good. I am not in a mood to be questioned. What must come next... requires courage.

    The lift doors hiss open, and I stride out onto the bridge. "Ship to alert status," I order. "Helm, request priority departure clearance from traffic control." If I receive it, then the High Council has not yet taken direct action against me. If it is blocked... well, then, things will become interesting.

    I sit down in the command chair. My Klingon exec, K'Gan, comes towards me, frowning. I steel myself.

    "Priority departure clearance... granted," reports Sano from the helm station.

    "Excellent. Engage impulse. Maximum permitted speed along our assigned departure vector."

    "General." K'Gan's frown is deepening. "What is happening?"

    There is a low hum, and the deckplates tremble, as the Knobos builds up speed. "I find it necessary to depart Qo'noS space." I take a deep breath. "It is likely that I will shortly be proscribed as a fugitive by the High Council. If you choose to challenge for my rank, make it now."

    K'Gan stares at me.

    "Something has made us - made me - an enemy on the High Council. My intention is to survive this, to find out who that enemy is, unmask him, and destroy him. You may aid me or hinder me, as you choose. But choose now. It will make difficulties, if you change your minds later."

    K'Gan pauses for a worryingly long time. He has always been reliable; I would hate to have to kill him. Then he says, "Your... actions have always been honourable in the past, General. I do not believe you have fallen from honour now."

    "Honourable, or profitable," Sano murmurs. Well, she is as Orion and as pragmatic as I am myself.

    "An enemy of the Empire, our mission is to seek," says Foojoy. "Traitors on the High Council, such an enemy would be in employment of. Unmasking, such traitors, our mission should also be, and not of our commander challenging."

    I conceal the relief that washes through me. "Very well. I will rely on you to quell any disaffection which may arise when we are all officially proscribed and become pirates. It will not be for long. I will find whoever is responsible for this - situation - and I will see their blood burn for it."

    "Doubting, of this, there is none," says Foojoy.

    "Clear of planetary limits," Sano says. "Warp drive at your discretion, sir. Our destination?"

    "Set course for the Neutral Zone. Maximum warp. We will reach a temporary safe haven, then rendezvous with General Rrueo and General Bl'k'. They may have more information. Somehow, we have twisted Kalevar Thrang's tail, and he has set his minions on us." I do not repress a snarl. "They will regret that."
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