The sensor analysis suite was in the bow section of the Ostigon, separated from empty space only by a layer of armour. Geterian sat beside Lilitsia, watching the screens, as she demonstrated the functions and explained the working routine.
He was leaning forward, staring into a readout screen, when Lilitsia said, "Kindly move your hand."
"What -? Oh. Oh." He lifted his left hand from where it was resting.
"Thank you," said Lilitsia in cool tones.
"I just -" He put his right hand to his forehead. "I - I was not thinking. I apologize."
"Accepted."
"But -" He raised his head, and there was a haunted, puzzled look on his grey face. "I - seem to remember.... There are images in my mind, they tell me that women - like to be touched, in that way...."
"Perhaps in appropriate circumstances," said Lilitsia. Then her expression, too, became troubled. "Memories?"
"They - must be, I suppose," said Geterian.
Lilitsia's eyes narrowed. "Have you been intimate with any Kobali females, since your birth?"
"I - no, no. Nothing like that. I am -" He shook his head. "This is all new to me. And yet -"
"Geterian." Her voice was hard, now, and emphatic. "These are not your own memories. These are relics of your former life - neural patterns which have not yet been expunged as your brain develops and reorganizes itself. You must let go of such memories, Geterian. You are no longer that person - whoever he might have been. You are Kobali. You must remember that."
"I will try." He rubbed his brow. "I - it is when the General's ally visits - that is when - I remember things that I should not remember. I think."
"The General's ally," said Lilitsia. "Yes."
Geterian shot a curious glance at her. "Did he talk to you, too?"
"There were... sessions," Lilitsia replied. She shifted uneasily in her chair. "I do not remember much of them. I think my brain adjusted, became fully Kobali, and he lost interest in me then. The details elude me, now." She turned concerned eyes on Geterian. "They should elude me. Elude us both. I think... the General's ally is interested in who we were."
Geterian was silent for a moment. "And he should not be," he said.
"I think... probably not."
"Then why does the General permit it? He cares for us, does he not? He said I was to think of him as my father."
"I think the General's ally is - very useful to him. Useful enough for the General to permit this. The General has spoken to me... he tells me this ally has promised all of us a thousand offspring." She raised her hand and pointed to the screens. "And he has started to make good on this promise. You can see it, here, on this world."
Geterian shook his head. "One small colony, on one obscure world. It is not much."
"It is a beginning. Greater things may come from it. Our neighbour planet in this system, perhaps... they might make their - resources - available to us."
"They have a great many dead," said Geterian. "Inefficient, with a society emphasizing martial values but without any serious combat experience... play-acting at being warriors... that was the conclusion of Syndicate Intelligence -"
"Geterian."
He stopped. "I am - sorry. I do not know where that thought came from."
"Another relic. Put it from your mind. You are Geterian. You are Kobali."
"I will remember. I will try."
"Good. And move your hand."
---
"Three thousand," said Jhey'Quar. He stood in front of the command chair and gazed at the main viewscreen, at the image of the moon.
"Three thousand one hundred and four," said his aide. "Out of four thousand and thirty-three - the remaining resources were in one way or another unsuitable - immature, or physically damaged to excess in the, ahh, the process."
"A beginning," said Jhey'Quar. "Not, perhaps, a full scale foothold in this quadrant... but, a beginning. We will, no doubt, be able to bring more recruits here, in due time."
"From Kobali Prime?" the aide asked. "Would that not involve, well, negotiations, to use the gateways?"
"From anywhere," said Jhey'Quar. "There will be opportunities - and I do not choose to rely on Kalevar Thrang to provide them, either. Speaking of Thrang, where is he?"
"He departed shortly after his last interview with Geterian."
Jhey'Quar grunted. "I do not much care for that. Thrang's methods confuse our newborns. But it is his price, and we must pay it. Did he state a destination?"
"In-system. The fifth planet."
"The Grand Imperium." Jhey'Quar shook his head. "I wish I knew what he wanted with those comic-opera barbarians."
"I have his ship on positive track." The aide stepped over to a nearby console.
"Good. I would prefer to keep a close eye on Thrang."
"I assumed as much, General." The aide ventured a brief smile. Then he frowned. "Long range sensors show... other units in Thrang's vicinity. Closing fast - and there are energy discharges."
Jhey'Quar turned. "Thrang is under attack?"
"It seems so. I am not sure about some of these readings -"
"Red alert. Prepare to break orbit and go to Thrang's assistance." Jhey'Quar seated himself in the command chair as the alarms sounded. Before him, the tactical displays came alive; his gaze swept across them, assimilating the information - trajectories, locations, presumed hostiles - "Transmit on the encrypted subspace channel. See if you can get a message through to Thrang."
"Yes, sir," the hanchon on communications responded. Her fingers flew over her console interface. "Transmitting - I have a response. Audio and visual."
"On screen."
The face of Kalevar Thrang appeared on the main viewer. Jhey'Quar raised one eyebrow. There was no sign of damage, or even of disturbance, on the renegade's bridge... and Thrang himself appeared calm, unruffled... he was even smiling....
"General. Kind of you to call, though I'm a little busy. Still, I can always find time for a chat with a valued associate."
"You appear," said Jhey'Quar, "to be under attack. Ostigon is ready to come to your assistance -"
Thrang laughed. "Oh, dear," he said. "Thanks for your concern, General, but there's no need, really. This is just a little snap tactical exercise launched by my fellow nobles of the Grand Imperium. You should be able to see that our weapons are in low-power simulation mode."
Jhey'Quar shot an inquiring glance at his aide. "Confirm low power on weapons... no shield deterioration, no debris or other signs of damage," the aide reported.
"Quite," said Thrang. "So, well, good of you to offer to help, General, but, really, we're not in any danger. Not even in danger of losing this little war game, in fact. Oh, we're outnumbered, of course, but the Grand Imperium's warships are a little out of date, compared to us. So, all things considered, I think it's for the best if you keep the Ostigon in the low orbitals, under the sensor jammers. We don't want the Imperium spotting your ship and pestering you, do we?"
Jhey'Quar considered for a moment. "Stand down from red alert," he ordered. "Resume close lunar orbit."
"Thanks, General. Much appreciated."
Jhey'Quar fixed Thrang with a glare. "Do not imagine that I am concerned for your health, Thrang. We have an agreement, that is all, and you must survive to make good on it."
Thrang laughed again. "I plan to survive, General, don't worry. And you'll find I deliver. I always deliver." And the screen went blank.
I groom my whiskers with one claw and watch the screen as the Knobos approaches. Shalo chose well, I think, for her new vessel... as did R'j, whose ship is keeping station above mine... as, indeed, did I, except for the inconvenient size of the bridge.
"Hail from General Shalo, sir," Toriash calls up from somewhere below me.
"On screen."
Shalo's face appears on the viewer. Her expression is grim. I do not need telepathy to see her mind-tone, now. "I expect to be proscribed by the High Council at any moment," she says.
Well, this is news. And not good news, either. "Rrueo understands, now, this meeting in the Neutral Zone," I say. "Rrueo assumes that there will be a generous price on your head, but that Rrueo would not live to collect it?"
"When the time comes, I have no doubt that you two will be proscribed with me," says Shalo. So, R'j is linked in to this conversation - well, I would expect nothing else. "So far, the Council has held its hand. But this business of their investigator is a problem - and I have left two Council enforcers dead on the floor of my quarters, which will also not endear me to them."
"Rrueo has always assumed your quarters were littered with Klingons dead from exhaustion, in any case," I say. Shalo glares at me. "How long do we have? Can the Chancellor offer any protection?"
"J'mpok cannot afford a direct clash with the Council over an issue as small as ourselves," says Shalo. "Such time as we have, I think, is being bought for us by Melani D'ian and her - discreet influences. It is impossible to quantify how long this might last." She looks as if she is tasting something foul. "I do not particularly care to have D'ian's patronage, but it seems to be necessary -"
"We must report results, and soon," R'j's voice breaks in. "The High Council will excuse any number of dead enforcers if we can bring them Kalevar Thrang. S-s-s-s-s. Thrang must know this, and he must have discreet influences of his own."
"Undoubtedly. If we could identify Thrang's allies on the High Council, that would aid us greatly. But we are in no position to investigate Councillors, not now." Shalo sighs. "Somehow, we must have come to Thrang's attention. What have you two been doing?"
"Rrueo has been investigating the House of Verga," I say with a sigh. "Rrueo has obtained little of value - that House has little of value. Not enough, Rrueo suspects, to arouse Kalevar Thrang or any supporters on the High Council."
"I have, perhaps, something more of a lead," says R'j's voice. "We traced our anomalous friend to the 54 Eridani system. There is definitely something of interest there, but we had to withdraw, in order to avoid provocations.... But our stranger definitely passed by there, at least, as did something else unusual - a Nihydron vessel."
"Nihydron?" I say. "Wait. Rrueo obtained data from the Vergas, and Rrueo is almost sure -" I turn to my command console and call up the data. "Yes. A Nihydron drive signature was detected near the QarS planetoid. Delta Quadrant vessels are still unusual in Imperial space."
"We should meet, and compare notes in detail," says Shalo. "And I will collate what data I can, concerning this - 54 Eridani." She shakes her head. "I have never previously heard of that system"
"The stars are more numerous than the j'hy'y'rh'a on the plains of N'hdra," says R'j, "there is no reason why you should know of that one. Shall we meet aboard the Skaldak in one hour from now? I am told that ship is - capacious."
---
In person, Shalo radiates fury through her mind-tone, a brilliant light that threatens to melt her masks of ice. R'j's face is intent, her silvery eyes gleaming as she reviews our data. I pick up the datapad she has brought us, her gleanings of intelligence from 54 Eridani.
"A semi-legal Lethean colony, and an aberrant human culture," says Shalo. "What might Thrang want with either of them?" She shakes her head. "And where does the Delta Quadrant enter into this?"
"Possibly only as a source of technology," R'j suggests. "The compressed decalithium was a Delta Quadrant technique... but many such devices are finding their way through the gateways, now. And so are Deltan ships - not in any great quantity, as yet, but there are some."
I say nothing. There is something on R'j's datapad that reminds me of - something. I reach for the data console by my chair, and establish a link to the Skaldak's main computer.
"There are certainly Nihydron ships in Imperial service," says Shalo. "They are also found in the Federation, and among the Republic forces. But the Delta Quadrant is not a significant force, here on this side of the galaxy. Apart from Sela's negotiations with the Hirogen...."
"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "The Hirogen hunting clans barely qualify as organized, no matter how far-flung they are. And there is no trace of Hirogen energy signatures, nor do the hunters use Nihydron ships. To my knowledge. What does our resident expert on the Delta Quadrant have to say?"
A pause. They are looking at me. I look up from the console. "There is something here Rrueo recognizes," I say. "Rrueo is trying to trace it."
"A clue?" Shalo asks.
"Our enigmatic visitor's warp signature?" asks R'j. "It has finally become clear to you?"
"No," I say, absently, scanning the data. I call up my old log files from the Brathana. "No, not that... it is another part of your data that Rrueo knows... Rrueo has seen it before...." I stroke my whiskers with one claw, considering, reading - trying to remember....
"Well," says Shalo, "perhaps we should let her think. Shall we play a game or two while she pores over her console?"
"I have brought a gdorab board," R'j says. "It will usually occupy an otherwise dull hour or so."
The pieces fall into place, inside my head. I look up at the two of them, and utter a contented purr. "Rrueo has remembered," I say.
"Out with it, then," Shalo demands. She is in a vile mood.
"The data from the Lethean satellites," I say. "The life signs in their colony. That stirred Rrueo's memory."
R'j frowns. "My science officer said there was something odd about those life signs -"
"Then your science officer is astute," I say. "But not sufficiently experienced in the Delta Quadrant to recognize - certain data. Rrueo, however, spent many weary hours studying this phenomenon, in exhaustive and annoying detail. Rrueo can tell you what is odd about those life signs."
"Rrueo had better," says Shalo, "or Rrueo will exhaust my patience."
I grin at her. "Delta Quadrant," I say. "One of its nations is here, in force. Those Lethean life signs? They are in the process of ceasing to be Lethean. Rrueo suspects, if you had been there earlier, you would have found no life signs at all."
R'j utters a string of clicking and whirring sounds - Mlkwbrian profanity. She has grasped the implications.
"Dead, and then revived," I say to Shalo. "But no longer as Letheans. As Kobali."
---
There must be method to Thrang's madness. I keep telling myself that, as I pace up and down the Skaldak's bridge, my tail switching as I think.
Kobali. What does Thrang seek to gain by planting a colony of Kobali here in the Beta Quadrant? The Kobali are keen enough, I suppose, to expand and diversify - they were keen enough to suck us into their war with the Vaadwaur - though, to be fair, that was already everyone's war with the Vaadwaur....
But the Kobali... for all their steadfastness as allies in that particular conflict, the sad truth is, they have their own agenda and they keep their own counsel, and I do not feel they can be trusted.
But what does Thrang want with them?
Well. Perhaps we will find out. The extermination of the Lethean settlement provides many bodies, on which the Kobali virus can do its transformative work... but the reanimated corpses will need training, indoctrination into the Kobali culture, which requires the presence of other, mature, Kobali. Our unknown, then, is most probably a Kobali ship. A request for information has already been sent to Delta Command, to ask if any Kobali vessels have passed through the gateways... but I already know what the answer will be. This ship came through undetected, thanks to Kalevar Thrang. But why?
And what does he want with a colony world full of human cultural rejects, play-acting at being warriors? Unless he plans to kill those, too, and resurrect them as Kobali - which, to be fair, would be an improvement.
"Sir." Oschmann's voice, calling up from below. "We are approaching the system boundary of 54 Eridani."
"Slow to sublight. Form up on the Knobos and hold station at the assigned coordinates."
The 54 Eridani system will yield up whatever answers it has for us.... The tactical plan is for R'j to go in under heavy cloak and locate the Kobali or the Nihydron ship; fast and heavily cloaked, the Nuru-Or is ideal for this - and, if she runs into trouble, the Skaldak and the Knobos will be on call to deliver assistance.
The streaking stars slow to steady points of light; ahead of us, 54 Eridani's ruddy glow outshines all the rest. On the screen, I catch a brief glimpse of the Knobos before Shalo activates her cloak. I follow suit. Certainly, the resources of the Grand Imperium will not be enough to detect us, now -
"Sir." Toriash's voice, now. "I have something on sensors... high energy particles.... Confirmed! Tachyon contact!"
"Red alert." I leap to the command chair, hit the tactical console, try to interpret the display. A tachyon detection grid? Here? "Decloak and raise shields." If we have already been spotted, the cloak is useless, while shields are not. On the display, I see the Knobos shimmer back into visibility - Shalo has evidently made the same calculation. For a moment, I do not see the Nuru-Or, and then she shows up, close to my own stern. R'j is planning something, but what? And where did those tachyon pings come from -?
Asked and answered, in the same moment. Four shapes register at the outer range of my detectors, to be identified in seconds. Three Koro'tinga-class cruisers and a Negh'var. "Open hailing frequencies," I say resignedly.
I watch the comms panel as the screen goes live. Shalo is linked in; R'j is open for reception, but not transmission. Interesting. What is she planning? - Then I see, as the Nuru-Or noses up closer still to my stern and vanishes into cloak. Even with the tachyon grid up, it might look to an observer as if my Hoh'Sus had simply docked - leaving Nuru-Or undetected and ready for... whatever might transpire.
A Klingon face appears on the main viewscreen. "I am General Makt, of the House of K'Vegh. You are intruding in a zone prohibited by order of the High Council." His eyes narrow. "And I see, General Shalo, that you have an outstanding requirement to account for yourself to the Council. You will surrender your vessels and submit to arrest, pending a full inquiry before the Council itself."
"I regret," says Shalo, "that this does not accord with our instructions."
"Rrueo agrees," I say. "Rrueo has better ways to spend her time."
"That was not a request," snaps Makt. "Prepare to be boarded, or prepare to be destroyed. The choice is yours."
"Who made this system a prohibited zone?" Shalo asks. "Whose order, General? Whose commands do you follow like a willing slave?"
She has decided not to be subtle - even I know that is a killing insult to a Klingon. Makt's nostrils flare, and then the screen goes blank.
"Rrueo thinks we are about to be destroyed," I remark. "Unless we do the destroying first. Target the battle group, all guns to independent fire. Reinforce forward shields." I study the trajectories of the Klingon ships suddenly racing towards us. "Steer two one mark seven. And open fire."
Even the vast bulk of the Skaldak trembles as the full power of our disruptors cuts loose. Green light flares across space, to slam into the shields of the approaching battle group. Then our shields glare and shiver as Makt's ships return fire. They are coordinating fire on the Skaldak - sound tactics, to destroy their enemies in detail, one at a time. I have a worthy opponent. I find this, however, annoying.
"Steer one one six mark three eight four. Focus fire -" I designate one cruiser on the tac console. "Flank speed."
Skaldak heels over, presenting a relatively undamaged shield facing to the attackers. The spray of fire from our disruptors narrows and gains focus, targeting the lead cruiser. Its shields shatter, and fire vents from its hull as some of our beams penetrate. It is not out of the fight, though, and its consorts are still pounding at my shields. Lights begin to flash on my damage control console - some of their hits are getting through, too.
Much will depend, now, on whether I have predicted R'j's and Shalo's moves successfully -
Knobos turns, too, her course parallel to Skaldak's; Shalo is presenting her considerable energy broadside to the enemy. The cruisers close in, disruptors stabbing at me. Then there is a sudden explosion near one of them, and then another - I grin. Shalo has deployed one of the command cruiser's defensive platforms, and for the moment our firepower is considerably augmented by the barrage from its automated mines. More flames and debris spout from the wounded hull of our target, and then that cruiser turns sharply, trying to break off the engagement. A disruptor beam strikes home, savaging its starboard nacelle, and it spins wildly off course, shields failing, weapons falling silent.
"Target the next cruiser!"
Flash-bang from a transient overload, somewhere on the bridge. If I am lucky, it will do no more than roast a targ or two. My shields are lower than I would like them, though, and there is a noise and a wind that suggests a hull breach, somewhere near at hand. Automatics will seal it - or they will not; no time to worry over it now. The cruisers are hammering away at us - and the Negh'var is firing, too, and its firepower is considerable.
Then the Nuru-Or decloaks, neatly positioned at the Negh'var's stern, and unleashes a torrent of eldritch indigo cannon fire directly into the big ship's engine section. The aft shields offer only a moment's protection against that barrage; an impulse engine explodes, and the Negh'var is suddenly shrouded in a blazing cloud of escaping deuterium. R'j snaps off a volley of plasma torps, then veer sharply away, evading the disruptor fire Makt sends after her. That ship is hurt, hurt badly -
"Disruptor autocannon, on the Negh'var, now!"
Hurt enough for my main weapon to finish the job. The main viewer becomes one pulsing glare of green light as the autocannon yammers out bolt after bolt. The cruisers are still snapping at my shields, but Shalo is targeting one already, and R'j is coming about to take the second - I can live through the next few seconds, and that is all I need -
The Negh'var's shields fail under my barrage, and the autocannon tears into the unprotected hull. Armour vaporizes and burns in escaping air, and then the burning cloud around Makt's ship becomes brighter, far brighter, as the core breaches and the ship is gone.
"Guns to independent fire. Take those cruisers!"
The two surviving cruisers - do not survive for long. Not in the face of the sheer power of the Skaldak and the Knobos, or the surgical precision with which R'j wields her antiproton cannons. Both ships are wise enough to try to flee. One is blasted to shrapnel before it can leave our range; the other escapes, wounded, bleeding air and warp plasma - no threat, not until it spends a month or more in the shipyards -
"Damage report." The air is still, at least; the hull breach has been dealt with.
"Shields at twenty-two per cent and rebuilding," K'Rokok reports. "Structural integrity at eighty-six per cent, hull breaches on decks four, six and ten now sealed, minor damage to electroplasma relays at frame sixty-one.... We remain battle-ready, sir."
"We may have to be," Toriash says. "I am reading two more battle groups on long range scan, moving to intercept."
"Signal from the Knobos," Oschmann adds.
"On screen."
Shalo's face, when it appears, is grim. "The High Council evidently has substantial patrol forces in this area. We will need some other stratagem to enter the system. We cannot kill them all day - they only need to get lucky once, and it will be all over for us."
"S-s-s-s-s. I agree," R'j's voice adds. "They have our numbers and our capabilities, now - the next fight will not be so easy, and there will be more to come, unless we leave, now."
"Rrueo agrees. Break off and head for a safe port in the Neutral Zone. Rrueo proposes Calixta IV - close enough to the Federation that the Council will hesitate to bring a war there."
"Agreed," says Shalo. "Warp speed, as soon as possible."
"Make it so," I growl at my bridge crew. Skaldak comes about, heading away from 54 Eridani.
"Great." Oschmann's mind-tone is a study in irritation. "So now I'm a renegade from two interstellar powers. Any chance I can fall out with the Republic, too? I'd like to get the full set."
"Rrueo will oblige, if she can," I say. I stand up. "However. Rrueo is now a fugitive from the High Council herself, and will have to find some way to keep her own head firmly on her shoulders. Rrueo intends to devote some thought to this problem."
"You honour us with your attention, Dahar Master," said T'Khal. Behind him, Dillan moved restively, his eyes turning from one to another of the artifacts on the trophy wall beside them.
Khreg said nothing. He leaned back in his chair. The chair was wide and solid, with a metallic frame; it looked like the command chair of an old Klingon warship. It fitted in with the many other antiques in the room; the holograms of space battles over the fireplace, the crossed bat'leths and disruptor rifles on the walls, the commemorative plaques and the pieces of armour. Khreg's study looked like a museum - and Khreg himself, with his grizzled grey hair, and the many decorations studding his leather coat, looked like an exhibit himself. He picked up the datapad and studied it closely.
"What is this?" Dillan asked, suddenly. He pointed to a book, lying open on a small side table. "I cannot read that writing -"
"Not many can," murmured Khreg. "It is a relic of Ng'Khalvan, a nation destroyed in the Hur'q invasion. A few of those people survived, to preserve some remnants of their culture. I doubt, though, that there are a hundred people alive today who can read Ng'Khalvan Hol."
"Are you among them?" asked Dillan.
"Of course. What would be the point of owning a book I could not read?" Khreg lifted the datapad in his hand. "I can read this, too."
"And your thoughts?" asked T'Khal.
Khreg pursed his lips. "An interesting proposal," he said.
"But will you support it?" Dillan asked. T'Khal waved him to silence.
"How might I support anything?" asked Khreg. "I am a private citizen, a retired soldier - I hold no seat on the High Council. Unlike yourselves. How might a mere private citizen assist two High Councillors?"
"Your voice is heard," said Dillan. "Your House has claims in honour upon half the noble families of the Empire! You have -"
"It is true," said Khreg, "that my House has done service to the Empire over many generations. And it is good that others... remember this. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps, when I speak, others... may be minded to listen. But, tell me, why should I speak in favour of this?"
"Because," said T'Khal, "it represents final victory."
Khreg raised one shaggy eyebrow. "To the uninitiated," he said, "it looks more like final surrender."
"With respect, Dahar Master, not so," said T'Khal. "We have heard for generations how our culture must mature, must develop, and so must come to resemble its enemy. The Federation. We have been told, time and time again, that we must put aside childish things like honour and battle and pride in lineage, and embrace the Federation's supposed enlightenment. We have been told this so many time, even some Klingons have come to believe it! But this -" He took a step towards Khreg, leaning towards the old man, speaking in a softer voice that somehow carried with it utter conviction. "This proves that the humans, the Federation's single most influential species, are prepared to embrace our values, our warrior ethos. They want to be like us, Khreg. We cede a title to them, a historically important but now meaningless title, and in so doing, we win. We win the war of ideas. A more final victory than any we could win on a battlefield. The Federation stands or falls by its ideals, and here we have one of their founder members, leaving their ideals to embrace ours."
Khreg raised his head, meeting T'Khal's gaze. "No," he said, shortly.
"No?"
"You do not understand the Federation, High Councillor T'Khal. You think you do, but you do not. They take their IDIC, their diversity, seriously. They will not quail at this. It will not drive them to re-think their beliefs, their ideas. They will simply shrug it off, as a difference of opinion. Nothing more. But the symbolism to us, to our culture - You say the title is historically important, but now meaningless. I say, nothing has meaning outside its historical importance. I know my history." With his other hand, he made a sweeping gesture, indicating the relics in the room.
"You will not support us, then?" Dillan demanded.
"You have heard my thoughts," said Khreg.
"Before you reach a final decision, Dahar Master," said T'Khal, "let us speak some more of history."
Khreg shook his head. "I doubt there is any historical precedent you can cite, that would change my mind."
"Still, we must persevere," said T'Khal. "In the matter of the Orion, ahh, entertainer named Methis Dizour... that is a minor historical incident, whose details have never been entirely made clear."
"A very minor historical incident," said Khreg.
"Of course. But the movements of your heir, Karos, were of interest at the time, were they not? Though it was quickly established that he was not involved. Persons of rank and honour spoke for him. And the exact truth... well, you are a historian, you know that exact truth is hard to find. Ultimately, the only persons who know the whole truth were the Orion, and... the killer."
"The Orion is dead," said Khreg, "and the killer has never been found."
"Quite," said T'Khal. "And there are, no doubt, some who might wish this state of affairs to continue. The killer... and his House, one must presume, who would be dishonoured if the full details came to light."
"How could those full details ever come to light?" Khreg demanded. "As you say, they are known only to two people."
"Indeed," said T'Khal. "But our historical researches are meticulous, Dahar Master. They have, for example, reached as far as a certain storage facility on the borders of your own estates, at QanSa Fields. Curious, that your House's name crops up so frequently in this context, even though persons of rank and honour are convinced that your heir was not involved."
Something changed in Khreg's eyes. T'Khal's eyes were merciless.
"I... will consider all that you have said," Khreg said slowly. "There are many historical factors which must be assessed."
"Of course," said T'Khal.
"Tomorrow," said Khreg. "Tomorrow. I would ask you to call again, tomorrow. By then, I will have... reviewed the data... and will know how best I can assist you."
"That would be eminently satisfactory, Dahar Master," said T'Khal. "You have our thanks."
---
After they had gone, Khreg sat for a long time, the datapad unread in his hand.
"Honour," he said to no one, after a while. "Honour... is lost, even if no other knows that one has lost it. Is it more lost, if many know it? If only a few know?"
His free hand curled into a fist. "How? How did they know about QanSa? No one knows. No one...."
He stood. The datapad dropped, unheeded, to the floor.
"I will not help them. But I will not have my dishonour known."
He strode to one wall, opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of bloodwine and a goblet. He closed his eyes for a moment, and muttered something inaudible.
He went to another cupboard. It was locked, and he fumbled for a little while among the nearby relics, until he found a key. From the cupboard, he took a small, square, metal flask.
He filled the goblet with bloodwine, almost to the brim. He took a deep breath. He opened the flask, and poured its contents into the wine. The fluid from the flask was colourless; it vanished into the bloodwine and left no apparent trace.
He picked up the goblet, turned it in his fingers, apparently admiring the chasing. Then he took another deep breath. He raised the goblet to his mouth and drank, swiftly and steadily, never stopping until all the wine was gone.
Then he returned to his chair and sat down, composing himself, staring straight ahead, his hands on the armrests. He did not move; he seemed to be waiting. There was no sound in the room except for his breathing. After a few minutes, that stopped.
Threatening someone known for their honor and dignity with trampling that dignity? The conspirators may have, in the long run, sealed their place on Jm'pok's trophy wall right here.
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!
"Come in," Thrang's voice called, and the door slid open. Tharval stepped through. Thrang's quarters were modest enough, and surprisingly neat, the Lethean thought. Thrang himself was seated at a desk, working at a console whose screen was carefully positioned to be visible only to him.
"We have an issue," Tharval said.
"Oh?" Thrang raised an eyebrow.
"An approach was made to Dahar Master Khreg. His response was, apparently, to take his own life. Questions will undoubtedly be asked." Tharval held out a PADD. Thrang took it and studied it.
"Interesting," he commented.
"Is that all?" said Tharval.
Thrang pursed his lips. "I take it our friends can't be implicated?"
"They could be, if someone on the High Council were so minded. They were the last persons to see Khreg alive... it would be natural for suspicion to alight on them."
"But the poison was clearly self-administered."
"Such was the conclusion of the first investigators, yes. That conclusion might be challenged, though."
"Well, we have many friends on the High Council," Thrang observed. "They can squash any unwanted speculation."
"Will they? Our friends are not, as it were, spontaneously friendly."
Thrang shook his head and chuckled. "We will just have to point out that continued friendship is in their interests. T'Khal and Dillan will have to make a lot of calls. But... in the end, this can work to our advantage. If you're going to run a successful blackmailing operation, it helps to have an example of the... disadvantages of non-cooperation."
"You propose that Khreg should serve as such an example?"
"I'm determined to get some use out of the man." Thrang stood up. "When life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade, as they say. Which prompts another thought. Khreg knew things, didn't he? And now he's dead."
"Indeed."
Thrang smiled. "I think it's time for you to become more actively involved. In fact, with your natural abilities, you might even be better at this business than I am." He picked up another PADD from the desk. "I've got full details of the procedure here, and all the information you need to make a discreet run past the Council blockade and all the way to Qo'noS. Recover Khreg's body, and... make enquiries."
He held out the PADD. Tharval hesitated a moment, then took it. "You trust me with this?"
"I have to. I'm going to be busy. I can't be everywhere at once, and -" Thrang's smile broadened "- as a nobleman of the Grand Imperium, I have duties to attend to."
---
The guest quarters aboard the Nihydron destroyer were larger and more comfortable. Grand Admiral Johan ter Horst was stiff and ill at ease, though, as he sat in the armchair and watched Kalevar Thrang pour two glasses of whisky.
"Authentic Earth Scotch," Thrang said. "One of the amenities that you - that we, I should say - forsook during the exodus and the establishment of the Imperium." He walked over to the chair and handed one glass to ter Horst. The Grand Admiral took it, but did not drink.
"Oh, relax. My lord," said Thrang. He took another chair, lounging casually in it with his legs crossed. "If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't spoil a good Scotch to do it."
"You have some aim in view, Baron," said ter Horst.
Thrang grinned. "I always do."
Ter Horst took a cautious sip from the glass. He gave a minimal nod of approval. "I have had some thoughts as to where your aims might be directed," he said. "Your most obvious goal is... the one which chiefly concerns me. Your performance in the space battle exercises makes my tenure as Grand Admiral insecure. To put it mildly." He frowned. "So far, I have been able to explain to His Imperial Majesty that your victories are inevitable, due to the superiority of this vessel. But, frankly, I think you could beat me, even in an evenly matched ship."
"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself," Thrang quoted, "but talent instantly recognizes genius. Yes, I could probably take your place as Grand Admiral, if I pushed hard enough. But, well, do I want it?"
"You are an ambitious man, Baron." Ter Horst's eyes narrowed.
"I am indeed. And I'm aiming very high."
"Oh, of course. His Imperial Majesty's throne. The summit of all ambitions." Ter Horst rolled his eyes.
"Not yours, though," said Thrang.
"I am Grand Admiral. I am content with that. It is a position that I will fight to retain... in whatever way I can. I will concede that you have considerable ability - very considerable - but I am familiar with politics in the Grand Imperium. I have experience, alliances, which you do not. You may not find me so easy to dislodge as you might think."
"The home field advantage - yes, it counts for a lot. But I don't even want your job, my lord."
"You need it, or something like it, as a stepping stone towards the throne. If that is your goal."
Thrang laughed. "You're happy enough to talk treason with me, I see."
"Competition for the Imperial throne is not treason - it is healthy. A dictum of the Imperium's founding fathers. Of course, His Imperial Majesty is free to discourage competitors... in various ways."
"And an upstart like me stands no chance, really," said Thrang. He held up the glass in his hand and turned it around, watching the amber liquid swirl inside it. "Though some other people stand no chance either, of course."
Ter Horst said nothing.
"The founding fathers of the Grand Imperium adopted many of Earth's warrior conventions, which they thought were in decline at the time. They took on warrior names, creating noble houses in the traditions of Caesar, Singh, Gaddafi, Sun Tzu, Attila, Mussolini... any number of others. Of course, there's room for people not in that nobility to... rise. To a certain level."
Ter Horst remained silent.
"The Imperium is divided into eighty-four sectors. Four are held by the Emperor personally; two each by the three High Kings; one each by the various sector Dukes, Archdukes, Princes... and three Margraves. The Margraves are, if you like, the lowest of the highest. Outranked by dukes and such, even if their holdings are equally extensive, and even better managed."
Ter Horst took another cautious sip from his glass.
"Interesting title, Margrave," said Thrang. "Originates from the Germanic Graf, of course - a Count in European culture, equivalent to an Earl in the Scandinavian-influenced countries. The Counts or Earls were the main body of the nobility for most of mediaeval history - lording it over the mere Barons and the mass of the commonalty. The superior rank of Duke is a relatively modern invention. But the Margraves... a Margrave is a Mark-Graf, a noble whose lands were on the marches - the frontier of a nation. It was a position of trust, of responsibility. A Margrave was a man who could be trusted to guard a frontier - someone whose ability, and loyalty, were beyond question. In a way, it's a more honourable title than Duke. A Duke derives from dux bellorum, a war leader. All a Duke needs is military ability."
"Which is enough," said ter Horst.
"I wonder. I think I would much rather have a Margrave by my side, than a Duke. Particularly if I were aiming for a Duke's position. As you say, I need a stepping stone. Or two."
"Two?" Ter Horst's eyebrows went up. "You propose to challenge your Duke, I can see that... once you win, you will be in a position, nominally, to challenge the Emperor himself. You will need support for that, though... and, I gather, you want mine."
"Absolutely. His Grace Duke Arthur Adolf Plantagenet McLellan... well, let's just say he shouldn't start any long books." Thrang grinned. "But the Emperor, now, he's more of a challenge. Yes, I need support to take him on. Support from a highly talented tactician - because genius recognizes talent right back, my friend - who's risen as high as he can hope to, under the current regime... well, that support would be welcome."
"There is not so much room for either of us to rise higher, Baron," said ter Horst.
"Oh, isn't there?" Thrang's gaze locked with ter Horst's eyes. "The Grand Imperium is confined to one M-class world, in one obscure system, now, Grand Admiral. And maybe our lord the Emperor is content with that. But I'm not. I'm taking the Imperium out to the stars, Grand Admiral. The sky is, quite literally, the limit."
"Assuming you survive."
"That is always a safe assumption."
Ter Horst smiled. "You have no time for false modesty, I see. The same is true of most of the Imperial nobility... but, for the most part, they are content to act out their parts, to play at being warriors and noblemen. You have seen the endless war games, you know the jockeying for position that occupies so much of our time. I think... I would prefer the friendship of a man with genuine ambition." He raised his glass to his lips and drank.
---
Thrang was back in his quarters when the comms console buzzed for attention. He sighed as he went to it. "Thrang. What is it?"
Tharval's leathery mask of a face appeared on the screen. "En route to Qo'noS."
"Is that all? I've had a long day, Tharval."
"I have had some tiresome complications, myself. Eluding my escort, for example."
"Escort?"
"A cloaked ship, attempting to match my departure vector. If you had me followed, Thrang, it would... displease... me. If I am your lieutenant, I should be trusted."
"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have given you the details of the process. No, that wasn't one of mine." Thrang frowned. "Must have been an element of the High Council's informal picket. I can find out who it was, if you want them killed. Do you want them killed?"
Tharval considered. "Not especially. And it would take you too much time to identify them, I think. We shook off their pursuit. That ship's captain is unlikely to be anxious to advertise their failure."
"Very well. Keep me informed." Thrang yawned. "Tomorrow."
"Cloak is - stable," Goota reports. "Separation is - constant at thirty - kellicams."
"No further evasive manoeuvres?" I ask.
"Negative." The android's voice is completely steady, though her hands are constantly moving on the controls. The complexity of her task must be taxing even her positronic brain, though. I lean forward, studying the dot on the screen. After the initial flurry of quick course changes, our target must now be convinced that he has lost us.
Laska, at the science console, is cursing steadily in an undertone. She does not have a positronic brain, and her task - analysing our target's warp field so that Goota can hold us in position - is nearly as complex. Still, she is managing. I am fortunate, since I am now a pirate, to have such a capable crew.
The dot on the screen is a Talaxian Drexia-class freighter, small and harmless. It is, however, the only thing to depart from the 54 Eridani system since our abortive probe, and it is a Delta Quadrant design, which suggests either Thrang or the Kobali. A single burst from Nuru-Or's armament would turn it into drifting space dust, but we would learn nothing from that; our plan, therefore, is to follow it and find out what it is doing.
"Something," Laska mutters.
"What?" I ask.
"Subspace radio emissions...." Laska's craggy face is screwed into a frown of concentration. "Looks like random noise, but it isn't... several layers of fractal encryption. That ship is signalling."
"S-s-s-s-s. Signalling what, and to whom?"
"Don't know." But, from the expression on her face, she has some ideas.
"Target is - changing course," says Goota. "Compensating."
I do not even feel the course change. "New heading?" I ask.
"One one four mark six. If there are no - further changes, that will take the target to - frontier outpost at Rakur Aretta."
"S-s-s-s-s." I call up my data libraries on the command console. It is the sort of task I would normally delegate to Laska, but she is evidently busy. I input a query and study the results. "Class two base, one class L world, numerous commercial holdings owned by a variety of Great Houses...."
"More signals," Laska mutters. "I think I see...."
"Tell me when you are sure," I say. I do not see what is important at Rakur Aretta... but we do not even know if this ship's mission is important at all. All we know is, we must do something. Rrueo has her own mission - and that took some time to arrange - but Shalo and I have been unable to do anything, except hang at the fringe of the system and evade the High Council's patrols, for so long now....
"Approaching system boundary of - Rakur Aretta. Target is - slowing. Compensating. Ready to drop out of warp."
I wait. On the screen, the streaking stars slow, turn back into points.
"Got it," Laska says with evident satisfaction.
"Tell me."
She nods. "The ship is transmitting encrypted bursts on low-band subspace channels - the channels used by ship transponders and automated traffic control systems. It's tripping some sort of hard-coded subroutine in the Imperial control networks. Whenever it sends one of those bursts, the ship is automatically identified and cleared as scheduled traffic."
"S-s-s-s-s. A useful trick, to smooth the way. It reeks of Kalevar Thrang - we know he passes through Imperial space like the wind, going wherever he wishes...."
"Thrang isn't on that ship, though," says Laska. "I have clear reads on all the life signs - one Lethean, seven Orions, eight Thexemians."
"A typical selection of Thrang's lackeys," I mutter. "But what is their purpose here?"
"A single volley might make that irrelevant," Laska muses.
"No. We need information. Corpses, we may have at any time, but corpses offer no answers. S-s-s-s-s. Is the cloak still stable?"
"Confirmed," says Goota.
"A detail analysis of their warp contrail would show up our presence," says Laska. "But I can see no reason why anyone should make such an analysis."
"So. We stay concealed, we follow this one... at least as far as their destination here... perhaps beyond, if it may be useful."
---
At impulse speeds, the trip across the system takes very nearly as long as the journey from 54 Eridani. Laska takes the opportunity to sleep for a few hours: she needs it. Goota, fortunately, does not.
The Drexia is not heading for either the military base or the sole marginally-habitable planet, but for a small mining station orbiting an outer-system ice giant. Curious. I interrogate the database, seeking more information. I wish I could use subspace to requisition Imperial Intelligence files, but there are sound reasons why that is impractical.
"Curious," I remark aloud.
Goota remains silent, absorbed in her work, but Siowershoe is on the bridge, and she says, "Sir?"
"The station. A commercial facility, owned by the House of Kungan. A staging point for helium-3 extraction from the outer atmosphere of the ice giant. A place of no conceivable importance."
"An ideal spot for illicit transactions, then," Siowershoe says.
"S-s-s-s-s. Perhaps. But what? Whatever it is, it is not without importance... that ship was very keen to try to shake us off. And it is working for Thrang, there can be no reasonable doubt of that. What does he want here?"
"A rendezvous point. Someone or something is being transshipped." Siowershoe's flat, long-eared face is thoughtful. "Perhaps we should examine the records of the station. It may have received a visitor of some kind, in the recent past."
"A possibility. S-s-s-s-s." I consider the options. If the Drexia simply returns to 54 Eridani, what do I learn? Unless I take it on its return journey... but I have no guarantee of obtaining information; that little ship would be too easily reduced to useless space dust. "Yes. A distinct possibility. We have found the next link in a chain, so we shall test it."
"Test what, sir?" Laska has returned to the bridge.
"The station that our target is visiting. We will know its purpose. The advantage of an orbital station is, it cannot run from us." I grin at her. "Let us see, too, if you have interpreted those code signals correctly, and if they will work for us as well. S-s-s-s-s. To be logged as legitimate traffic, that would be even more useful than the battle cloak."
"A magic shield of invisibility against bureaucrats. Quite." Laska takes her station. "The target is approaching transporter range of the station."
"They may need to dock physically. Remember the compressed decalithium."
"The target is signalling the station... exchanging recognition handshakes." Laska hunches over her console. "Data burst transmission from the station... and a transporter signal. Well, if it's compressed decalithium, we'll know, when the freighter explodes." She shakes her head. "Transport complete. Another data handshake, looks like a sign-off...."
"Target is - coming about," says Goota. "Heading for - Eridani sector. Exact details to - follow."
"Never mind. Ease us away. Maintain cloak. Wait until the Drexia is clear of the system, and then we will go in to the station."
---
The interior of the station is bare, bleak, functional. The House of Kungan does not waste money on fripperies, not out here. Well, and why should they?
One good thing, already; Laska was right about the codes, and they work for us. They worked well enough, in fact, to let me decloak Nuru-Or and take her into a docking port at the station. The station's staff - it has a permanent staff of twelve - apparently did not notice. My belief is, they are all in disfavour with the House of Kungan, and are leaving everything to the automated systems, while they themselves count the minutes to the end of their tour of duty.
I stalk along the corridors, flanked by two of my engineering crew, M'Rel and the Lethean, Nubir. They should be equal to any technical challenges - and the three of us will be able to cope with any security, I am sure of that.
"We will secure the computer core, first," I say, "then go to the transporter room and obtain its logs."
"Both areas should be defended," says M'Rel. He lifts his disruptor rifle, and the scars on his face rearrange themselves into a worrying grin.
"Should be," I say. "Security seems lax, though." But my hands rest on the weapons at my belt, ready for action.
The station is, at least, a standard design: I was able to obtain plans without difficulty. We go along one more corridor, down a steeply-sloping ramp, around a corner - and Nubir stops, and raises one hand. "I feel a mind," he says. "Wait."
I wait. Nubir's hellish Lethean eyes seem to glaze over for a few seconds - then his demon mask of a face contorts in an expression of pleasure. "Sleeping," he says. "Now, he will sleep many hours more, regardless of all else."
"Cheating," says M'Rel with a rueful look.
"S-s-s-s-s. It makes things simpler." I stride to the door of the computer room: it is not locked. Inside, a single Klingon lies sprawled and comatose on the floor. "You two. Set up the secure download to Nuru-Or and drain this thing. I want everything it knows." I kick the limp figure on the floor. "And exercise more vigilance than this one. I will go to the transporter room and obtain the logs."
The transporter room is off the next corridor along - they will hear me if I call for help, though I do not intend to shout if I can avoid it. There is no sign of life as I make my way along the corridors. Slack and inattentive - if I am right, and the staff here are being punished, they deserve it.
The transporter room appears unattended. I spare a brief glance at the pads - standard designs, they tell me nothing - and go to the console. The logs are unsecured. I am downloading them to my tricorder when a detail catches my eye, and I frown, and pause the rapidly-scrolling display.
Klingon transporter systems are rugged, direct and simple - they lack many of the complex safety features that the Federation considers essential. But, recently, the logs show two personnel transports that were hedged about with unusual safety precautions. Personnel who should not be lost to a simple transporter accident, then - VIPs, certainly. What would a Klingon dignitary be doing, visiting an obscure station like this? The appended codes look, to my admittedly untutored eye, like High Council IDs -
"Remain where you are. Make no sudden movements. Do not reach for your weapons."
Well, now, this is embarrassing. The voice behind me is that of a Klingon, evidently some member of staff who is more alert than most. And after my words to Nubir and M'Rel - they will chaff me for it, I am sure of that. I am almost irritated.
"Turn around. Slowly."
I turn. Slowly, because the speaker has told me to... and because I am concentrating, letting the force build within my brain.
The Klingon is a young male in nondescript work leathers, holding a worn but perfectly adequate disruptor pistol. He squints suspiciously at me. "Who are you? And why are you here?"
"R'j Bl'k'," I answer. "Dahar Master and honorary General in the Klingon Defense Force, Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Knight-Acolyte of the Phocine Temple -" the recitation is puzzling him, and his aim is wavering away from me "- and, most importantly in this context, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom."
And I release the force which has been building in my mind. The psychokinetic bolt plucks him off his feet and hurls him against the bulkhead. He drops to the floor. He is shaken and hurt and confused, but still conscious; by the time he has recovered himself, though, he is looking into my eyes, over the barrel of his own disruptor.
"I am here as part of an investigation ordered by the Chancellor," I tell him. "I can obtain all the information I need from your logs, but I am curious, and somewhat pressed for time. Perhaps you can aid me. Members of the High Council came here. Did they, by any chance, bring something with them?"
He stares at me. Then he clears his throat. I have evidently not underestimated his courage or his loyalty.
"High Councillors T'Khal and Dillan," he says. "They brought a cargo for transshipment - it was beamed out of here - only a short while ago - they brought bloodwine, too, as a gift -"
So that partly accounts for the absence of security: the staff are all sodden with bloodwine. "What was this cargo?"
He shakes his head. "I do not understand - nothing of importance," he says. "Only a corpse."
"You will not even state your name!" Dillan roared.
The Lethean folded his arms across his chest. He stood there, facing the High Council, his red eyes smouldering. "I have no name of my own, when I stand here and speak for Lethea. And it is Lethea as a whole that requires answers relating to our colony at 54 Eridani VI."
"Your illicit colony," Dillan snapped.
"We do not require the High Council's permission to exploit an uninhabited world outside Klingon space. Unless our relationship with the Empire has significantly changed? - in which case, we should surely have been informed."
There was a grumbling, hostile sound from the massed Councillors. At the centre of the Council dais, J'mpok made no sound, no movement.
"Contact was lost with our people," the Lethean continued, "and no information is forthcoming. The High Council has placed an embargo around the 54 Eridani system, and our ships are intercepted and turned away. I have come here, on behalf of my people, to request answers. The High Council has always dealt honourably with the Lethean people - before now, at least."
More hostile grumbling. "The embargo is necessary," Dillan said. "The human population on the neighbouring world is a potential source of conflict with the Federation! And, when we consider the other issues -"
"What other issues?" the Lethean demanded.
"The intrusion of the Chancellor's rogue agents." It was T'Khal who spoke, now. J'mpok's heavy-lidded eyes turned towards him, but the Chancellor remained silent.
"Whatever they were doing in that system, it poses more dangers to our alliance with the Federation," said Dillan. "An alliance in whose favour the Chancellor has, previously, argued strongly. The Council is acting to contain the situation, nothing more."
"Until it becomes clear," said T'Khal. "Should we appeal to the Chancellor for clarity?"
J'mpok stirred. "I have little to spare," he growled. "If my agents were brought before me, they would explain themselves... but, thus far, the Council's operatives have been unable to accomplish this, no?"
"No small number have died trying," snapped Dillan. "Perhaps the Chancellor should choose his agents more wisely in future!" There was a mumbling from the rest of the Council - uncertain, but possibly approving.
"Perhaps we should all choose our agents more wisely," said J'mpok, "and refrain from setting them at odds with each other... if we desire clarity."
"The Chancellor and the High Council may desire clarity," the Lethean said. "We, however, merely desire answers. The last message from 54 Eridani spoke of some kind of emergency - since then, we have heard nothing. Our government, and the families of the colonists, are naturally concerned."
"Your people should not have settled in that system at all!" Dillan shouted. "The consequences are on their own heads!"
"What are the consequences?" the Lethean demanded.
"The High Council does not answer to you!" Dillan snarled.
"Why not?" the Lethean countered. "What possible reason could the Council have for withholding information? The Lethean people are allies of the Empire. And the Empire has always respected the ties of loyalty, of family -"
"Do you criticise us now?" Dillan demanded.
The Lethean stood there silent for a few seconds, his blazing eyes fixed on Dillan. Then, "It seems I must," he said, and turned on his heel, and stalked out of the Great Hall.
---
"That was not good," S'taass observed, later, in J'mpok's private office.
"There was a very peculiar atmosphere in that meeting," said Melani D'ian.
J'mpok had been sitting at his desk, his head hanging. Now, he sat up, and glowered at the other two. "Peculiar," he said, "yes."
"Why is the High Council being so obdurate?" S'taass asked. "A simple statement would answer the Letheans' requests... why not give one? Whatever the facts, giving them would be preferable to these... stalling tactics."
"It almost seems," said D'ian, "as though someone is anxious to provoke an open breach with the Letheans."
S'taass shifted his huge bulk. "That would be... somewhat of a problem," he said. "The Letheans are a minor power, true, but there are commitments, treaties, with the Gorn Hegemony - a rift with Lethea would weaken King Slathis, would perhaps allow openings for the separatists to gain influence -"
"The Syndicate also has agreements with the Letheans," D'ian observed. "True, our arrangements are flexible, but they can only flex so far before they snap. A serious breach with the Letheans is... something to be avoided."
"But elements on the High Council are positively courting such a breach," said S'taass. "Why?"
D'ian's eyes glittered. "You suspect an incipient coup?"
"Suspect?" J'mpok laughed, a harsh, humourless bark. "We are half way there already. First they engineer a disruption, then they propose a solution..." He raised his head. "After so many years, I know the Great Hall, I feel its temper, its undercurrents. I can feel the treason gathering...."
D'ian raised one exquisite eyebrow. "Would you care to share your insights?"
J'mpok scowled. "It is a matter of... the sounds, the looks. I caught shared glances among several of the Councillors... I have seen such things in many a conspiracy before. The moment of shared recognition, the glance that says "ah, you are one of us too, are you?'.... It has implications. Whatever this is, it has been long in planning. T'Khal and Dillan -"
"They are highly vocal," said S'taass.
"They are fronts. The humans have a term, stalking horse. T'Khal and Dillan are the tools, another's hand wields them. That person, I believe, is Thrang's main ally on the High Council. Or am I wrong, do you think, to see Kalevar Thrang behind all of this?"
"Thrang has certainly been active. And his ambitions are grandiose," said D'ian.
"But I still do not see, quite, how he proposes to realize them," growled J'mpok.
"Your agents?" asked S'taass.
"They are active. I know this much."
"General Shalo seems... reasonably capable. Though somewhat rigid in her outlook." D'ian sniffed.
"She and her companions are competent enough. But they will need to be." J'mpok shook his head. "With the High Council's proscription hanging over them - if they return here, it must be with all the answers, or they will be executed. They have one chance. One only."
So the Council is, at least partially, acting independently of J'mpok's control. Makes sense, post-war J'mpok (as shevet writes him) doesn't strike me as the type to go on witch hunts.
Your father was captain of a starship for twelve minutes. He saved 800 lives, including your mother's, and yours.
Taking the Skaldak through the blockade was a challenge. Evading the Council's patrols in-system, and even the inept picket forces of the Grand Imperium itself, remains a constant and ongoing challenge. I am over-supplied with challenges, and seriously short on resources.
Fortunately, I am short, not destitute. I am using one resource now, and she is proving useful.
I am standing in a hotel apartment in Caesar City, the capital of the Grand Imperium. I would, of course, stand out, were I to reserve an apartment of this kind for myself. However, I am blessed - if that is the word - with one officer who can blend seamlessly into a human society of this type.
"There's definitely something going on at the Palace," Oschmann says. She is dressed in the fashion of a minor Imperial aristocrat: a thigh-length scarlet jacket, tight-fitting white trousers that flare out over the thighs, and highly polished black riding boots. It is, I believe, an adaptation of a hunting costume from Earth's past, presumably from an Earth culture that did not believe in camouflage.
"The nature of this 'something'?" I ask. I sit down on the bed. The apartment is large, but sparsely furnished and starkly decorated. I understand that it is described as a "Spartan aesthetic", though I suspect the empty and functional look is simply due to lack of resources. The Grand Imperium is not economically efficient.
"There have been meetings with High Council representatives," Oschmann says. "At least, the descriptions I'm getting from my tame Baron tally with Council insignia. There have been talks with the Galactic Proconsul and the Lord Privy Seal."
"So, the titles are grandiose. What do they mean?"
"The Galactic Proconsul," Oschmann says with a slight smile, "is responsible for relations between the Imperium and the outer hinterlands - meaning, the rest of the galaxy. Essentially, their foreign minister. The Lord Privy Seal is a formal representative of the Emperor himself. Senior figures in the government. It sounds very much like the High Council is negotiating some formal agreement with the Imperium. Probably not a military agreement, given that the Grand Admiral isn't involved."
"The Imperial military is a negligible force in any event," I mutter.
"Possibly. Well, probably. Though there are reports I've heard about some hotshot new Baron with a first-rate ship... but first-rate might not mean much, in Imperial terms." Oschmann grimaces. "Problem is, these people have a screwed-up gender-biased society. They don't talk about - quote-unquote - serious stuff with mere women. So I'm finding it harder than I'd like to get solid facts about -"
We are interrupted by a fanfare of brassy notes from the apartment's door intercom. "Attention!" a synthesized voice cries. "Prepare for the ingress of the noble Baron Josef Chaka Guevara Foch, who honours you with his presence!"
Oschmann swears under her breath. "My tame Baron, paying a call. Damn it. We'll have to transport you out -"
"Skaldak is out of transporter range," I say. "She will not return for thirty more minutes - unless we recall her, but that will take her into the Council's tachyon detection pattern -"
Oschmann swears, more loudly this time. I look around. There is a sonic shower in one corner of the room, but its doorway is translucent. There is no wardrobe, only a free-standing clothing replicator. The storage cupboards are too small -
A light flashes in Oschmann's mind. I catch peculiar overtones, of both fear and - amusement. "He'll be here in a couple of minutes," she says. "Sir - can you strip, and get on all fours?"
For an instant, I am left boggling and outraged, and then I grasp her meaning. "This had better work," I hiss at her, as I tug at the straps of my uniform.
"If you have any better ideas," Oschmann mutters, "I'd love to hear them. Sir."
I growl. Oschmann kicks my discarded clothing under the bed, as I crouch down and try to look feral. I concentrate on animal thoughts. It is, unsurprisingly, easy.
There is no discreet knock on the door, no asking of permission - the door simply slides open, and the Baron enters. He is a tall, heavily built human, running to fat, with a pale face and a mop of thinning blond hair in what might be intended as an artful arrangement. He wears a long blue coat with extravagant golden braiding, buttons and epaulettes, a white ruffled shirt, and boots and trousers similar to Oschmann's. "Lady Cynthia," he says in a strange braying accent, and then spots me, and blinks. "'pon my word," he says. "Remarkable beast, what?"
"A bio-engineered hunting cat," Oschmann replies in the same overly mannered tones. "They breed them for neo-rhinoceros hunting on the New Assyrian Plains, you know. Bred for size and strength, naturally, with game like that."
"Certainly looks like it could take on a neo-rhino, what?" The man's mind is... worthless; a shallow puddle, muddied with self-indulgence and rippling with inconsequential desires. I regard him through slitted eyes. "What's all those things in its ears, though?"
"Oh," Oschmann says, stepping over to pat my head, "just her tags, to show she's had all her shots and things. I'm thinking of having her bred, though she might be getting a little long in the tooth for that."
I hiss in perfectly genuine exasperation. "I say, spirited beast, what?" says the vacuous Baron.
"Oh, she's an old softie, once she gets to know you," Oschmann says with a laugh. I repress the impulse to disembowel her. "I'd stay a little bit away from her, though, until then." She fingers one of my earrings. "I think all her shots are up to date, but I imagine a bite would still turn septic."
"Oh, quite, no fun at all, that," says the Baron with a forced laugh. "I just dropped by, you know, on the off-chance.... Do you have any plans for tomorrow afternoon?"
"Nothing I couldn't cancel, my lord. Why, do you have some devilishly clever entertainment planned?" I can feel expectancy rising in Oschmann's mind.
"Well, not so much me, more our up-and-coming newcomer chappie. The word is, the challenge floor at the Palace will be in use. You know, of course, we have this rising star in the wargames?"
"I'd heard something of the sort."
"Quite. Some of the chaps think it's unfair of him, coming to the game with that big flashy ship of his... but, well, all's fair in love and war, really, isn't it?" Braying moronic laugh. "Anyway, our parvenu Baron of the New Balearic Islands has been pushing for a challenge for some time, now, and he's finally got his chance. Some rule about points scores in the space battles, and then some other technicality about him winning his title in trial by combat - the lawyer chappies have all the details, I won't bore you with them, don't understand half of them m'self, come to think of it. But anyway, he'll be fighting the Duke of the Napoleonic Sector for the title. His Grace has chosen the weapons - rather, no weapons, unarmed hand-to-hand combat, winner takes all. Should be quite a show, what?"
"His Grace the Duke has skills in combat?" asks Oschmann.
"Oh, rather. Probably the best wrestler in the Imperium, I'd say. But the new chappie seems quite a tough customer, himself, so it's got the makings of a damned good show. Damned good. So, would you care to be an official witness? I can get jolly good seats, you know."
An image is forming in the foetid puddle of the Baron's mind. A face. I strive to control myself, to appear only the unintelligent animal I am feigning to be -
"Two big sweaty chaps locked together in mortal combat?" says Oschmann. "Oh, by all means, count me in!"
"Thought you'd probably say that. Delighted. Pick you up around three pip emma, then? And maybe dinner and a show afterwards?" The Baron purses his lips and glances at me. "Better leave your pet, though - don't think they allow them in the best restaurants."
"She's happier with a chunk of raw neo-rhino, anyway!" says Oschmann with a mannered laugh. "It will be a pleasure, my lord."
"Oh, I do hope so." The image in the Baron's mind now is... best not described. "Anyway, must dash, now, some tiresome old business things to see to. But tomorrow, definitely, it's a date, then?"
"Absolutely, my lord."
The Baron turns, goes to the door, then turns back to give a smile and a silly little wave. Oschmann blows him a kiss. The Baron's smile grows broader as he takes his leave. I feel his sordid little mind diminish in the distance.... I stand up.
"Rrueo is not sure," I say, "whether to commend your initiative, or execute you for your insolence."
"I figured he was too ignorant to recognize a Ferasan." Oschmann kneels down and starts to fish my clothes out from under the bed. "This new Baron of the New Balearics," she says, "seems to be a player of some kind. If I can get to see him in action -"
"You will confirm what Rrueo already knows," I say. "Rrueo saw an image in what passes for your Baron's mind. A foreign adventurer, rising rapidly in the Imperial nobility? Who does that sound like, to you?"
Oschmann's cold eyes widen. "The face fits -?"
"Closely enough. Telepathy is still not an exact science, but it is a face Rrueo has seen in a man's mind before. If you seek to rise in this absurd culture, you will need more of its currency." I start to pull my clothes over my sleek blue fur. "You can obtain this, I think, by placing a large wager on the winner of tomorrow's contest... the current Baron Kalevar Thrang."
"So this is where the magic happens," said Tharval.
The Kobali medical tech looked up from the stasis pod. "It can happen anywhere," he said. "Of course, it is best if the virus is introduced in a controlled situation... if the newborn is enabled to make a full recovery under medical supervision, to ease the stress of entry into our society."
He pressed a hypospray to the throat of the corpse that had been Dahar Master Khreg.
"Introducing a heavy viral load makes the transition quicker and easier," he continued, "but, of course, infection may come about anywhere, by all manner of methods. The virus is... surprisingly resilient." He shook his head. "That can cause problems in itself. Accidental infection.... We cannot always track the newborns created by accident. Can you imagine their pain? To be reborn as Kobali, but not to know who the Kobali are, how we live - how to be Kobali?"
"It must be distressing," said Tharval absently. He leaned forwards, inspecting Khreg's corpse. "How long before revitalization begins?"
"It has already begun, at the cellular level. It will take time before we see actual responses. There are many factors. Klingons are strong and resilient, and that makes for a quicker transition... but this one died from a most effective poison, and that must be purged from the system before the body's metabolism can begin anew."
Tharval's face contorted in what might have been a smile. "Forgive me. I really must quell my urges for immediate gratification. It will be days, I gather, before this... new person... is ready for the, ahh, the procedure?"
The medical tech's back stiffened. "It will. And I must say, I do not approve of this procedure."
"On purely medical grounds, no doubt," said Tharval. "And, on purely medical grounds, I'm sure you're right. But sometimes even medicine has to give way to... practicality."
"The General has given orders to cooperate with Thrang. I will not gainsay him." The tech sighed. "My approval, or disapproval, is not relevant."
"I understand your frustrations," said Tharval. "However. I, too, have my orders. There is another one ready for me, I understand?"
"Lisian. He is in your special facility already." The tech indicated a door at the far end of Ostigon's sickbay, a door marked with warning sigils and blocked by the shimmer of a force field.
"You've locked him in? Very security-conscious of you." Tharval strolled up to the door, put his hand on the scanner beside it. There was a momentary pause, and then the scanner glowed green and the field vanished with a pop. Tharval turned back to the tech. "I've been given full instructions. I won't need you."
"I do not know what goes on in that room," said the tech. "I only see the effects on our newborns." Tharval could feel the resentment bubbling in his mind. The Lethean paid no attention, as he stepped through the door and checked it was sealed behind him.
Inside, a Kobali was lying on a couch, his head enclosed in the scan module of the modified psychotricorder. "Greetings," said Tharval, feeling nervousness radiate from the subject. "I'm here on behalf of Kalevar Thrang - do you know the name?"
"I have heard of him." The Kobali's voice was muffled by the metal cage surrounding his head.
"There's no need to be concerned," said Tharval. "This is just a scan - you won't feel a thing. I will need to administer a mild hypnotic, just to put you in a receptive frame of mind. You don't mind, I hope?"
"I have given consent." The Kobali still sounded dubious. Tharval noted the couch's built-in restraints, discreetly concealed at the moment - but the flick of a single switch would make the test subject's consent a matter of indifference. He walked around the couch, to the controls of the psychotricorder. A hypospray lay beside the console; he picked it up, checked the dosage, applied it to the Kobali's neck.
"There. Not so painful, was it?"
"No...." The stuff was fast acting; that was good.
"Just relax." Tharval touched the controls of the device. Wave forms danced across the display screen; the activity patterns of the six-lobed Kobali brain.
"What's your name?"
"Lisian." The Kobali's voice was slurred. Tharval touched another control. His eyes narrowed as he reached out with his own psionic talent, feeling Lisian's mind turn dull and foggy. The patterns on the screen were slower and weaker, now.
"And what do you do?"
"Assigned to... engineering. Work on... warp core... with Sector Intelligence... no...."
Tharval's fingers moved delicately on the controls. "What's your name?"
"Lisian...?"
"And what do you do?"
"Warp core...."
Thrang had been quite specific in his instructions... and Tharval understood what was being attempted, too. His psionic sense tingled. It was like watching a sunken continent rising again from the deeps, he thought. A shadow, looming out of vagueness, details gradually resolving... ruined buildings, eroded by time, encrusted with weeds and corals... but still visible, still there, underneath the ocean waters of the Kobali mind.
Within the cage of the scanner module, lights began to glow: scanning beams, probing the Kobali's brain, mapping the neural circuits, stimulating precise points.
"What's your name?"
"Lisi... no...." The voice was different, subtly. Deeper and rougher, perhaps.
"What's your name?"
"Akhat i-Tellasor tr'Kandran."
"Thank you, Subcommander." Tharval's tone was brisk and official, now. "You were on a deep-penetration mission in Klingon space. You were involved in an accident."
"Accident. Yes. I remember - explosion -"
"You were seriously injured, Subcommander Akhat. You were lucky to survive. But you did not have time to deliver your report, Subcommander. It is vitally necessary that you make a complete report."
"I remember.... Authorization. Need authorization. Clearance codes."
Tharval bared his teeth. Too much of the original personality was bleeding through, along with the memories he needed. He made adjustments to the controls. "This is a matter of urgency, Subcommander. I do not have direct communications with the Tal Shiar. You must present your report verbally, to me, now." Lines of light spiked across the display. Tharval's fingers moved on the controls, gently, coaxingly. "I know it is irregular, but the matter is urgent. Your report, Subcommander Akhat. We must have it."
The Kobali's whole body twitched and shuddered, as if he was fighting some internal battle. Then he began to speak.
---
Hours later, Tharval stepped out of the room. The medical tech was still there, hunched over the stasis pod containing Khreg's body.
"He's sleeping it off. All very satisfactory." He savoured the tech's sullen, unspoken response. He went to the stasis pod and peered through the transparent canopy. Khreg's face was greyish, already, and the ridges on his forehead seemed to be shallower. "Progress?"
"As you see," said the tech. "It will be many more hours before this new person awakens."
"Well, I can wait. General Jhey'quar has been generous with his hospitality. I'll go to my guest quarters and rest for a while." He found he couldn't resist a quick barb. "Thank you so much for all you're doing for us." And he walked out of the sickbay before the tech could frame a response.
He paused for a moment in the corridor outside, getting his bearings. The modified Samsar-class cruiser was a big ship, and he was unfamiliar with its internal layout. Still, he had come to the sickbay from the guest quarters, so all he needed to do was to retrace his steps -
A black-clad figure passed by him in the corridor, and his eyes widened.
"Excuse me," he said. The Kobali did not respond. "Excuse me!" he called out, louder.
She turned and looked at him with cold, lilac-coloured eyes. She was slim, and tall, and her face had a curiously composed look about it. "May I be of assistance?" she asked.
Tharval stared for a moment. "Forgive me," he said. "It's just - have we met?"
The Kobali woman frowned. "I do not believe so," she said, and Tharval could see in her mind that she spoke the truth. "You are Kalevar Thrang's associate, I gather?"
"I am." His voice was flat with sudden disappointment.
"We are, of course, grateful for Thrang's - efforts - on our behalf. How may I help you?"
Tharval shook his head. "I do not think you can. I - I thought you were someone else. A mistake on my part." Though she had been someone else. And he thought he knew who. "May I ask your name?"
"I am Hanchon Lilitsia." Her eyes were still cold. "Will there be anything else?"
"No. I apologize for my error."
"Then I must be about my duties." And she turned and walked unhurriedly away. Tharval's gaze followed her down the corridor, until she reached the end, turned the corner, and vanished from his sight.
"Precisely." R'j's face grins at me from the viewscreen. "So, we must ask ourselves, why?"
"The Kobali, of course, have a use for corpses -"
"S-s-s-s-s." She sounds exasperated. "Collected, one at a time, over interstellar distances?"
"Then the corpse must be exceptional in some way." I sit back in the command chair and consider. "Whose was it?"
"Dahar Master Khreg. I am told he took his own life, in circumstances which are susceptible to multiple interpretations."
"Khreg." I know the name - there are few people, at certain levels of Imperial society, who would not know the name. "He would have been a useful ally for Thrang's tools on the High Council - if he were alive. But, dead, all his power and influence dies with him -"
Another hiss. "Does it? I have been thinking about this, and my conclusions are... disturbing."
I raise one eyebrow. "Go on."
"The body of Khreg has been taken to the Kobali, who will presumably do what they usually do. It is not uncommon for recently revived Kobali to retain the personality and memories of their... donors... until the virus reorganizes their brains sufficiently for the new Kobali persona to become dominant."
The conclusion is not an appealing one. "You think that Khreg will be subjected to some... post-mortem interrogation?"
"That is the only conclusion that makes sense to me."
I shake my head. "The memory traces are - unreliable, at best. And the Kobali seek to integrate the resurrectees into their society as quickly as possible -"
"S-s-s-s-s. If there is one thing we know about the Kobali, it is that they will sacrifice their principles for the sake of expediency. And, given what we know of Thrang, it is entirely possible he has devised a way to make the interrogations more reliable."
"I see." I pull a sour face. "It is... plausible. As a hypothesis. And the worst thing about it is... I think I know a way to test it."
---
Masur Viransa is an Orion colony world, marginal and little regarded. It has several advantages for me, just now: it is undeniably within the Orion rather than the Klingon sphere of influence, so I can be less worried about Council enforcers; it is within easy reach of the old Neutral Zone; finally, a large part of its industrial infrastructure is owned by one particular Orion House....
"I will require some assistance on the ground," I say, as the planet swells in the viewscreen before me.
"Mercenary elements, the price on your head, will wish to claim," says Foojoy. "Of deterrence, this one's presence may be, Gral Temm warriors, the reputation of, being known."
I think it is an offer of help. "I would be glad of your assistance," I say.
"Few mercenaries are disposed to argue with the Gorn, also," says the science officer, Thraak. I nod.
"If there are idiots down there, they might believe you've got allies in the Confederacy. And Orion space is full of idiots." The hissing voice comes from Vel'sh Tek, a Breen renegade who has sought refuge in the Empire. He is right, I suppose; that enigmatic masked presence might make some people think twice. "Your aid is also welcome," I say.
"I will assign a regular security detail also," says K'Gan. He looks at the screen. "You intend to beam down in person, though?"
"Of course. It is a matter of... prestige. I must show myself to be involved - and unafraid."
"A risk," the Klingon mutters.
"But a necessary one." I check the local space traffic. Few vessels on sensors - cargo haulers, mostly, and a scattering of corvettes, most likely having their own issues with Imperial law. The sensor logs show several abrupt departures since the massive form of the Knobos appeared in the system. I key a set of commands into my console. "Transmit normal requests to orbital traffic control," I order, "and take up standard orbit at whatever coordinates they assign. Also -" I tap out one final command. "Transmit this."
There are some mystified glances. Well, it is good that my crew does not know all my contacts.... I lean back in the command chair, steeple my hands, and wait. I do not need to wait for long.
"Orbital coordinates received," says Sano from her console. "And... incoming transmission on private band three eight seven."
I smile. "On screen."
An Orion face appears on the viewer; male, bald, with craggy features swathed in a layer of fat. "General Shalo. What a joy to see you. The price on your head is... adequate, I think, for me to live in luxury for the rest of my life." He smiles. "For however many seconds that would be, if I tried to claim it."
"Juvir," I say. "Good to see you, too. How go things with the House of Zorb?"
---
Juvir's offices at the port are spacious and furnished in the best of House Zorb taste - much gold and platinum, a great deal of hanging silk, and a certain number of highly explicit paintings and statuettes. The Klingon security team look on them with some displeasure. Foojoy seems to take it all in his stride, though, and I am unable to read any expressions on Thraak's scaled face, or Tek's metal mask.
Juvir settles himself behind a vast desk of highly polished wood - not native, an expensive import. In person, Juvir is almost the stereotype of the successful Orion enforcer; nearly seven feet tall, with layers of fat concealing more layers of rock-hard muscle. He grins expansively at me as I take my seat opposite him.
"Of course, this is not a social call," he says. "I could never have that much luck. So, General, how may I assist you, and how much can you afford to pay?"
"I hope for a deep discount," I tell him. "For love of our former House."
"Ah, nostalgia!" Juvir says. "Those dear dead days past recall. The House of Sinoom, alas, is no more. We have all had to make our own way in the galaxy.... I have prospered, modestly." He waves one massive hand, taking in the room and its furnishings with the gesture. "As you see. I have not risen so high as you, with your General's commission, your mighty warship, your numerous privateering contracts -"
"My proscription by the High Council," I add.
"A detail. I am sure you will attend to it, when it suits you." His eyes narrow slightly. Juvir is loud, brash, slightly comical... and never stupid. "So what brings you to my humble abode? Surely not the urge to reminisce."
I smile. "It is as I said to you. I would know how things stand with the House of Zorb."
Juvir purses his lips, and nods. "Things stand well enough."
"Even with your recent tragic loss?"
Juvir's expression changes to a sly smile. "I would not call the demise of Yeveus exactly tragic," he says.
"Inconvenient, though, surely?"
"Ah." Now, he wears a calculating look. "I would have expected - some inconvenience, yes. Yeveus was a secretive man, and when he died, he took with him passwords and secret accounts and such... but, it turned out, not so many of those; we received data, bypasses for biometric keys and so forth. His various business enterprises... passed smoothly into other hands. It was fortunate that he thought so far ahead."
"As if, perhaps, he expected to die?" I ask. "And made preparations for a smooth transition beforehand?"
Juvir's expansive humour is gone from his face entirely now. He is thinking. That is good. "It... could have been. But he showed no signs, before it happened, that he was... unduly preoccupied with death. There had been no threats against him - well, nothing beyond the normal run of things." His little dark eyes are fixed on my face. "Is that what you believe? That he expected death?"
"Candidly," I say, "no, it is not."
He raises one eyebrow. "Then, enlighten me, General. What do you believe?"
I brought a datapad with me; now, I skim it over the polished desktop towards Juvir. "There is a date there," I say, "a standardized Klingon stardate. I would know, Juvir, whether any of your instructions from Yeveus were received after that date."
"And therefore highly expensive. But I do not need to know what the instructions were... only when they were given."
He frowns. He touches some control beneath the desktop, and a section of wood slides away, to reveal a computer console. "You have some reason for asking," he says.
"A good one, and an urgent one. I will say this much," I add, "you need to know the answer, too, though you may not know why, yet."
"I think I will indulge you," says Juvir. He types rapidly on the console's interface for a moment. He takes pains to shield his movements from my gaze - well, I cannot fault him for that, security is a good habit to cultivate. "Converting from our local calendar to standard Imperial stardates... yes...." He frowns at the screen. "Yeveus's personal accounts were unlocked... some fifteen days after that date. Local days. I could convert to Imperial reckoning -"
"The details are not necessary. Anything else?"
"Biometric data was added, enabling us to unlock and decrypt his secure personal archives."
"Containing enough blackmail material to have a half-dozen High Councillors executed, I imagine," I say. "No, you do not need to confirm or deny it. You merely need to be aware of something." I reach out, tap my fingernail against the datapad. "If you convert that date to your local calendar... you will find it is the date of Yeveus's death."
Juvir stares at me. "It can be verified easily enough," I say.
Juvir's big face is slowly draining of colour. "But - the codes, the personal codes - and they were verified by biometric data -"
"Yes. Fairly quickly, I should imagine, while Yeveus's biometric data was still his own." Before the stolen body became too Kobali to be useful to them any longer. "The measurement of dates in an interstellar culture is... always a little complicated," I muse, aloud. "You cannot be faulted for overlooking this detail."
"Detail? Detail? The House's security has been breached! Our deepest secrets could be known to - to -"
"The Federation? The Tal Shiar? Imperial Intelligence? Worse than any of those," I say cheerfully. "The House of Zorb has been giving up its darkest secrets, its most desirable information, to a rogue human augment called Kalevar Thrang."
"Thrang," Juvir whispers. "I have heard that name." Then his big head snaps around. "What was that?"
A noise. An indistinct sound, from the corridor outside. It could be nothing, of course, but I am disposed to act... otherwise. "Stand ready," I say to my team in conversational tones, and I stand, and draw my weapon. A Romulan plasma repeater pistol, liberated from an Imperial Navy officer who had no further use for it. "I wonder if we have been indiscreet?" I say.
Juvir's face darkens with rage as he stands. There is a scuffling noise in the corridor beyond -
The door hisses open, and something flies through. With a roar, Juvir flips the desk over, so that it crashes down on the object. The blast of the concussion grenade is muted, though Juvir's desktop will need more than a little polish to put it right again. Men are charging through the doorway -
I aim at the first one, and the gun yammers in my hand, sending out bolt after bolt of blazing plasma, burning through his personal shield, then through his body. The Klingon troopers have drawn their bat'leths, good weapons for this close-quarter fighting. The CRM 200 is less ideal - but Tek uses it, nonetheless, strafing our attackers with bolts of absolute cold. Foojoy has a disruptor in one fist, a knife in the other, and is using both with sudden savagery. Thraak is using nothing but his claws.
Another one comes at me. Orion, again, no doubt part of the House of Zorb's security. He is holding a disruptor; I lash out with my foot, kicking it from his hand. I spin around, carried by the momentum of the kick, and slam my gun into the side of his head. He stumbles, but does not fall.
Then he is wrapped in a crackling web of blue light, and his personal shield blows out, and he screams. Juvir has produced a Ferengi energy whip from somewhere; he strikes with it again, sending out another blast of electricity. The man falls, then.
The rest of our attackers - are down. Some of them groaning or whimpering, others very silent.
"You should have this office swept for bugs," I say to Juvir.
"I do," he growls. "Regularly." He comes to stand beside me, looks down at the twitching shape of the man he felled with the energy whip. "This is Aksour, my chief of security, who carries out the checks. At least, I thought he was my chief of security -"
Aksour's eyelids flutter; he is starting to regain consciousness. I take careful aim. When he opens those eyes, the first thing he will see is the business end of my pistol. Perhaps it will be the last, too.
"Well," I say, "he is definitely yours, now." Aksour's eyes open. "I think we have some questions for you, my friend," I purr. "And I know you will answer them."
"So this is how a Grand Imperial Duke lives," said Tharval. He looked around the opulently furnished room. Through the windows, the golden light of 54 Eridani shone on the wall hangings, the painting over the roaring open fireplace, the suits of armour standing on pedestals beside the door... and the couch with the half-naked figure of Kalevar Thrang reclining on it.
Thrang smiled and flexed his left arm. "Very nearly wasn't," he said with a rueful look. "The former Duke was a lot tougher than I'd expected. I wonder if there wasn't some augment blood in there. There were one hell of a lot of by-blows during the Eugenics Wars, you know."
"But you were victorious," said Tharval. "As always." He wandered over to an occasional table, and picked up a little silver statuette of a mounted knight. He turned it over in his fingers.
Thrang watched him. "Something bothering you?" he asked.
"I had not previously participated in these... sessions. As you remember," said Tharval.
Thrang sat up. "How did it go?"
"The late Subcommander Akhat was... very helpful. Dahar Master Khreg had less in the way of confidential information, but we learned a lot about what claims of honour he could make on various Great Houses. His heirs will inherit those claims, and will be - subtly encouraged - to make use of them. I have prepared a datapad with a full report."
"But something is still bothering you," Thrang said.
The Lethean turned towards him, dropping the statuette back onto the table. "Do not presume to read my mind, Thrang."
"I'm not reading your mind. Just your mood. What's bothering you?"
"Something and nothing." Tharval pulled up a chair and sat down. "One learns a certain level of respect for one's opposition, when one is engaged in intelligence work. If one knows one's opposite number, a curious relationship develops, sometimes. A co-dependency, almost an affection...."
Thrang grinned. "Tharval, you devil! Were you in love with Talisa Sheardlove?"
"Not exactly. But when the war ended, and we reached a - a personal accord -" Tharval shook his head. "My feelings are, perhaps, hard to describe. But - we became friends. We even, well, arranged matters so that if one of us had to change sides -"
"A spy's insurance policy." Thrang's voice was almost sympathetic.
"Quite. So, you may appreciate that it came as something of a shock to learn of her death... and another shock, when I met a young Kobali female named Lilitsia." Tharval's voice was quite flat.
Thrang made no reply.
"I understand, now, how you knew so much about our - arrangements," Tharval said.
Thrang was silent for another moment. Then he said, "The Kobali say their virus gives people... another chance at life. But they're also adamant that the resurrectee is a new person, newborn and not reborn. The Kobali... aren't consistent on this point. It doesn't matter to me, really... but maybe it does to you?"
"Is she the person she was?" Tharval shook his head. "I have used your devices, Thrang, and I have felt the minds of the Kobali while I did so... and I have no clear answer to that question. I... I do not think I could bear to look into this Lilitsia's mind."
"Some questions," said Thrang softly, "are best not answered. Sometimes, best not even asked."
"But sometimes they cannot be evaded," said Tharval.
"Maybe you should speak to her," said Thrang. "See what there is, of the woman you knew. Or see what there is to be seen... of the woman she is now."
"Perhaps," said Tharval. "Perhaps."
---
"Restrain him." Jhey'quar's voice was iron. Two soldiers stepped forwards, to grip the arms of the cringing Geterian.
"I did not mean it." Geterian's voice was high-pitched, ragged, his words tumbling over each other as he spoke. "I never intended - but - but - I remembered things, things that women liked, that I liked - and I thought, I thought she would like them - but she resisted, and - and -"
Jhey'quar looked down at the still form on the deck, and closed his eyes. Some of the things that Geterian had done -
"This Yeveus of Zorb was not worthy of rebirth!" somebody hissed.
Jhey'quar raised his head. "What is done, is done," he said. "And now the consequences must be faced -" He turned. "Geterian. You must be confined and examined. We must know if - if the sickness which afflicts you can be cured. If it can, we will cure you. We will cure you. Understand this. This - this thing that you have done - it came from the old part of you, the part that is gone, now, and should have stayed gone. If we can, we will take that part of you away. If we can."
He steeled himself, but Geterian was quietly weeping, was too broken to pose the obvious question - and if you cannot?
"Take him away," Jhey'quar ordered. "And... prepare our daughter Lilitsia for burial. It is a tragedy. She should have had a whole new life ahead of her." His voice hardened. "Once that is done, we will have Thrang's machinery removed from the medical bay. We have our foothold in this quadrant now, and we will work by ourselves to keep it. This - this is part of Thrang's price for his help, and it is too high a price to pay. Thrang will corrupt no more of our newborns. Destroy the machines."
'Viler forms of pornography' indeed. Two things of note: I think this is the first time Thrang has expressed any sort of self-doubt after any kind of physical contest.
Also; the dangers of bringing the dead back is that you sometimes bring the dead back It was an interesting plan, to get intelligence from sources most people would think safely secured.
Writing this month, I ended up compromising. I'm doing the big story I'm working on as a unofficial NaNoWriMo this year. Just never enough time... Any pace is a good pace on Death House here, though.
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I will admit to feeling nervous. And the sight on the screen before me is not one to calm my spirits.
"I never actually met Thrang," the Reman says. She is scowling and unlovely even by Reman standards, with hot angry eyes set into hooded sockets whose black lids shade into the pebbly grey of her skin. Her name is Heizis, and she was instrumental in thwarting Thrang's previous bid for galactic domination. "I heard him speak over the communicator, and of course I witnessed some of his plans... but the only person who spoke with him at length was my Starfleet counterpart. Admiral Pexlini." Her expression grows even sourer at that name.
"I take it this Pexlini is not accessible?" I ask.
"Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Properly speaking, I should not be speaking to you, since you are proscribed by the High Council... but that is one thing, and stopping Thrang is more important. Whatever he is doing." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "Pexlini's assessment," she says, sounding reluctant, "was that Thrang is clever, talented, and devious, but that his weak spot lies in understanding virtues. Things like trust and honour. They are closed books to him - he acts only in accord with his own perceived self-interest, and expects others to do the same. It is not much help. Thrang's genetic enhancement makes him highly intelligent - he perceives his own interests with exceptional clarity. You should not underestimate him. However... your proposed plan is consistent with Klingon honour. It may be something he has not planned for." The hot angry eyes seem to burn into me from the screen. "Do not rely on that. Thrang should not be underestimated."
"S-s-s-s-s. I will try not to make that mistake. Thank you for your assistance."
Heizis nods curtly. "Good luck," she says, and breaks the connection.
I look around the bridge. "Well. We must depend on Klingon honour, then. I can see that it is generally reliable...."
"From Thrang's lackeys on the High Council?" asks Laska tartly.
"They must be seen to act with honour. They would never retain support, otherwise. S-s-s-s-s. Let us see if we can surprise Thrang. It would be gratifying to do so...."
Weeks spent skulking around the Neutral Zone, dodging Klingon patrols while we try to piece together Thrang's plans. Now, we have something. Shalo's efforts have given us the names of blackmail victims, picked from the dead but still productive mind of Yeveus of Zorb... and my own investigations have led me to two High Councillors, who are almost certainly Thrang's men.
So now Nuru-Or is skulking, not through the Neutral Zone, but deep in the heart of Klingon territory, on the track of those two High Councillors. It helps that I know the regular patrol schedules, the sensitive areas where tachyon grids are deployed... but, frankly, I think my ship and my crew could infiltrate the Empire without that help. We are, I flatter myself, that good.
I study the Y-shaped gdorab board. Ideas are forming in my brain.
"I have a transponder contact," Siowershoe reports. I turn my head.
"Is it them?"
"Verifying now. At least the High Councillors are easy to find.... Got it. IKS qu HoS, Vo'quv class, with the personal idents of Councillors Dillan and T'Khal."
"A nice plump carrier. It would be large as a kn'yhh'drrr in our gunsights... however, we are not here for target practice. Set an intercept course."
Laska is frowning. She is concerned over this plan... but it is the best one, I think. We have two of Thrang's agents; if we deal with them, we are bound to provoke some reaction, perhaps force him to tip his hand.
Perhaps.
I spare another glance for the game board. I know my games... but Kalevar Thrang is a consummate player.
"Course laid in. Engaging." I watch the vectors change on the helm repeater. The carrier is on a leisurely course through the outskirts of an Imperial system - possibly Dillan or T'Khal might be checking on some personal property. Both are High Councillors, wealthy and honoured men. Evidently, they do not feel they are wealthy and honoured enough, and so have thrown in their lot with Thrang.
This will prove a bad decision, for them.
"Intercept in three minutes." Nuru-Or can easily outpace a lumbering carrier. I sketch in a course on the tactical console.
"Very dramatic," says Laska, with a curl of her lip.
"S-s-s-s-s. Sometimes drama is helpful," I say.
My ship slides unseen past the carrier, and slews around to face it.
"Decloak. And open hailing frequencies."
Light shifts on my bridge... and the captain of the qu HoS, whoever he might be, is no doubt surprised to find a Bird of Prey suddenly blocking his ship's path.
"Hailing," reports Siowershoe. "I have them."
"On screen."
A scarred Klingon face appears on the viewer, a surly elderly male with a grizzled beard and thinning hair. "This is Captain Grak of the IKS qu HoS. Identify yourself."
I stand. "R'j Bl'k', commanding the IKS Nuru-Or. You are carrying two members of the High Council. I am currently proscribed by the High Council." I smile without humour. "I am here to surrender."
---
They let me keep my sidearms, and Laska to accompany me, as I beam over to the carrier. So far, everything is going to plan. No doubt that will change.
I am shown to a large and empty conference room. Captain Grak is there, with a number of armed guards... and two more.
Dillan and T'Khal are the very picture of eminent High Councillors, in their decorated robes and magnificently gleaming medals. Dillan wears a permanent sneer. T'Khal's eyes are canny and calculating.
They leave it to the captain to speak. "You are surrendering?" he barks at me. He seems displeased.
"S-s-s-s-s. The High Council has questions for me, and I have answers for them. It seems reasonable to bring the two together.... However, it appears I have been misinformed."
"I was told that your ship carried two honourable members of the High Council."
"It does!" He waves an exasperated hand. "Councillor Dillan and Councillor T'Khal. You can see for yourself!"
"S-s-s-s-s. Two honourable members of the Council. I do not see those. I see only a pair of cowardly blackmailers, working at the orders of the renegade Kalevar Thrang. You can hardly expect me to surrender myself to scum such as that."
I have rehearsed this speech. It is deliberately calculated to produce an effect. It gets one. T'Khal stiffens and glares, while Dillan lets loose an inarticulate roar.
"You make grave charges, for an alien and a renegade!" shouts Grak.
"S-s-s-s-s. Alien, yes. Renegade, from such as these - well, to be otherwise would impugn my honour. And that is not acceptable."
"I will take your life for this, creature," hisses T'Khal.
"Is that a denial of your crimes, Councillor? It does not seem adequate." I take a determined step towards him. "You and your life partner here travel across the Empire at the whim of Kalevar Thrang, suborning honest men and forcing them to act against their honour and judgement. I will call you to account for it. Here and now, if you wish it. One at a time, or both together." I indicate my pistols in their holsters. "I am armed. And capable, and ready."
This is what Thrang may not expect. An investigation into Dillan and T'Khal would take weeks, would be blocked at every turn by their co-conspirators... but this, a direct challenge to their honour as Klingons, must be answered here and now, or they will lose face forever. Even now, I can see a shadow of doubt creeping over Grak's face... well, he commands their ship, he must know them well by now, and I do not think he knows anything much to their credit.
Of course, there is the minor detail of surviving this. At least, I fervently hope it is a minor detail.
"I too am armed!" declares Dillan. The "life partner" thing must have needled him - it does, with some. Actually, my impression of their relationship is that Dillan is a wealthy idiot, and T'Khal remains close by his side only to smooth over his social blunders. Now, he throws open his heavy leather coat, to display the disruptor pistol riding on his hip.
"And I," says T'Khal, with a smile on his lips. "So. Both together, you say? Then we will oblige you. Third Protocol for pistol duels. Suitably modified, according to the precedent set by T'Gan, Dakoth and Karn. Set it up," he snaps at Grak.
The captain looks at all three of us with a doubtful gaze, but he steps over to a wall console, and taps out commands.
Overhead, most of the lights grow dim. Three spotlights shine down, spaced equidistantly, casting a triangle of bright patches on the floor.
"You will take your place under one light," T'Khal orders. "You will not move -"
"S-s-s-s-s. I know the Third Protocol. And the amendment you mentioned. I have fought in this manner before." I stride over to one spotlit patch, stand in the light. I flex my fingers. "I am ready."
Fuming, Dillan stomps over to another pool of light. T'Khal takes the third. "You will act as marshal of the duel," he orders Grak. He spares a disdainful glance at Laska. "You are a witness. You will witness your captain's demise, and the redemption of our honour. I am ready."
"And I," calls out Dillan.
Grak licks his lips. The security guards look on, seemingly puzzled. "You are outnumbered two to one," he says. "You are entitled to some compensatory advantage -"
"I have two guns. I have two targets. That is all I need, Captain. That, and honour - which I have defended in this manner before."
Dillan looks uncertain. T'Khal does not. He, too, is displaying a disruptor pistol.
"Stand ready," Grak orders in a hoarse voice. "The duel commences at my command. Ready.... Now!"
My hands flash to my weapons. And my eyes focus on my targets. I told them I was capable of this. If they do not know, or do not believe, that I can move and focus my eyes independently - that is their problem.
Twin blasts of polaron fire erupt from my weapons.
One bolt catches Dillan in the head, hurls him dying to the ground, his fingers still twitching on his holstered weapon.
The second bolt disintegrates into a webwork of purple lightnings, a few centimetres from T'Khal's face.
A personal shield. And I may not move from the circle of light, and it will take me too long to burn the shield down, while he has all the time in the world to draw his disruptor and kill me. I am dead.
T'Khal snarls and draws his weapon -
And the disruptor is in his hand, but it does not fire, because his hand is parting from his arm in a flash of steel and a spray of blood.
"PetaQ!" Captain Grak rams the other end of his bat'leth into T'Khal's stomach, twists, tears, and pulls it back out. "You take unfair advantage in a duel of honour! Everything she said about you was true, you pujwI' -" He slashes again at T'Khal's abdomen. Pointless, as the first wound is clearly mortal. T'Khal falls to his knees, hand on his stomach, hopelessly trying to contain the things welling out of the wound.
Grak turns away from him, folds his arms across his chest, comes to attention with a stamp of his feet. After a moment, the guards follow suit. Behind me, I hear Laska do the same.
The last thing T'Khal sees in this life is that row of condemnatory Klingon backs.
Also, there's an element of personal risk involved in an honor accusation - the possibility of bringing a shield would be so obvious to Thrang he would never consider the duel without how other people would react to the rules violation.
(I'm guessing, though shevet, if you ever want an extra beta reader...)
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He was leaning forward, staring into a readout screen, when Lilitsia said, "Kindly move your hand."
"What -? Oh. Oh." He lifted his left hand from where it was resting.
"Thank you," said Lilitsia in cool tones.
"I just -" He put his right hand to his forehead. "I - I was not thinking. I apologize."
"Accepted."
"But -" He raised his head, and there was a haunted, puzzled look on his grey face. "I - seem to remember.... There are images in my mind, they tell me that women - like to be touched, in that way...."
"Perhaps in appropriate circumstances," said Lilitsia. Then her expression, too, became troubled. "Memories?"
"They - must be, I suppose," said Geterian.
Lilitsia's eyes narrowed. "Have you been intimate with any Kobali females, since your birth?"
"I - no, no. Nothing like that. I am -" He shook his head. "This is all new to me. And yet -"
"Geterian." Her voice was hard, now, and emphatic. "These are not your own memories. These are relics of your former life - neural patterns which have not yet been expunged as your brain develops and reorganizes itself. You must let go of such memories, Geterian. You are no longer that person - whoever he might have been. You are Kobali. You must remember that."
"I will try." He rubbed his brow. "I - it is when the General's ally visits - that is when - I remember things that I should not remember. I think."
"The General's ally," said Lilitsia. "Yes."
Geterian shot a curious glance at her. "Did he talk to you, too?"
"There were... sessions," Lilitsia replied. She shifted uneasily in her chair. "I do not remember much of them. I think my brain adjusted, became fully Kobali, and he lost interest in me then. The details elude me, now." She turned concerned eyes on Geterian. "They should elude me. Elude us both. I think... the General's ally is interested in who we were."
Geterian was silent for a moment. "And he should not be," he said.
"I think... probably not."
"Then why does the General permit it? He cares for us, does he not? He said I was to think of him as my father."
"I think the General's ally is - very useful to him. Useful enough for the General to permit this. The General has spoken to me... he tells me this ally has promised all of us a thousand offspring." She raised her hand and pointed to the screens. "And he has started to make good on this promise. You can see it, here, on this world."
Geterian shook his head. "One small colony, on one obscure world. It is not much."
"It is a beginning. Greater things may come from it. Our neighbour planet in this system, perhaps... they might make their - resources - available to us."
"They have a great many dead," said Geterian. "Inefficient, with a society emphasizing martial values but without any serious combat experience... play-acting at being warriors... that was the conclusion of Syndicate Intelligence -"
"Geterian."
He stopped. "I am - sorry. I do not know where that thought came from."
"Another relic. Put it from your mind. You are Geterian. You are Kobali."
"I will remember. I will try."
"Good. And move your hand."
---
"Three thousand," said Jhey'Quar. He stood in front of the command chair and gazed at the main viewscreen, at the image of the moon.
"Three thousand one hundred and four," said his aide. "Out of four thousand and thirty-three - the remaining resources were in one way or another unsuitable - immature, or physically damaged to excess in the, ahh, the process."
"A beginning," said Jhey'Quar. "Not, perhaps, a full scale foothold in this quadrant... but, a beginning. We will, no doubt, be able to bring more recruits here, in due time."
"From Kobali Prime?" the aide asked. "Would that not involve, well, negotiations, to use the gateways?"
"From anywhere," said Jhey'Quar. "There will be opportunities - and I do not choose to rely on Kalevar Thrang to provide them, either. Speaking of Thrang, where is he?"
"He departed shortly after his last interview with Geterian."
Jhey'Quar grunted. "I do not much care for that. Thrang's methods confuse our newborns. But it is his price, and we must pay it. Did he state a destination?"
"In-system. The fifth planet."
"The Grand Imperium." Jhey'Quar shook his head. "I wish I knew what he wanted with those comic-opera barbarians."
"I have his ship on positive track." The aide stepped over to a nearby console.
"Good. I would prefer to keep a close eye on Thrang."
"I assumed as much, General." The aide ventured a brief smile. Then he frowned. "Long range sensors show... other units in Thrang's vicinity. Closing fast - and there are energy discharges."
Jhey'Quar turned. "Thrang is under attack?"
"It seems so. I am not sure about some of these readings -"
"Red alert. Prepare to break orbit and go to Thrang's assistance." Jhey'Quar seated himself in the command chair as the alarms sounded. Before him, the tactical displays came alive; his gaze swept across them, assimilating the information - trajectories, locations, presumed hostiles - "Transmit on the encrypted subspace channel. See if you can get a message through to Thrang."
"Yes, sir," the hanchon on communications responded. Her fingers flew over her console interface. "Transmitting - I have a response. Audio and visual."
"On screen."
The face of Kalevar Thrang appeared on the main viewer. Jhey'Quar raised one eyebrow. There was no sign of damage, or even of disturbance, on the renegade's bridge... and Thrang himself appeared calm, unruffled... he was even smiling....
"General. Kind of you to call, though I'm a little busy. Still, I can always find time for a chat with a valued associate."
"You appear," said Jhey'Quar, "to be under attack. Ostigon is ready to come to your assistance -"
Thrang laughed. "Oh, dear," he said. "Thanks for your concern, General, but there's no need, really. This is just a little snap tactical exercise launched by my fellow nobles of the Grand Imperium. You should be able to see that our weapons are in low-power simulation mode."
Jhey'Quar shot an inquiring glance at his aide. "Confirm low power on weapons... no shield deterioration, no debris or other signs of damage," the aide reported.
"Quite," said Thrang. "So, well, good of you to offer to help, General, but, really, we're not in any danger. Not even in danger of losing this little war game, in fact. Oh, we're outnumbered, of course, but the Grand Imperium's warships are a little out of date, compared to us. So, all things considered, I think it's for the best if you keep the Ostigon in the low orbitals, under the sensor jammers. We don't want the Imperium spotting your ship and pestering you, do we?"
Jhey'Quar considered for a moment. "Stand down from red alert," he ordered. "Resume close lunar orbit."
"Thanks, General. Much appreciated."
Jhey'Quar fixed Thrang with a glare. "Do not imagine that I am concerned for your health, Thrang. We have an agreement, that is all, and you must survive to make good on it."
Thrang laughed again. "I plan to survive, General, don't worry. And you'll find I deliver. I always deliver." And the screen went blank.
I groom my whiskers with one claw and watch the screen as the Knobos approaches. Shalo chose well, I think, for her new vessel... as did R'j, whose ship is keeping station above mine... as, indeed, did I, except for the inconvenient size of the bridge.
"Hail from General Shalo, sir," Toriash calls up from somewhere below me.
"On screen."
Shalo's face appears on the viewer. Her expression is grim. I do not need telepathy to see her mind-tone, now. "I expect to be proscribed by the High Council at any moment," she says.
Well, this is news. And not good news, either. "Rrueo understands, now, this meeting in the Neutral Zone," I say. "Rrueo assumes that there will be a generous price on your head, but that Rrueo would not live to collect it?"
"When the time comes, I have no doubt that you two will be proscribed with me," says Shalo. So, R'j is linked in to this conversation - well, I would expect nothing else. "So far, the Council has held its hand. But this business of their investigator is a problem - and I have left two Council enforcers dead on the floor of my quarters, which will also not endear me to them."
"Rrueo has always assumed your quarters were littered with Klingons dead from exhaustion, in any case," I say. Shalo glares at me. "How long do we have? Can the Chancellor offer any protection?"
"J'mpok cannot afford a direct clash with the Council over an issue as small as ourselves," says Shalo. "Such time as we have, I think, is being bought for us by Melani D'ian and her - discreet influences. It is impossible to quantify how long this might last." She looks as if she is tasting something foul. "I do not particularly care to have D'ian's patronage, but it seems to be necessary -"
"We must report results, and soon," R'j's voice breaks in. "The High Council will excuse any number of dead enforcers if we can bring them Kalevar Thrang. S-s-s-s-s. Thrang must know this, and he must have discreet influences of his own."
"Undoubtedly. If we could identify Thrang's allies on the High Council, that would aid us greatly. But we are in no position to investigate Councillors, not now." Shalo sighs. "Somehow, we must have come to Thrang's attention. What have you two been doing?"
"Rrueo has been investigating the House of Verga," I say with a sigh. "Rrueo has obtained little of value - that House has little of value. Not enough, Rrueo suspects, to arouse Kalevar Thrang or any supporters on the High Council."
"I have, perhaps, something more of a lead," says R'j's voice. "We traced our anomalous friend to the 54 Eridani system. There is definitely something of interest there, but we had to withdraw, in order to avoid provocations.... But our stranger definitely passed by there, at least, as did something else unusual - a Nihydron vessel."
"Nihydron?" I say. "Wait. Rrueo obtained data from the Vergas, and Rrueo is almost sure -" I turn to my command console and call up the data. "Yes. A Nihydron drive signature was detected near the QarS planetoid. Delta Quadrant vessels are still unusual in Imperial space."
"We should meet, and compare notes in detail," says Shalo. "And I will collate what data I can, concerning this - 54 Eridani." She shakes her head. "I have never previously heard of that system"
"The stars are more numerous than the j'hy'y'rh'a on the plains of N'hdra," says R'j, "there is no reason why you should know of that one. Shall we meet aboard the Skaldak in one hour from now? I am told that ship is - capacious."
---
In person, Shalo radiates fury through her mind-tone, a brilliant light that threatens to melt her masks of ice. R'j's face is intent, her silvery eyes gleaming as she reviews our data. I pick up the datapad she has brought us, her gleanings of intelligence from 54 Eridani.
"A semi-legal Lethean colony, and an aberrant human culture," says Shalo. "What might Thrang want with either of them?" She shakes her head. "And where does the Delta Quadrant enter into this?"
"Possibly only as a source of technology," R'j suggests. "The compressed decalithium was a Delta Quadrant technique... but many such devices are finding their way through the gateways, now. And so are Deltan ships - not in any great quantity, as yet, but there are some."
I say nothing. There is something on R'j's datapad that reminds me of - something. I reach for the data console by my chair, and establish a link to the Skaldak's main computer.
"There are certainly Nihydron ships in Imperial service," says Shalo. "They are also found in the Federation, and among the Republic forces. But the Delta Quadrant is not a significant force, here on this side of the galaxy. Apart from Sela's negotiations with the Hirogen...."
"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "The Hirogen hunting clans barely qualify as organized, no matter how far-flung they are. And there is no trace of Hirogen energy signatures, nor do the hunters use Nihydron ships. To my knowledge. What does our resident expert on the Delta Quadrant have to say?"
A pause. They are looking at me. I look up from the console. "There is something here Rrueo recognizes," I say. "Rrueo is trying to trace it."
"A clue?" Shalo asks.
"Our enigmatic visitor's warp signature?" asks R'j. "It has finally become clear to you?"
"No," I say, absently, scanning the data. I call up my old log files from the Brathana. "No, not that... it is another part of your data that Rrueo knows... Rrueo has seen it before...." I stroke my whiskers with one claw, considering, reading - trying to remember....
"Well," says Shalo, "perhaps we should let her think. Shall we play a game or two while she pores over her console?"
"I have brought a gdorab board," R'j says. "It will usually occupy an otherwise dull hour or so."
The pieces fall into place, inside my head. I look up at the two of them, and utter a contented purr. "Rrueo has remembered," I say.
"Out with it, then," Shalo demands. She is in a vile mood.
"The data from the Lethean satellites," I say. "The life signs in their colony. That stirred Rrueo's memory."
R'j frowns. "My science officer said there was something odd about those life signs -"
"Then your science officer is astute," I say. "But not sufficiently experienced in the Delta Quadrant to recognize - certain data. Rrueo, however, spent many weary hours studying this phenomenon, in exhaustive and annoying detail. Rrueo can tell you what is odd about those life signs."
"Rrueo had better," says Shalo, "or Rrueo will exhaust my patience."
I grin at her. "Delta Quadrant," I say. "One of its nations is here, in force. Those Lethean life signs? They are in the process of ceasing to be Lethean. Rrueo suspects, if you had been there earlier, you would have found no life signs at all."
R'j utters a string of clicking and whirring sounds - Mlkwbrian profanity. She has grasped the implications.
"Dead, and then revived," I say to Shalo. "But no longer as Letheans. As Kobali."
---
There must be method to Thrang's madness. I keep telling myself that, as I pace up and down the Skaldak's bridge, my tail switching as I think.
Kobali. What does Thrang seek to gain by planting a colony of Kobali here in the Beta Quadrant? The Kobali are keen enough, I suppose, to expand and diversify - they were keen enough to suck us into their war with the Vaadwaur - though, to be fair, that was already everyone's war with the Vaadwaur....
But the Kobali... for all their steadfastness as allies in that particular conflict, the sad truth is, they have their own agenda and they keep their own counsel, and I do not feel they can be trusted.
But what does Thrang want with them?
Well. Perhaps we will find out. The extermination of the Lethean settlement provides many bodies, on which the Kobali virus can do its transformative work... but the reanimated corpses will need training, indoctrination into the Kobali culture, which requires the presence of other, mature, Kobali. Our unknown, then, is most probably a Kobali ship. A request for information has already been sent to Delta Command, to ask if any Kobali vessels have passed through the gateways... but I already know what the answer will be. This ship came through undetected, thanks to Kalevar Thrang. But why?
And what does he want with a colony world full of human cultural rejects, play-acting at being warriors? Unless he plans to kill those, too, and resurrect them as Kobali - which, to be fair, would be an improvement.
"Sir." Oschmann's voice, calling up from below. "We are approaching the system boundary of 54 Eridani."
"Slow to sublight. Form up on the Knobos and hold station at the assigned coordinates."
The 54 Eridani system will yield up whatever answers it has for us.... The tactical plan is for R'j to go in under heavy cloak and locate the Kobali or the Nihydron ship; fast and heavily cloaked, the Nuru-Or is ideal for this - and, if she runs into trouble, the Skaldak and the Knobos will be on call to deliver assistance.
The streaking stars slow to steady points of light; ahead of us, 54 Eridani's ruddy glow outshines all the rest. On the screen, I catch a brief glimpse of the Knobos before Shalo activates her cloak. I follow suit. Certainly, the resources of the Grand Imperium will not be enough to detect us, now -
"Sir." Toriash's voice, now. "I have something on sensors... high energy particles.... Confirmed! Tachyon contact!"
"Red alert." I leap to the command chair, hit the tactical console, try to interpret the display. A tachyon detection grid? Here? "Decloak and raise shields." If we have already been spotted, the cloak is useless, while shields are not. On the display, I see the Knobos shimmer back into visibility - Shalo has evidently made the same calculation. For a moment, I do not see the Nuru-Or, and then she shows up, close to my own stern. R'j is planning something, but what? And where did those tachyon pings come from -?
Asked and answered, in the same moment. Four shapes register at the outer range of my detectors, to be identified in seconds. Three Koro'tinga-class cruisers and a Negh'var. "Open hailing frequencies," I say resignedly.
I watch the comms panel as the screen goes live. Shalo is linked in; R'j is open for reception, but not transmission. Interesting. What is she planning? - Then I see, as the Nuru-Or noses up closer still to my stern and vanishes into cloak. Even with the tachyon grid up, it might look to an observer as if my Hoh'Sus had simply docked - leaving Nuru-Or undetected and ready for... whatever might transpire.
A Klingon face appears on the main viewscreen. "I am General Makt, of the House of K'Vegh. You are intruding in a zone prohibited by order of the High Council." His eyes narrow. "And I see, General Shalo, that you have an outstanding requirement to account for yourself to the Council. You will surrender your vessels and submit to arrest, pending a full inquiry before the Council itself."
"I regret," says Shalo, "that this does not accord with our instructions."
"Rrueo agrees," I say. "Rrueo has better ways to spend her time."
"That was not a request," snaps Makt. "Prepare to be boarded, or prepare to be destroyed. The choice is yours."
"Who made this system a prohibited zone?" Shalo asks. "Whose order, General? Whose commands do you follow like a willing slave?"
She has decided not to be subtle - even I know that is a killing insult to a Klingon. Makt's nostrils flare, and then the screen goes blank.
"Rrueo thinks we are about to be destroyed," I remark. "Unless we do the destroying first. Target the battle group, all guns to independent fire. Reinforce forward shields." I study the trajectories of the Klingon ships suddenly racing towards us. "Steer two one mark seven. And open fire."
Even the vast bulk of the Skaldak trembles as the full power of our disruptors cuts loose. Green light flares across space, to slam into the shields of the approaching battle group. Then our shields glare and shiver as Makt's ships return fire. They are coordinating fire on the Skaldak - sound tactics, to destroy their enemies in detail, one at a time. I have a worthy opponent. I find this, however, annoying.
"Steer one one six mark three eight four. Focus fire -" I designate one cruiser on the tac console. "Flank speed."
Skaldak heels over, presenting a relatively undamaged shield facing to the attackers. The spray of fire from our disruptors narrows and gains focus, targeting the lead cruiser. Its shields shatter, and fire vents from its hull as some of our beams penetrate. It is not out of the fight, though, and its consorts are still pounding at my shields. Lights begin to flash on my damage control console - some of their hits are getting through, too.
Much will depend, now, on whether I have predicted R'j's and Shalo's moves successfully -
Knobos turns, too, her course parallel to Skaldak's; Shalo is presenting her considerable energy broadside to the enemy. The cruisers close in, disruptors stabbing at me. Then there is a sudden explosion near one of them, and then another - I grin. Shalo has deployed one of the command cruiser's defensive platforms, and for the moment our firepower is considerably augmented by the barrage from its automated mines. More flames and debris spout from the wounded hull of our target, and then that cruiser turns sharply, trying to break off the engagement. A disruptor beam strikes home, savaging its starboard nacelle, and it spins wildly off course, shields failing, weapons falling silent.
"Target the next cruiser!"
Flash-bang from a transient overload, somewhere on the bridge. If I am lucky, it will do no more than roast a targ or two. My shields are lower than I would like them, though, and there is a noise and a wind that suggests a hull breach, somewhere near at hand. Automatics will seal it - or they will not; no time to worry over it now. The cruisers are hammering away at us - and the Negh'var is firing, too, and its firepower is considerable.
Then the Nuru-Or decloaks, neatly positioned at the Negh'var's stern, and unleashes a torrent of eldritch indigo cannon fire directly into the big ship's engine section. The aft shields offer only a moment's protection against that barrage; an impulse engine explodes, and the Negh'var is suddenly shrouded in a blazing cloud of escaping deuterium. R'j snaps off a volley of plasma torps, then veer sharply away, evading the disruptor fire Makt sends after her. That ship is hurt, hurt badly -
"Disruptor autocannon, on the Negh'var, now!"
Hurt enough for my main weapon to finish the job. The main viewer becomes one pulsing glare of green light as the autocannon yammers out bolt after bolt. The cruisers are still snapping at my shields, but Shalo is targeting one already, and R'j is coming about to take the second - I can live through the next few seconds, and that is all I need -
The Negh'var's shields fail under my barrage, and the autocannon tears into the unprotected hull. Armour vaporizes and burns in escaping air, and then the burning cloud around Makt's ship becomes brighter, far brighter, as the core breaches and the ship is gone.
"Guns to independent fire. Take those cruisers!"
The two surviving cruisers - do not survive for long. Not in the face of the sheer power of the Skaldak and the Knobos, or the surgical precision with which R'j wields her antiproton cannons. Both ships are wise enough to try to flee. One is blasted to shrapnel before it can leave our range; the other escapes, wounded, bleeding air and warp plasma - no threat, not until it spends a month or more in the shipyards -
"Damage report." The air is still, at least; the hull breach has been dealt with.
"Shields at twenty-two per cent and rebuilding," K'Rokok reports. "Structural integrity at eighty-six per cent, hull breaches on decks four, six and ten now sealed, minor damage to electroplasma relays at frame sixty-one.... We remain battle-ready, sir."
"We may have to be," Toriash says. "I am reading two more battle groups on long range scan, moving to intercept."
"Signal from the Knobos," Oschmann adds.
"On screen."
Shalo's face, when it appears, is grim. "The High Council evidently has substantial patrol forces in this area. We will need some other stratagem to enter the system. We cannot kill them all day - they only need to get lucky once, and it will be all over for us."
"S-s-s-s-s. I agree," R'j's voice adds. "They have our numbers and our capabilities, now - the next fight will not be so easy, and there will be more to come, unless we leave, now."
"Rrueo agrees. Break off and head for a safe port in the Neutral Zone. Rrueo proposes Calixta IV - close enough to the Federation that the Council will hesitate to bring a war there."
"Agreed," says Shalo. "Warp speed, as soon as possible."
"Make it so," I growl at my bridge crew. Skaldak comes about, heading away from 54 Eridani.
"Great." Oschmann's mind-tone is a study in irritation. "So now I'm a renegade from two interstellar powers. Any chance I can fall out with the Republic, too? I'd like to get the full set."
"Rrueo will oblige, if she can," I say. I stand up. "However. Rrueo is now a fugitive from the High Council herself, and will have to find some way to keep her own head firmly on her shoulders. Rrueo intends to devote some thought to this problem."
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
That'd be very worrying, if, in Klingon politics, moves like that usually mean you're overplaying your hand.
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Khreg said nothing. He leaned back in his chair. The chair was wide and solid, with a metallic frame; it looked like the command chair of an old Klingon warship. It fitted in with the many other antiques in the room; the holograms of space battles over the fireplace, the crossed bat'leths and disruptor rifles on the walls, the commemorative plaques and the pieces of armour. Khreg's study looked like a museum - and Khreg himself, with his grizzled grey hair, and the many decorations studding his leather coat, looked like an exhibit himself. He picked up the datapad and studied it closely.
"What is this?" Dillan asked, suddenly. He pointed to a book, lying open on a small side table. "I cannot read that writing -"
"Not many can," murmured Khreg. "It is a relic of Ng'Khalvan, a nation destroyed in the Hur'q invasion. A few of those people survived, to preserve some remnants of their culture. I doubt, though, that there are a hundred people alive today who can read Ng'Khalvan Hol."
"Are you among them?" asked Dillan.
"Of course. What would be the point of owning a book I could not read?" Khreg lifted the datapad in his hand. "I can read this, too."
"And your thoughts?" asked T'Khal.
Khreg pursed his lips. "An interesting proposal," he said.
"But will you support it?" Dillan asked. T'Khal waved him to silence.
"How might I support anything?" asked Khreg. "I am a private citizen, a retired soldier - I hold no seat on the High Council. Unlike yourselves. How might a mere private citizen assist two High Councillors?"
"Your voice is heard," said Dillan. "Your House has claims in honour upon half the noble families of the Empire! You have -"
"It is true," said Khreg, "that my House has done service to the Empire over many generations. And it is good that others... remember this. Perhaps you are right. Perhaps, when I speak, others... may be minded to listen. But, tell me, why should I speak in favour of this?"
"Because," said T'Khal, "it represents final victory."
Khreg raised one shaggy eyebrow. "To the uninitiated," he said, "it looks more like final surrender."
"With respect, Dahar Master, not so," said T'Khal. "We have heard for generations how our culture must mature, must develop, and so must come to resemble its enemy. The Federation. We have been told, time and time again, that we must put aside childish things like honour and battle and pride in lineage, and embrace the Federation's supposed enlightenment. We have been told this so many time, even some Klingons have come to believe it! But this -" He took a step towards Khreg, leaning towards the old man, speaking in a softer voice that somehow carried with it utter conviction. "This proves that the humans, the Federation's single most influential species, are prepared to embrace our values, our warrior ethos. They want to be like us, Khreg. We cede a title to them, a historically important but now meaningless title, and in so doing, we win. We win the war of ideas. A more final victory than any we could win on a battlefield. The Federation stands or falls by its ideals, and here we have one of their founder members, leaving their ideals to embrace ours."
Khreg raised his head, meeting T'Khal's gaze. "No," he said, shortly.
"No?"
"You do not understand the Federation, High Councillor T'Khal. You think you do, but you do not. They take their IDIC, their diversity, seriously. They will not quail at this. It will not drive them to re-think their beliefs, their ideas. They will simply shrug it off, as a difference of opinion. Nothing more. But the symbolism to us, to our culture - You say the title is historically important, but now meaningless. I say, nothing has meaning outside its historical importance. I know my history." With his other hand, he made a sweeping gesture, indicating the relics in the room.
"You will not support us, then?" Dillan demanded.
"You have heard my thoughts," said Khreg.
"Before you reach a final decision, Dahar Master," said T'Khal, "let us speak some more of history."
Khreg shook his head. "I doubt there is any historical precedent you can cite, that would change my mind."
"Still, we must persevere," said T'Khal. "In the matter of the Orion, ahh, entertainer named Methis Dizour... that is a minor historical incident, whose details have never been entirely made clear."
"A very minor historical incident," said Khreg.
"Of course. But the movements of your heir, Karos, were of interest at the time, were they not? Though it was quickly established that he was not involved. Persons of rank and honour spoke for him. And the exact truth... well, you are a historian, you know that exact truth is hard to find. Ultimately, the only persons who know the whole truth were the Orion, and... the killer."
"The Orion is dead," said Khreg, "and the killer has never been found."
"Quite," said T'Khal. "And there are, no doubt, some who might wish this state of affairs to continue. The killer... and his House, one must presume, who would be dishonoured if the full details came to light."
"How could those full details ever come to light?" Khreg demanded. "As you say, they are known only to two people."
"Indeed," said T'Khal. "But our historical researches are meticulous, Dahar Master. They have, for example, reached as far as a certain storage facility on the borders of your own estates, at QanSa Fields. Curious, that your House's name crops up so frequently in this context, even though persons of rank and honour are convinced that your heir was not involved."
Something changed in Khreg's eyes. T'Khal's eyes were merciless.
"I... will consider all that you have said," Khreg said slowly. "There are many historical factors which must be assessed."
"Of course," said T'Khal.
"Tomorrow," said Khreg. "Tomorrow. I would ask you to call again, tomorrow. By then, I will have... reviewed the data... and will know how best I can assist you."
"That would be eminently satisfactory, Dahar Master," said T'Khal. "You have our thanks."
---
After they had gone, Khreg sat for a long time, the datapad unread in his hand.
"Honour," he said to no one, after a while. "Honour... is lost, even if no other knows that one has lost it. Is it more lost, if many know it? If only a few know?"
His free hand curled into a fist. "How? How did they know about QanSa? No one knows. No one...."
He stood. The datapad dropped, unheeded, to the floor.
"I will not help them. But I will not have my dishonour known."
He strode to one wall, opened a cupboard, took out a bottle of bloodwine and a goblet. He closed his eyes for a moment, and muttered something inaudible.
He went to another cupboard. It was locked, and he fumbled for a little while among the nearby relics, until he found a key. From the cupboard, he took a small, square, metal flask.
He filled the goblet with bloodwine, almost to the brim. He took a deep breath. He opened the flask, and poured its contents into the wine. The fluid from the flask was colourless; it vanished into the bloodwine and left no apparent trace.
He picked up the goblet, turned it in his fingers, apparently admiring the chasing. Then he took another deep breath. He raised the goblet to his mouth and drank, swiftly and steadily, never stopping until all the wine was gone.
Then he returned to his chair and sat down, composing himself, staring straight ahead, his hands on the armrests. He did not move; he seemed to be waiting. There was no sound in the room except for his breathing. After a few minutes, that stopped.
Later, he is found dead - poisoned.
From these facts alone, the situation would not look good for the visitors...
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"We have an issue," Tharval said.
"Oh?" Thrang raised an eyebrow.
"An approach was made to Dahar Master Khreg. His response was, apparently, to take his own life. Questions will undoubtedly be asked." Tharval held out a PADD. Thrang took it and studied it.
"Interesting," he commented.
"Is that all?" said Tharval.
Thrang pursed his lips. "I take it our friends can't be implicated?"
"They could be, if someone on the High Council were so minded. They were the last persons to see Khreg alive... it would be natural for suspicion to alight on them."
"But the poison was clearly self-administered."
"Such was the conclusion of the first investigators, yes. That conclusion might be challenged, though."
"Well, we have many friends on the High Council," Thrang observed. "They can squash any unwanted speculation."
"Will they? Our friends are not, as it were, spontaneously friendly."
Thrang shook his head and chuckled. "We will just have to point out that continued friendship is in their interests. T'Khal and Dillan will have to make a lot of calls. But... in the end, this can work to our advantage. If you're going to run a successful blackmailing operation, it helps to have an example of the... disadvantages of non-cooperation."
"You propose that Khreg should serve as such an example?"
"I'm determined to get some use out of the man." Thrang stood up. "When life hands you a lemon, you make lemonade, as they say. Which prompts another thought. Khreg knew things, didn't he? And now he's dead."
"Indeed."
Thrang smiled. "I think it's time for you to become more actively involved. In fact, with your natural abilities, you might even be better at this business than I am." He picked up another PADD from the desk. "I've got full details of the procedure here, and all the information you need to make a discreet run past the Council blockade and all the way to Qo'noS. Recover Khreg's body, and... make enquiries."
He held out the PADD. Tharval hesitated a moment, then took it. "You trust me with this?"
"I have to. I'm going to be busy. I can't be everywhere at once, and -" Thrang's smile broadened "- as a nobleman of the Grand Imperium, I have duties to attend to."
---
The guest quarters aboard the Nihydron destroyer were larger and more comfortable. Grand Admiral Johan ter Horst was stiff and ill at ease, though, as he sat in the armchair and watched Kalevar Thrang pour two glasses of whisky.
"Authentic Earth Scotch," Thrang said. "One of the amenities that you - that we, I should say - forsook during the exodus and the establishment of the Imperium." He walked over to the chair and handed one glass to ter Horst. The Grand Admiral took it, but did not drink.
"Oh, relax. My lord," said Thrang. He took another chair, lounging casually in it with his legs crossed. "If I wanted to poison you, I wouldn't spoil a good Scotch to do it."
"You have some aim in view, Baron," said ter Horst.
Thrang grinned. "I always do."
Ter Horst took a cautious sip from the glass. He gave a minimal nod of approval. "I have had some thoughts as to where your aims might be directed," he said. "Your most obvious goal is... the one which chiefly concerns me. Your performance in the space battle exercises makes my tenure as Grand Admiral insecure. To put it mildly." He frowned. "So far, I have been able to explain to His Imperial Majesty that your victories are inevitable, due to the superiority of this vessel. But, frankly, I think you could beat me, even in an evenly matched ship."
"Mediocrity knows nothing higher than itself," Thrang quoted, "but talent instantly recognizes genius. Yes, I could probably take your place as Grand Admiral, if I pushed hard enough. But, well, do I want it?"
"You are an ambitious man, Baron." Ter Horst's eyes narrowed.
"I am indeed. And I'm aiming very high."
"Oh, of course. His Imperial Majesty's throne. The summit of all ambitions." Ter Horst rolled his eyes.
"Not yours, though," said Thrang.
"I am Grand Admiral. I am content with that. It is a position that I will fight to retain... in whatever way I can. I will concede that you have considerable ability - very considerable - but I am familiar with politics in the Grand Imperium. I have experience, alliances, which you do not. You may not find me so easy to dislodge as you might think."
"The home field advantage - yes, it counts for a lot. But I don't even want your job, my lord."
"You need it, or something like it, as a stepping stone towards the throne. If that is your goal."
Thrang laughed. "You're happy enough to talk treason with me, I see."
"Competition for the Imperial throne is not treason - it is healthy. A dictum of the Imperium's founding fathers. Of course, His Imperial Majesty is free to discourage competitors... in various ways."
"And an upstart like me stands no chance, really," said Thrang. He held up the glass in his hand and turned it around, watching the amber liquid swirl inside it. "Though some other people stand no chance either, of course."
Ter Horst said nothing.
"The founding fathers of the Grand Imperium adopted many of Earth's warrior conventions, which they thought were in decline at the time. They took on warrior names, creating noble houses in the traditions of Caesar, Singh, Gaddafi, Sun Tzu, Attila, Mussolini... any number of others. Of course, there's room for people not in that nobility to... rise. To a certain level."
Ter Horst remained silent.
"The Imperium is divided into eighty-four sectors. Four are held by the Emperor personally; two each by the three High Kings; one each by the various sector Dukes, Archdukes, Princes... and three Margraves. The Margraves are, if you like, the lowest of the highest. Outranked by dukes and such, even if their holdings are equally extensive, and even better managed."
Ter Horst took another cautious sip from his glass.
"Interesting title, Margrave," said Thrang. "Originates from the Germanic Graf, of course - a Count in European culture, equivalent to an Earl in the Scandinavian-influenced countries. The Counts or Earls were the main body of the nobility for most of mediaeval history - lording it over the mere Barons and the mass of the commonalty. The superior rank of Duke is a relatively modern invention. But the Margraves... a Margrave is a Mark-Graf, a noble whose lands were on the marches - the frontier of a nation. It was a position of trust, of responsibility. A Margrave was a man who could be trusted to guard a frontier - someone whose ability, and loyalty, were beyond question. In a way, it's a more honourable title than Duke. A Duke derives from dux bellorum, a war leader. All a Duke needs is military ability."
"Which is enough," said ter Horst.
"I wonder. I think I would much rather have a Margrave by my side, than a Duke. Particularly if I were aiming for a Duke's position. As you say, I need a stepping stone. Or two."
"Two?" Ter Horst's eyebrows went up. "You propose to challenge your Duke, I can see that... once you win, you will be in a position, nominally, to challenge the Emperor himself. You will need support for that, though... and, I gather, you want mine."
"Absolutely. His Grace Duke Arthur Adolf Plantagenet McLellan... well, let's just say he shouldn't start any long books." Thrang grinned. "But the Emperor, now, he's more of a challenge. Yes, I need support to take him on. Support from a highly talented tactician - because genius recognizes talent right back, my friend - who's risen as high as he can hope to, under the current regime... well, that support would be welcome."
"There is not so much room for either of us to rise higher, Baron," said ter Horst.
"Oh, isn't there?" Thrang's gaze locked with ter Horst's eyes. "The Grand Imperium is confined to one M-class world, in one obscure system, now, Grand Admiral. And maybe our lord the Emperor is content with that. But I'm not. I'm taking the Imperium out to the stars, Grand Admiral. The sky is, quite literally, the limit."
"Assuming you survive."
"That is always a safe assumption."
Ter Horst smiled. "You have no time for false modesty, I see. The same is true of most of the Imperial nobility... but, for the most part, they are content to act out their parts, to play at being warriors and noblemen. You have seen the endless war games, you know the jockeying for position that occupies so much of our time. I think... I would prefer the friendship of a man with genuine ambition." He raised his glass to his lips and drank.
---
Thrang was back in his quarters when the comms console buzzed for attention. He sighed as he went to it. "Thrang. What is it?"
Tharval's leathery mask of a face appeared on the screen. "En route to Qo'noS."
"Is that all? I've had a long day, Tharval."
"I have had some tiresome complications, myself. Eluding my escort, for example."
"Escort?"
"A cloaked ship, attempting to match my departure vector. If you had me followed, Thrang, it would... displease... me. If I am your lieutenant, I should be trusted."
"If I didn't trust you, I wouldn't have given you the details of the process. No, that wasn't one of mine." Thrang frowned. "Must have been an element of the High Council's informal picket. I can find out who it was, if you want them killed. Do you want them killed?"
Tharval considered. "Not especially. And it would take you too much time to identify them, I think. We shook off their pursuit. That ship's captain is unlikely to be anxious to advertise their failure."
"Very well. Keep me informed." Thrang yawned. "Tomorrow."
"Cloak is - stable," Goota reports. "Separation is - constant at thirty - kellicams."
"No further evasive manoeuvres?" I ask.
"Negative." The android's voice is completely steady, though her hands are constantly moving on the controls. The complexity of her task must be taxing even her positronic brain, though. I lean forward, studying the dot on the screen. After the initial flurry of quick course changes, our target must now be convinced that he has lost us.
Laska, at the science console, is cursing steadily in an undertone. She does not have a positronic brain, and her task - analysing our target's warp field so that Goota can hold us in position - is nearly as complex. Still, she is managing. I am fortunate, since I am now a pirate, to have such a capable crew.
The dot on the screen is a Talaxian Drexia-class freighter, small and harmless. It is, however, the only thing to depart from the 54 Eridani system since our abortive probe, and it is a Delta Quadrant design, which suggests either Thrang or the Kobali. A single burst from Nuru-Or's armament would turn it into drifting space dust, but we would learn nothing from that; our plan, therefore, is to follow it and find out what it is doing.
"Something," Laska mutters.
"What?" I ask.
"Subspace radio emissions...." Laska's craggy face is screwed into a frown of concentration. "Looks like random noise, but it isn't... several layers of fractal encryption. That ship is signalling."
"S-s-s-s-s. Signalling what, and to whom?"
"Don't know." But, from the expression on her face, she has some ideas.
"Target is - changing course," says Goota. "Compensating."
I do not even feel the course change. "New heading?" I ask.
"One one four mark six. If there are no - further changes, that will take the target to - frontier outpost at Rakur Aretta."
"S-s-s-s-s." I call up my data libraries on the command console. It is the sort of task I would normally delegate to Laska, but she is evidently busy. I input a query and study the results. "Class two base, one class L world, numerous commercial holdings owned by a variety of Great Houses...."
"More signals," Laska mutters. "I think I see...."
"Tell me when you are sure," I say. I do not see what is important at Rakur Aretta... but we do not even know if this ship's mission is important at all. All we know is, we must do something. Rrueo has her own mission - and that took some time to arrange - but Shalo and I have been unable to do anything, except hang at the fringe of the system and evade the High Council's patrols, for so long now....
"Approaching system boundary of - Rakur Aretta. Target is - slowing. Compensating. Ready to drop out of warp."
I wait. On the screen, the streaking stars slow, turn back into points.
"Got it," Laska says with evident satisfaction.
"Tell me."
She nods. "The ship is transmitting encrypted bursts on low-band subspace channels - the channels used by ship transponders and automated traffic control systems. It's tripping some sort of hard-coded subroutine in the Imperial control networks. Whenever it sends one of those bursts, the ship is automatically identified and cleared as scheduled traffic."
"S-s-s-s-s. A useful trick, to smooth the way. It reeks of Kalevar Thrang - we know he passes through Imperial space like the wind, going wherever he wishes...."
"Thrang isn't on that ship, though," says Laska. "I have clear reads on all the life signs - one Lethean, seven Orions, eight Thexemians."
"A typical selection of Thrang's lackeys," I mutter. "But what is their purpose here?"
"A single volley might make that irrelevant," Laska muses.
"No. We need information. Corpses, we may have at any time, but corpses offer no answers. S-s-s-s-s. Is the cloak still stable?"
"Confirmed," says Goota.
"A detail analysis of their warp contrail would show up our presence," says Laska. "But I can see no reason why anyone should make such an analysis."
"So. We stay concealed, we follow this one... at least as far as their destination here... perhaps beyond, if it may be useful."
---
At impulse speeds, the trip across the system takes very nearly as long as the journey from 54 Eridani. Laska takes the opportunity to sleep for a few hours: she needs it. Goota, fortunately, does not.
The Drexia is not heading for either the military base or the sole marginally-habitable planet, but for a small mining station orbiting an outer-system ice giant. Curious. I interrogate the database, seeking more information. I wish I could use subspace to requisition Imperial Intelligence files, but there are sound reasons why that is impractical.
"Curious," I remark aloud.
Goota remains silent, absorbed in her work, but Siowershoe is on the bridge, and she says, "Sir?"
"The station. A commercial facility, owned by the House of Kungan. A staging point for helium-3 extraction from the outer atmosphere of the ice giant. A place of no conceivable importance."
"An ideal spot for illicit transactions, then," Siowershoe says.
"S-s-s-s-s. Perhaps. But what? Whatever it is, it is not without importance... that ship was very keen to try to shake us off. And it is working for Thrang, there can be no reasonable doubt of that. What does he want here?"
"A rendezvous point. Someone or something is being transshipped." Siowershoe's flat, long-eared face is thoughtful. "Perhaps we should examine the records of the station. It may have received a visitor of some kind, in the recent past."
"A possibility. S-s-s-s-s." I consider the options. If the Drexia simply returns to 54 Eridani, what do I learn? Unless I take it on its return journey... but I have no guarantee of obtaining information; that little ship would be too easily reduced to useless space dust. "Yes. A distinct possibility. We have found the next link in a chain, so we shall test it."
"Test what, sir?" Laska has returned to the bridge.
"The station that our target is visiting. We will know its purpose. The advantage of an orbital station is, it cannot run from us." I grin at her. "Let us see, too, if you have interpreted those code signals correctly, and if they will work for us as well. S-s-s-s-s. To be logged as legitimate traffic, that would be even more useful than the battle cloak."
"A magic shield of invisibility against bureaucrats. Quite." Laska takes her station. "The target is approaching transporter range of the station."
"They may need to dock physically. Remember the compressed decalithium."
"The target is signalling the station... exchanging recognition handshakes." Laska hunches over her console. "Data burst transmission from the station... and a transporter signal. Well, if it's compressed decalithium, we'll know, when the freighter explodes." She shakes her head. "Transport complete. Another data handshake, looks like a sign-off...."
"Target is - coming about," says Goota. "Heading for - Eridani sector. Exact details to - follow."
"Never mind. Ease us away. Maintain cloak. Wait until the Drexia is clear of the system, and then we will go in to the station."
---
The interior of the station is bare, bleak, functional. The House of Kungan does not waste money on fripperies, not out here. Well, and why should they?
One good thing, already; Laska was right about the codes, and they work for us. They worked well enough, in fact, to let me decloak Nuru-Or and take her into a docking port at the station. The station's staff - it has a permanent staff of twelve - apparently did not notice. My belief is, they are all in disfavour with the House of Kungan, and are leaving everything to the automated systems, while they themselves count the minutes to the end of their tour of duty.
I stalk along the corridors, flanked by two of my engineering crew, M'Rel and the Lethean, Nubir. They should be equal to any technical challenges - and the three of us will be able to cope with any security, I am sure of that.
"We will secure the computer core, first," I say, "then go to the transporter room and obtain its logs."
"Both areas should be defended," says M'Rel. He lifts his disruptor rifle, and the scars on his face rearrange themselves into a worrying grin.
"Should be," I say. "Security seems lax, though." But my hands rest on the weapons at my belt, ready for action.
The station is, at least, a standard design: I was able to obtain plans without difficulty. We go along one more corridor, down a steeply-sloping ramp, around a corner - and Nubir stops, and raises one hand. "I feel a mind," he says. "Wait."
I wait. Nubir's hellish Lethean eyes seem to glaze over for a few seconds - then his demon mask of a face contorts in an expression of pleasure. "Sleeping," he says. "Now, he will sleep many hours more, regardless of all else."
"Cheating," says M'Rel with a rueful look.
"S-s-s-s-s. It makes things simpler." I stride to the door of the computer room: it is not locked. Inside, a single Klingon lies sprawled and comatose on the floor. "You two. Set up the secure download to Nuru-Or and drain this thing. I want everything it knows." I kick the limp figure on the floor. "And exercise more vigilance than this one. I will go to the transporter room and obtain the logs."
The transporter room is off the next corridor along - they will hear me if I call for help, though I do not intend to shout if I can avoid it. There is no sign of life as I make my way along the corridors. Slack and inattentive - if I am right, and the staff here are being punished, they deserve it.
The transporter room appears unattended. I spare a brief glance at the pads - standard designs, they tell me nothing - and go to the console. The logs are unsecured. I am downloading them to my tricorder when a detail catches my eye, and I frown, and pause the rapidly-scrolling display.
Klingon transporter systems are rugged, direct and simple - they lack many of the complex safety features that the Federation considers essential. But, recently, the logs show two personnel transports that were hedged about with unusual safety precautions. Personnel who should not be lost to a simple transporter accident, then - VIPs, certainly. What would a Klingon dignitary be doing, visiting an obscure station like this? The appended codes look, to my admittedly untutored eye, like High Council IDs -
"Remain where you are. Make no sudden movements. Do not reach for your weapons."
Well, now, this is embarrassing. The voice behind me is that of a Klingon, evidently some member of staff who is more alert than most. And after my words to Nubir and M'Rel - they will chaff me for it, I am sure of that. I am almost irritated.
"Turn around. Slowly."
I turn. Slowly, because the speaker has told me to... and because I am concentrating, letting the force build within my brain.
The Klingon is a young male in nondescript work leathers, holding a worn but perfectly adequate disruptor pistol. He squints suspiciously at me. "Who are you? And why are you here?"
"R'j Bl'k'," I answer. "Dahar Master and honorary General in the Klingon Defense Force, Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Knight-Acolyte of the Phocine Temple -" the recitation is puzzling him, and his aim is wavering away from me "- and, most importantly in this context, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom."
And I release the force which has been building in my mind. The psychokinetic bolt plucks him off his feet and hurls him against the bulkhead. He drops to the floor. He is shaken and hurt and confused, but still conscious; by the time he has recovered himself, though, he is looking into my eyes, over the barrel of his own disruptor.
"I am here as part of an investigation ordered by the Chancellor," I tell him. "I can obtain all the information I need from your logs, but I am curious, and somewhat pressed for time. Perhaps you can aid me. Members of the High Council came here. Did they, by any chance, bring something with them?"
He stares at me. Then he clears his throat. I have evidently not underestimated his courage or his loyalty.
"High Councillors T'Khal and Dillan," he says. "They brought a cargo for transshipment - it was beamed out of here - only a short while ago - they brought bloodwine, too, as a gift -"
So that partly accounts for the absence of security: the staff are all sodden with bloodwine. "What was this cargo?"
He shakes his head. "I do not understand - nothing of importance," he says. "Only a corpse."
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
The Lethean folded his arms across his chest. He stood there, facing the High Council, his red eyes smouldering. "I have no name of my own, when I stand here and speak for Lethea. And it is Lethea as a whole that requires answers relating to our colony at 54 Eridani VI."
"Your illicit colony," Dillan snapped.
"We do not require the High Council's permission to exploit an uninhabited world outside Klingon space. Unless our relationship with the Empire has significantly changed? - in which case, we should surely have been informed."
There was a grumbling, hostile sound from the massed Councillors. At the centre of the Council dais, J'mpok made no sound, no movement.
"Contact was lost with our people," the Lethean continued, "and no information is forthcoming. The High Council has placed an embargo around the 54 Eridani system, and our ships are intercepted and turned away. I have come here, on behalf of my people, to request answers. The High Council has always dealt honourably with the Lethean people - before now, at least."
More hostile grumbling. "The embargo is necessary," Dillan said. "The human population on the neighbouring world is a potential source of conflict with the Federation! And, when we consider the other issues -"
"What other issues?" the Lethean demanded.
"The intrusion of the Chancellor's rogue agents." It was T'Khal who spoke, now. J'mpok's heavy-lidded eyes turned towards him, but the Chancellor remained silent.
"Whatever they were doing in that system, it poses more dangers to our alliance with the Federation," said Dillan. "An alliance in whose favour the Chancellor has, previously, argued strongly. The Council is acting to contain the situation, nothing more."
"Until it becomes clear," said T'Khal. "Should we appeal to the Chancellor for clarity?"
J'mpok stirred. "I have little to spare," he growled. "If my agents were brought before me, they would explain themselves... but, thus far, the Council's operatives have been unable to accomplish this, no?"
"No small number have died trying," snapped Dillan. "Perhaps the Chancellor should choose his agents more wisely in future!" There was a mumbling from the rest of the Council - uncertain, but possibly approving.
"Perhaps we should all choose our agents more wisely," said J'mpok, "and refrain from setting them at odds with each other... if we desire clarity."
"The Chancellor and the High Council may desire clarity," the Lethean said. "We, however, merely desire answers. The last message from 54 Eridani spoke of some kind of emergency - since then, we have heard nothing. Our government, and the families of the colonists, are naturally concerned."
"Your people should not have settled in that system at all!" Dillan shouted. "The consequences are on their own heads!"
"What are the consequences?" the Lethean demanded.
"The High Council does not answer to you!" Dillan snarled.
"Why not?" the Lethean countered. "What possible reason could the Council have for withholding information? The Lethean people are allies of the Empire. And the Empire has always respected the ties of loyalty, of family -"
"Do you criticise us now?" Dillan demanded.
The Lethean stood there silent for a few seconds, his blazing eyes fixed on Dillan. Then, "It seems I must," he said, and turned on his heel, and stalked out of the Great Hall.
---
"That was not good," S'taass observed, later, in J'mpok's private office.
"There was a very peculiar atmosphere in that meeting," said Melani D'ian.
J'mpok had been sitting at his desk, his head hanging. Now, he sat up, and glowered at the other two. "Peculiar," he said, "yes."
"Why is the High Council being so obdurate?" S'taass asked. "A simple statement would answer the Letheans' requests... why not give one? Whatever the facts, giving them would be preferable to these... stalling tactics."
"It almost seems," said D'ian, "as though someone is anxious to provoke an open breach with the Letheans."
S'taass shifted his huge bulk. "That would be... somewhat of a problem," he said. "The Letheans are a minor power, true, but there are commitments, treaties, with the Gorn Hegemony - a rift with Lethea would weaken King Slathis, would perhaps allow openings for the separatists to gain influence -"
"The Syndicate also has agreements with the Letheans," D'ian observed. "True, our arrangements are flexible, but they can only flex so far before they snap. A serious breach with the Letheans is... something to be avoided."
"But elements on the High Council are positively courting such a breach," said S'taass. "Why?"
"To weaken our alliances," growled J'mpok. "To weaken me."
D'ian's eyes glittered. "You suspect an incipient coup?"
"Suspect?" J'mpok laughed, a harsh, humourless bark. "We are half way there already. First they engineer a disruption, then they propose a solution..." He raised his head. "After so many years, I know the Great Hall, I feel its temper, its undercurrents. I can feel the treason gathering...."
D'ian raised one exquisite eyebrow. "Would you care to share your insights?"
J'mpok scowled. "It is a matter of... the sounds, the looks. I caught shared glances among several of the Councillors... I have seen such things in many a conspiracy before. The moment of shared recognition, the glance that says "ah, you are one of us too, are you?'.... It has implications. Whatever this is, it has been long in planning. T'Khal and Dillan -"
"They are highly vocal," said S'taass.
"They are fronts. The humans have a term, stalking horse. T'Khal and Dillan are the tools, another's hand wields them. That person, I believe, is Thrang's main ally on the High Council. Or am I wrong, do you think, to see Kalevar Thrang behind all of this?"
"Thrang has certainly been active. And his ambitions are grandiose," said D'ian.
"But I still do not see, quite, how he proposes to realize them," growled J'mpok.
"Your agents?" asked S'taass.
"They are active. I know this much."
"General Shalo seems... reasonably capable. Though somewhat rigid in her outlook." D'ian sniffed.
"She and her companions are competent enough. But they will need to be." J'mpok shook his head. "With the High Council's proscription hanging over them - if they return here, it must be with all the answers, or they will be executed. They have one chance. One only."
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.
Taking the Skaldak through the blockade was a challenge. Evading the Council's patrols in-system, and even the inept picket forces of the Grand Imperium itself, remains a constant and ongoing challenge. I am over-supplied with challenges, and seriously short on resources.
Fortunately, I am short, not destitute. I am using one resource now, and she is proving useful.
I am standing in a hotel apartment in Caesar City, the capital of the Grand Imperium. I would, of course, stand out, were I to reserve an apartment of this kind for myself. However, I am blessed - if that is the word - with one officer who can blend seamlessly into a human society of this type.
"There's definitely something going on at the Palace," Oschmann says. She is dressed in the fashion of a minor Imperial aristocrat: a thigh-length scarlet jacket, tight-fitting white trousers that flare out over the thighs, and highly polished black riding boots. It is, I believe, an adaptation of a hunting costume from Earth's past, presumably from an Earth culture that did not believe in camouflage.
"The nature of this 'something'?" I ask. I sit down on the bed. The apartment is large, but sparsely furnished and starkly decorated. I understand that it is described as a "Spartan aesthetic", though I suspect the empty and functional look is simply due to lack of resources. The Grand Imperium is not economically efficient.
"There have been meetings with High Council representatives," Oschmann says. "At least, the descriptions I'm getting from my tame Baron tally with Council insignia. There have been talks with the Galactic Proconsul and the Lord Privy Seal."
"So, the titles are grandiose. What do they mean?"
"The Galactic Proconsul," Oschmann says with a slight smile, "is responsible for relations between the Imperium and the outer hinterlands - meaning, the rest of the galaxy. Essentially, their foreign minister. The Lord Privy Seal is a formal representative of the Emperor himself. Senior figures in the government. It sounds very much like the High Council is negotiating some formal agreement with the Imperium. Probably not a military agreement, given that the Grand Admiral isn't involved."
"The Imperial military is a negligible force in any event," I mutter.
"Possibly. Well, probably. Though there are reports I've heard about some hotshot new Baron with a first-rate ship... but first-rate might not mean much, in Imperial terms." Oschmann grimaces. "Problem is, these people have a screwed-up gender-biased society. They don't talk about - quote-unquote - serious stuff with mere women. So I'm finding it harder than I'd like to get solid facts about -"
We are interrupted by a fanfare of brassy notes from the apartment's door intercom. "Attention!" a synthesized voice cries. "Prepare for the ingress of the noble Baron Josef Chaka Guevara Foch, who honours you with his presence!"
Oschmann swears under her breath. "My tame Baron, paying a call. Damn it. We'll have to transport you out -"
"Skaldak is out of transporter range," I say. "She will not return for thirty more minutes - unless we recall her, but that will take her into the Council's tachyon detection pattern -"
Oschmann swears, more loudly this time. I look around. There is a sonic shower in one corner of the room, but its doorway is translucent. There is no wardrobe, only a free-standing clothing replicator. The storage cupboards are too small -
A light flashes in Oschmann's mind. I catch peculiar overtones, of both fear and - amusement. "He'll be here in a couple of minutes," she says. "Sir - can you strip, and get on all fours?"
For an instant, I am left boggling and outraged, and then I grasp her meaning. "This had better work," I hiss at her, as I tug at the straps of my uniform.
"If you have any better ideas," Oschmann mutters, "I'd love to hear them. Sir."
I growl. Oschmann kicks my discarded clothing under the bed, as I crouch down and try to look feral. I concentrate on animal thoughts. It is, unsurprisingly, easy.
There is no discreet knock on the door, no asking of permission - the door simply slides open, and the Baron enters. He is a tall, heavily built human, running to fat, with a pale face and a mop of thinning blond hair in what might be intended as an artful arrangement. He wears a long blue coat with extravagant golden braiding, buttons and epaulettes, a white ruffled shirt, and boots and trousers similar to Oschmann's. "Lady Cynthia," he says in a strange braying accent, and then spots me, and blinks. "'pon my word," he says. "Remarkable beast, what?"
"A bio-engineered hunting cat," Oschmann replies in the same overly mannered tones. "They breed them for neo-rhinoceros hunting on the New Assyrian Plains, you know. Bred for size and strength, naturally, with game like that."
"Certainly looks like it could take on a neo-rhino, what?" The man's mind is... worthless; a shallow puddle, muddied with self-indulgence and rippling with inconsequential desires. I regard him through slitted eyes. "What's all those things in its ears, though?"
"Oh," Oschmann says, stepping over to pat my head, "just her tags, to show she's had all her shots and things. I'm thinking of having her bred, though she might be getting a little long in the tooth for that."
I hiss in perfectly genuine exasperation. "I say, spirited beast, what?" says the vacuous Baron.
"Oh, she's an old softie, once she gets to know you," Oschmann says with a laugh. I repress the impulse to disembowel her. "I'd stay a little bit away from her, though, until then." She fingers one of my earrings. "I think all her shots are up to date, but I imagine a bite would still turn septic."
"Oh, quite, no fun at all, that," says the Baron with a forced laugh. "I just dropped by, you know, on the off-chance.... Do you have any plans for tomorrow afternoon?"
"Nothing I couldn't cancel, my lord. Why, do you have some devilishly clever entertainment planned?" I can feel expectancy rising in Oschmann's mind.
"Well, not so much me, more our up-and-coming newcomer chappie. The word is, the challenge floor at the Palace will be in use. You know, of course, we have this rising star in the wargames?"
"I'd heard something of the sort."
"Quite. Some of the chaps think it's unfair of him, coming to the game with that big flashy ship of his... but, well, all's fair in love and war, really, isn't it?" Braying moronic laugh. "Anyway, our parvenu Baron of the New Balearic Islands has been pushing for a challenge for some time, now, and he's finally got his chance. Some rule about points scores in the space battles, and then some other technicality about him winning his title in trial by combat - the lawyer chappies have all the details, I won't bore you with them, don't understand half of them m'self, come to think of it. But anyway, he'll be fighting the Duke of the Napoleonic Sector for the title. His Grace has chosen the weapons - rather, no weapons, unarmed hand-to-hand combat, winner takes all. Should be quite a show, what?"
"His Grace the Duke has skills in combat?" asks Oschmann.
"Oh, rather. Probably the best wrestler in the Imperium, I'd say. But the new chappie seems quite a tough customer, himself, so it's got the makings of a damned good show. Damned good. So, would you care to be an official witness? I can get jolly good seats, you know."
An image is forming in the foetid puddle of the Baron's mind. A face. I strive to control myself, to appear only the unintelligent animal I am feigning to be -
"Two big sweaty chaps locked together in mortal combat?" says Oschmann. "Oh, by all means, count me in!"
"Thought you'd probably say that. Delighted. Pick you up around three pip emma, then? And maybe dinner and a show afterwards?" The Baron purses his lips and glances at me. "Better leave your pet, though - don't think they allow them in the best restaurants."
"She's happier with a chunk of raw neo-rhino, anyway!" says Oschmann with a mannered laugh. "It will be a pleasure, my lord."
"Oh, I do hope so." The image in the Baron's mind now is... best not described. "Anyway, must dash, now, some tiresome old business things to see to. But tomorrow, definitely, it's a date, then?"
"Absolutely, my lord."
The Baron turns, goes to the door, then turns back to give a smile and a silly little wave. Oschmann blows him a kiss. The Baron's smile grows broader as he takes his leave. I feel his sordid little mind diminish in the distance.... I stand up.
"Rrueo is not sure," I say, "whether to commend your initiative, or execute you for your insolence."
"I figured he was too ignorant to recognize a Ferasan." Oschmann kneels down and starts to fish my clothes out from under the bed. "This new Baron of the New Balearics," she says, "seems to be a player of some kind. If I can get to see him in action -"
"You will confirm what Rrueo already knows," I say. "Rrueo saw an image in what passes for your Baron's mind. A foreign adventurer, rising rapidly in the Imperial nobility? Who does that sound like, to you?"
Oschmann's cold eyes widen. "The face fits -?"
"Closely enough. Telepathy is still not an exact science, but it is a face Rrueo has seen in a man's mind before. If you seek to rise in this absurd culture, you will need more of its currency." I start to pull my clothes over my sleek blue fur. "You can obtain this, I think, by placing a large wager on the winner of tomorrow's contest... the current Baron Kalevar Thrang."
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
The Kobali medical tech looked up from the stasis pod. "It can happen anywhere," he said. "Of course, it is best if the virus is introduced in a controlled situation... if the newborn is enabled to make a full recovery under medical supervision, to ease the stress of entry into our society."
He pressed a hypospray to the throat of the corpse that had been Dahar Master Khreg.
"Introducing a heavy viral load makes the transition quicker and easier," he continued, "but, of course, infection may come about anywhere, by all manner of methods. The virus is... surprisingly resilient." He shook his head. "That can cause problems in itself. Accidental infection.... We cannot always track the newborns created by accident. Can you imagine their pain? To be reborn as Kobali, but not to know who the Kobali are, how we live - how to be Kobali?"
"It must be distressing," said Tharval absently. He leaned forwards, inspecting Khreg's corpse. "How long before revitalization begins?"
"It has already begun, at the cellular level. It will take time before we see actual responses. There are many factors. Klingons are strong and resilient, and that makes for a quicker transition... but this one died from a most effective poison, and that must be purged from the system before the body's metabolism can begin anew."
Tharval's face contorted in what might have been a smile. "Forgive me. I really must quell my urges for immediate gratification. It will be days, I gather, before this... new person... is ready for the, ahh, the procedure?"
The medical tech's back stiffened. "It will. And I must say, I do not approve of this procedure."
"On purely medical grounds, no doubt," said Tharval. "And, on purely medical grounds, I'm sure you're right. But sometimes even medicine has to give way to... practicality."
"The General has given orders to cooperate with Thrang. I will not gainsay him." The tech sighed. "My approval, or disapproval, is not relevant."
"I understand your frustrations," said Tharval. "However. I, too, have my orders. There is another one ready for me, I understand?"
"Lisian. He is in your special facility already." The tech indicated a door at the far end of Ostigon's sickbay, a door marked with warning sigils and blocked by the shimmer of a force field.
"You've locked him in? Very security-conscious of you." Tharval strolled up to the door, put his hand on the scanner beside it. There was a momentary pause, and then the scanner glowed green and the field vanished with a pop. Tharval turned back to the tech. "I've been given full instructions. I won't need you."
"I do not know what goes on in that room," said the tech. "I only see the effects on our newborns." Tharval could feel the resentment bubbling in his mind. The Lethean paid no attention, as he stepped through the door and checked it was sealed behind him.
Inside, a Kobali was lying on a couch, his head enclosed in the scan module of the modified psychotricorder. "Greetings," said Tharval, feeling nervousness radiate from the subject. "I'm here on behalf of Kalevar Thrang - do you know the name?"
"I have heard of him." The Kobali's voice was muffled by the metal cage surrounding his head.
"There's no need to be concerned," said Tharval. "This is just a scan - you won't feel a thing. I will need to administer a mild hypnotic, just to put you in a receptive frame of mind. You don't mind, I hope?"
"I have given consent." The Kobali still sounded dubious. Tharval noted the couch's built-in restraints, discreetly concealed at the moment - but the flick of a single switch would make the test subject's consent a matter of indifference. He walked around the couch, to the controls of the psychotricorder. A hypospray lay beside the console; he picked it up, checked the dosage, applied it to the Kobali's neck.
"There. Not so painful, was it?"
"No...." The stuff was fast acting; that was good.
"Just relax." Tharval touched the controls of the device. Wave forms danced across the display screen; the activity patterns of the six-lobed Kobali brain.
"What's your name?"
"Lisian." The Kobali's voice was slurred. Tharval touched another control. His eyes narrowed as he reached out with his own psionic talent, feeling Lisian's mind turn dull and foggy. The patterns on the screen were slower and weaker, now.
"And what do you do?"
"Assigned to... engineering. Work on... warp core... with Sector Intelligence... no...."
Tharval's fingers moved delicately on the controls. "What's your name?"
"Lisian...?"
"And what do you do?"
"Warp core...."
Thrang had been quite specific in his instructions... and Tharval understood what was being attempted, too. His psionic sense tingled. It was like watching a sunken continent rising again from the deeps, he thought. A shadow, looming out of vagueness, details gradually resolving... ruined buildings, eroded by time, encrusted with weeds and corals... but still visible, still there, underneath the ocean waters of the Kobali mind.
Within the cage of the scanner module, lights began to glow: scanning beams, probing the Kobali's brain, mapping the neural circuits, stimulating precise points.
"What's your name?"
"Lisi... no...." The voice was different, subtly. Deeper and rougher, perhaps.
"What's your name?"
"Akhat i-Tellasor tr'Kandran."
"Thank you, Subcommander." Tharval's tone was brisk and official, now. "You were on a deep-penetration mission in Klingon space. You were involved in an accident."
"Accident. Yes. I remember - explosion -"
"You were seriously injured, Subcommander Akhat. You were lucky to survive. But you did not have time to deliver your report, Subcommander. It is vitally necessary that you make a complete report."
"I remember.... Authorization. Need authorization. Clearance codes."
Tharval bared his teeth. Too much of the original personality was bleeding through, along with the memories he needed. He made adjustments to the controls. "This is a matter of urgency, Subcommander. I do not have direct communications with the Tal Shiar. You must present your report verbally, to me, now." Lines of light spiked across the display. Tharval's fingers moved on the controls, gently, coaxingly. "I know it is irregular, but the matter is urgent. Your report, Subcommander Akhat. We must have it."
The Kobali's whole body twitched and shuddered, as if he was fighting some internal battle. Then he began to speak.
---
Hours later, Tharval stepped out of the room. The medical tech was still there, hunched over the stasis pod containing Khreg's body.
"He's sleeping it off. All very satisfactory." He savoured the tech's sullen, unspoken response. He went to the stasis pod and peered through the transparent canopy. Khreg's face was greyish, already, and the ridges on his forehead seemed to be shallower. "Progress?"
"As you see," said the tech. "It will be many more hours before this new person awakens."
"Well, I can wait. General Jhey'quar has been generous with his hospitality. I'll go to my guest quarters and rest for a while." He found he couldn't resist a quick barb. "Thank you so much for all you're doing for us." And he walked out of the sickbay before the tech could frame a response.
He paused for a moment in the corridor outside, getting his bearings. The modified Samsar-class cruiser was a big ship, and he was unfamiliar with its internal layout. Still, he had come to the sickbay from the guest quarters, so all he needed to do was to retrace his steps -
A black-clad figure passed by him in the corridor, and his eyes widened.
"Excuse me," he said. The Kobali did not respond. "Excuse me!" he called out, louder.
She turned and looked at him with cold, lilac-coloured eyes. She was slim, and tall, and her face had a curiously composed look about it. "May I be of assistance?" she asked.
Tharval stared for a moment. "Forgive me," he said. "It's just - have we met?"
The Kobali woman frowned. "I do not believe so," she said, and Tharval could see in her mind that she spoke the truth. "You are Kalevar Thrang's associate, I gather?"
"I am." His voice was flat with sudden disappointment.
"We are, of course, grateful for Thrang's - efforts - on our behalf. How may I help you?"
Tharval shook his head. "I do not think you can. I - I thought you were someone else. A mistake on my part." Though she had been someone else. And he thought he knew who. "May I ask your name?"
"I am Hanchon Lilitsia." Her eyes were still cold. "Will there be anything else?"
"No. I apologize for my error."
"Then I must be about my duties." And she turned and walked unhurriedly away. Tharval's gaze followed her down the corridor, until she reached the end, turned the corner, and vanished from his sight.
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"A corpse," I say.
"Precisely." R'j's face grins at me from the viewscreen. "So, we must ask ourselves, why?"
"The Kobali, of course, have a use for corpses -"
"S-s-s-s-s." She sounds exasperated. "Collected, one at a time, over interstellar distances?"
"Then the corpse must be exceptional in some way." I sit back in the command chair and consider. "Whose was it?"
"Dahar Master Khreg. I am told he took his own life, in circumstances which are susceptible to multiple interpretations."
"Khreg." I know the name - there are few people, at certain levels of Imperial society, who would not know the name. "He would have been a useful ally for Thrang's tools on the High Council - if he were alive. But, dead, all his power and influence dies with him -"
Another hiss. "Does it? I have been thinking about this, and my conclusions are... disturbing."
I raise one eyebrow. "Go on."
"The body of Khreg has been taken to the Kobali, who will presumably do what they usually do. It is not uncommon for recently revived Kobali to retain the personality and memories of their... donors... until the virus reorganizes their brains sufficiently for the new Kobali persona to become dominant."
The conclusion is not an appealing one. "You think that Khreg will be subjected to some... post-mortem interrogation?"
"That is the only conclusion that makes sense to me."
I shake my head. "The memory traces are - unreliable, at best. And the Kobali seek to integrate the resurrectees into their society as quickly as possible -"
"S-s-s-s-s. If there is one thing we know about the Kobali, it is that they will sacrifice their principles for the sake of expediency. And, given what we know of Thrang, it is entirely possible he has devised a way to make the interrogations more reliable."
"I see." I pull a sour face. "It is... plausible. As a hypothesis. And the worst thing about it is... I think I know a way to test it."
---
Masur Viransa is an Orion colony world, marginal and little regarded. It has several advantages for me, just now: it is undeniably within the Orion rather than the Klingon sphere of influence, so I can be less worried about Council enforcers; it is within easy reach of the old Neutral Zone; finally, a large part of its industrial infrastructure is owned by one particular Orion House....
"I will require some assistance on the ground," I say, as the planet swells in the viewscreen before me.
"Mercenary elements, the price on your head, will wish to claim," says Foojoy. "Of deterrence, this one's presence may be, Gral Temm warriors, the reputation of, being known."
I think it is an offer of help. "I would be glad of your assistance," I say.
"Few mercenaries are disposed to argue with the Gorn, also," says the science officer, Thraak. I nod.
"If there are idiots down there, they might believe you've got allies in the Confederacy. And Orion space is full of idiots." The hissing voice comes from Vel'sh Tek, a Breen renegade who has sought refuge in the Empire. He is right, I suppose; that enigmatic masked presence might make some people think twice. "Your aid is also welcome," I say.
"I will assign a regular security detail also," says K'Gan. He looks at the screen. "You intend to beam down in person, though?"
"Of course. It is a matter of... prestige. I must show myself to be involved - and unafraid."
"A risk," the Klingon mutters.
"But a necessary one." I check the local space traffic. Few vessels on sensors - cargo haulers, mostly, and a scattering of corvettes, most likely having their own issues with Imperial law. The sensor logs show several abrupt departures since the massive form of the Knobos appeared in the system. I key a set of commands into my console. "Transmit normal requests to orbital traffic control," I order, "and take up standard orbit at whatever coordinates they assign. Also -" I tap out one final command. "Transmit this."
There are some mystified glances. Well, it is good that my crew does not know all my contacts.... I lean back in the command chair, steeple my hands, and wait. I do not need to wait for long.
"Orbital coordinates received," says Sano from her console. "And... incoming transmission on private band three eight seven."
I smile. "On screen."
An Orion face appears on the viewer; male, bald, with craggy features swathed in a layer of fat. "General Shalo. What a joy to see you. The price on your head is... adequate, I think, for me to live in luxury for the rest of my life." He smiles. "For however many seconds that would be, if I tried to claim it."
"Juvir," I say. "Good to see you, too. How go things with the House of Zorb?"
---
Juvir's offices at the port are spacious and furnished in the best of House Zorb taste - much gold and platinum, a great deal of hanging silk, and a certain number of highly explicit paintings and statuettes. The Klingon security team look on them with some displeasure. Foojoy seems to take it all in his stride, though, and I am unable to read any expressions on Thraak's scaled face, or Tek's metal mask.
Juvir settles himself behind a vast desk of highly polished wood - not native, an expensive import. In person, Juvir is almost the stereotype of the successful Orion enforcer; nearly seven feet tall, with layers of fat concealing more layers of rock-hard muscle. He grins expansively at me as I take my seat opposite him.
"Of course, this is not a social call," he says. "I could never have that much luck. So, General, how may I assist you, and how much can you afford to pay?"
"I hope for a deep discount," I tell him. "For love of our former House."
"Ah, nostalgia!" Juvir says. "Those dear dead days past recall. The House of Sinoom, alas, is no more. We have all had to make our own way in the galaxy.... I have prospered, modestly." He waves one massive hand, taking in the room and its furnishings with the gesture. "As you see. I have not risen so high as you, with your General's commission, your mighty warship, your numerous privateering contracts -"
"My proscription by the High Council," I add.
"A detail. I am sure you will attend to it, when it suits you." His eyes narrow slightly. Juvir is loud, brash, slightly comical... and never stupid. "So what brings you to my humble abode? Surely not the urge to reminisce."
I smile. "It is as I said to you. I would know how things stand with the House of Zorb."
Juvir purses his lips, and nods. "Things stand well enough."
"Even with your recent tragic loss?"
Juvir's expression changes to a sly smile. "I would not call the demise of Yeveus exactly tragic," he says.
"Inconvenient, though, surely?"
"Ah." Now, he wears a calculating look. "I would have expected - some inconvenience, yes. Yeveus was a secretive man, and when he died, he took with him passwords and secret accounts and such... but, it turned out, not so many of those; we received data, bypasses for biometric keys and so forth. His various business enterprises... passed smoothly into other hands. It was fortunate that he thought so far ahead."
"As if, perhaps, he expected to die?" I ask. "And made preparations for a smooth transition beforehand?"
Juvir's expansive humour is gone from his face entirely now. He is thinking. That is good. "It... could have been. But he showed no signs, before it happened, that he was... unduly preoccupied with death. There had been no threats against him - well, nothing beyond the normal run of things." His little dark eyes are fixed on my face. "Is that what you believe? That he expected death?"
"Candidly," I say, "no, it is not."
He raises one eyebrow. "Then, enlighten me, General. What do you believe?"
I brought a datapad with me; now, I skim it over the polished desktop towards Juvir. "There is a date there," I say, "a standardized Klingon stardate. I would know, Juvir, whether any of your instructions from Yeveus were received after that date."
"House records," says Juvir. "Highly confidential...."
"And therefore highly expensive. But I do not need to know what the instructions were... only when they were given."
He frowns. He touches some control beneath the desktop, and a section of wood slides away, to reveal a computer console. "You have some reason for asking," he says.
"A good one, and an urgent one. I will say this much," I add, "you need to know the answer, too, though you may not know why, yet."
"I think I will indulge you," says Juvir. He types rapidly on the console's interface for a moment. He takes pains to shield his movements from my gaze - well, I cannot fault him for that, security is a good habit to cultivate. "Converting from our local calendar to standard Imperial stardates... yes...." He frowns at the screen. "Yeveus's personal accounts were unlocked... some fifteen days after that date. Local days. I could convert to Imperial reckoning -"
"The details are not necessary. Anything else?"
"Biometric data was added, enabling us to unlock and decrypt his secure personal archives."
"Containing enough blackmail material to have a half-dozen High Councillors executed, I imagine," I say. "No, you do not need to confirm or deny it. You merely need to be aware of something." I reach out, tap my fingernail against the datapad. "If you convert that date to your local calendar... you will find it is the date of Yeveus's death."
Juvir stares at me. "It can be verified easily enough," I say.
Juvir's big face is slowly draining of colour. "But - the codes, the personal codes - and they were verified by biometric data -"
"Yes. Fairly quickly, I should imagine, while Yeveus's biometric data was still his own." Before the stolen body became too Kobali to be useful to them any longer. "The measurement of dates in an interstellar culture is... always a little complicated," I muse, aloud. "You cannot be faulted for overlooking this detail."
"Detail? Detail? The House's security has been breached! Our deepest secrets could be known to - to -"
"The Federation? The Tal Shiar? Imperial Intelligence? Worse than any of those," I say cheerfully. "The House of Zorb has been giving up its darkest secrets, its most desirable information, to a rogue human augment called Kalevar Thrang."
"Thrang," Juvir whispers. "I have heard that name." Then his big head snaps around. "What was that?"
A noise. An indistinct sound, from the corridor outside. It could be nothing, of course, but I am disposed to act... otherwise. "Stand ready," I say to my team in conversational tones, and I stand, and draw my weapon. A Romulan plasma repeater pistol, liberated from an Imperial Navy officer who had no further use for it. "I wonder if we have been indiscreet?" I say.
Juvir's face darkens with rage as he stands. There is a scuffling noise in the corridor beyond -
The door hisses open, and something flies through. With a roar, Juvir flips the desk over, so that it crashes down on the object. The blast of the concussion grenade is muted, though Juvir's desktop will need more than a little polish to put it right again. Men are charging through the doorway -
I aim at the first one, and the gun yammers in my hand, sending out bolt after bolt of blazing plasma, burning through his personal shield, then through his body. The Klingon troopers have drawn their bat'leths, good weapons for this close-quarter fighting. The CRM 200 is less ideal - but Tek uses it, nonetheless, strafing our attackers with bolts of absolute cold. Foojoy has a disruptor in one fist, a knife in the other, and is using both with sudden savagery. Thraak is using nothing but his claws.
Another one comes at me. Orion, again, no doubt part of the House of Zorb's security. He is holding a disruptor; I lash out with my foot, kicking it from his hand. I spin around, carried by the momentum of the kick, and slam my gun into the side of his head. He stumbles, but does not fall.
Then he is wrapped in a crackling web of blue light, and his personal shield blows out, and he screams. Juvir has produced a Ferengi energy whip from somewhere; he strikes with it again, sending out another blast of electricity. The man falls, then.
The rest of our attackers - are down. Some of them groaning or whimpering, others very silent.
"You should have this office swept for bugs," I say to Juvir.
"I do," he growls. "Regularly." He comes to stand beside me, looks down at the twitching shape of the man he felled with the energy whip. "This is Aksour, my chief of security, who carries out the checks. At least, I thought he was my chief of security -"
Aksour's eyelids flutter; he is starting to regain consciousness. I take careful aim. When he opens those eyes, the first thing he will see is the business end of my pistol. Perhaps it will be the last, too.
"Well," I say, "he is definitely yours, now." Aksour's eyes open. "I think we have some questions for you, my friend," I purr. "And I know you will answer them."
Thrang smiled and flexed his left arm. "Very nearly wasn't," he said with a rueful look. "The former Duke was a lot tougher than I'd expected. I wonder if there wasn't some augment blood in there. There were one hell of a lot of by-blows during the Eugenics Wars, you know."
"But you were victorious," said Tharval. "As always." He wandered over to an occasional table, and picked up a little silver statuette of a mounted knight. He turned it over in his fingers.
Thrang watched him. "Something bothering you?" he asked.
"I had not previously participated in these... sessions. As you remember," said Tharval.
Thrang sat up. "How did it go?"
"The late Subcommander Akhat was... very helpful. Dahar Master Khreg had less in the way of confidential information, but we learned a lot about what claims of honour he could make on various Great Houses. His heirs will inherit those claims, and will be - subtly encouraged - to make use of them. I have prepared a datapad with a full report."
"But something is still bothering you," Thrang said.
The Lethean turned towards him, dropping the statuette back onto the table. "Do not presume to read my mind, Thrang."
"I'm not reading your mind. Just your mood. What's bothering you?"
"Something and nothing." Tharval pulled up a chair and sat down. "One learns a certain level of respect for one's opposition, when one is engaged in intelligence work. If one knows one's opposite number, a curious relationship develops, sometimes. A co-dependency, almost an affection...."
Thrang grinned. "Tharval, you devil! Were you in love with Talisa Sheardlove?"
"Not exactly. But when the war ended, and we reached a - a personal accord -" Tharval shook his head. "My feelings are, perhaps, hard to describe. But - we became friends. We even, well, arranged matters so that if one of us had to change sides -"
"A spy's insurance policy." Thrang's voice was almost sympathetic.
"Quite. So, you may appreciate that it came as something of a shock to learn of her death... and another shock, when I met a young Kobali female named Lilitsia." Tharval's voice was quite flat.
Thrang made no reply.
"I understand, now, how you knew so much about our - arrangements," Tharval said.
Thrang was silent for another moment. Then he said, "The Kobali say their virus gives people... another chance at life. But they're also adamant that the resurrectee is a new person, newborn and not reborn. The Kobali... aren't consistent on this point. It doesn't matter to me, really... but maybe it does to you?"
"Is she the person she was?" Tharval shook his head. "I have used your devices, Thrang, and I have felt the minds of the Kobali while I did so... and I have no clear answer to that question. I... I do not think I could bear to look into this Lilitsia's mind."
"Some questions," said Thrang softly, "are best not answered. Sometimes, best not even asked."
"But sometimes they cannot be evaded," said Tharval.
"Maybe you should speak to her," said Thrang. "See what there is, of the woman you knew. Or see what there is to be seen... of the woman she is now."
"Perhaps," said Tharval. "Perhaps."
---
"Restrain him." Jhey'quar's voice was iron. Two soldiers stepped forwards, to grip the arms of the cringing Geterian.
"I did not mean it." Geterian's voice was high-pitched, ragged, his words tumbling over each other as he spoke. "I never intended - but - but - I remembered things, things that women liked, that I liked - and I thought, I thought she would like them - but she resisted, and - and -"
Jhey'quar looked down at the still form on the deck, and closed his eyes. Some of the things that Geterian had done -
"This Yeveus of Zorb was not worthy of rebirth!" somebody hissed.
Jhey'quar raised his head. "What is done, is done," he said. "And now the consequences must be faced -" He turned. "Geterian. You must be confined and examined. We must know if - if the sickness which afflicts you can be cured. If it can, we will cure you. We will cure you. Understand this. This - this thing that you have done - it came from the old part of you, the part that is gone, now, and should have stayed gone. If we can, we will take that part of you away. If we can."
He steeled himself, but Geterian was quietly weeping, was too broken to pose the obvious question - and if you cannot?
"Take him away," Jhey'quar ordered. "And... prepare our daughter Lilitsia for burial. It is a tragedy. She should have had a whole new life ahead of her." His voice hardened. "Once that is done, we will have Thrang's machinery removed from the medical bay. We have our foothold in this quadrant now, and we will work by ourselves to keep it. This - this is part of Thrang's price for his help, and it is too high a price to pay. Thrang will corrupt no more of our newborns. Destroy the machines."
Also; the dangers of bringing the dead back is that you sometimes bring the dead back It was an interesting plan, to get intelligence from sources most people would think safely secured.
Writing this month, I ended up compromising. I'm doing the big story I'm working on as a unofficial NaNoWriMo this year. Just never enough time... Any pace is a good pace on Death House here, though.
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I will admit to feeling nervous. And the sight on the screen before me is not one to calm my spirits.
"I never actually met Thrang," the Reman says. She is scowling and unlovely even by Reman standards, with hot angry eyes set into hooded sockets whose black lids shade into the pebbly grey of her skin. Her name is Heizis, and she was instrumental in thwarting Thrang's previous bid for galactic domination. "I heard him speak over the communicator, and of course I witnessed some of his plans... but the only person who spoke with him at length was my Starfleet counterpart. Admiral Pexlini." Her expression grows even sourer at that name.
"I take it this Pexlini is not accessible?" I ask.
"Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Properly speaking, I should not be speaking to you, since you are proscribed by the High Council... but that is one thing, and stopping Thrang is more important. Whatever he is doing." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "Pexlini's assessment," she says, sounding reluctant, "was that Thrang is clever, talented, and devious, but that his weak spot lies in understanding virtues. Things like trust and honour. They are closed books to him - he acts only in accord with his own perceived self-interest, and expects others to do the same. It is not much help. Thrang's genetic enhancement makes him highly intelligent - he perceives his own interests with exceptional clarity. You should not underestimate him. However... your proposed plan is consistent with Klingon honour. It may be something he has not planned for." The hot angry eyes seem to burn into me from the screen. "Do not rely on that. Thrang should not be underestimated."
"S-s-s-s-s. I will try not to make that mistake. Thank you for your assistance."
Heizis nods curtly. "Good luck," she says, and breaks the connection.
I look around the bridge. "Well. We must depend on Klingon honour, then. I can see that it is generally reliable...."
"From Thrang's lackeys on the High Council?" asks Laska tartly.
"They must be seen to act with honour. They would never retain support, otherwise. S-s-s-s-s. Let us see if we can surprise Thrang. It would be gratifying to do so...."
Weeks spent skulking around the Neutral Zone, dodging Klingon patrols while we try to piece together Thrang's plans. Now, we have something. Shalo's efforts have given us the names of blackmail victims, picked from the dead but still productive mind of Yeveus of Zorb... and my own investigations have led me to two High Councillors, who are almost certainly Thrang's men.
So now Nuru-Or is skulking, not through the Neutral Zone, but deep in the heart of Klingon territory, on the track of those two High Councillors. It helps that I know the regular patrol schedules, the sensitive areas where tachyon grids are deployed... but, frankly, I think my ship and my crew could infiltrate the Empire without that help. We are, I flatter myself, that good.
I study the Y-shaped gdorab board. Ideas are forming in my brain.
"I have a transponder contact," Siowershoe reports. I turn my head.
"Is it them?"
"Verifying now. At least the High Councillors are easy to find.... Got it. IKS qu HoS, Vo'quv class, with the personal idents of Councillors Dillan and T'Khal."
"A nice plump carrier. It would be large as a kn'yhh'drrr in our gunsights... however, we are not here for target practice. Set an intercept course."
Laska is frowning. She is concerned over this plan... but it is the best one, I think. We have two of Thrang's agents; if we deal with them, we are bound to provoke some reaction, perhaps force him to tip his hand.
Perhaps.
I spare another glance for the game board. I know my games... but Kalevar Thrang is a consummate player.
"Course laid in. Engaging." I watch the vectors change on the helm repeater. The carrier is on a leisurely course through the outskirts of an Imperial system - possibly Dillan or T'Khal might be checking on some personal property. Both are High Councillors, wealthy and honoured men. Evidently, they do not feel they are wealthy and honoured enough, and so have thrown in their lot with Thrang.
This will prove a bad decision, for them.
"Intercept in three minutes." Nuru-Or can easily outpace a lumbering carrier. I sketch in a course on the tactical console.
"Very dramatic," says Laska, with a curl of her lip.
"S-s-s-s-s. Sometimes drama is helpful," I say.
My ship slides unseen past the carrier, and slews around to face it.
"Decloak. And open hailing frequencies."
Light shifts on my bridge... and the captain of the qu HoS, whoever he might be, is no doubt surprised to find a Bird of Prey suddenly blocking his ship's path.
"Hailing," reports Siowershoe. "I have them."
"On screen."
A scarred Klingon face appears on the viewer, a surly elderly male with a grizzled beard and thinning hair. "This is Captain Grak of the IKS qu HoS. Identify yourself."
I stand. "R'j Bl'k', commanding the IKS Nuru-Or. You are carrying two members of the High Council. I am currently proscribed by the High Council." I smile without humour. "I am here to surrender."
---
They let me keep my sidearms, and Laska to accompany me, as I beam over to the carrier. So far, everything is going to plan. No doubt that will change.
I am shown to a large and empty conference room. Captain Grak is there, with a number of armed guards... and two more.
Dillan and T'Khal are the very picture of eminent High Councillors, in their decorated robes and magnificently gleaming medals. Dillan wears a permanent sneer. T'Khal's eyes are canny and calculating.
They leave it to the captain to speak. "You are surrendering?" he barks at me. He seems displeased.
"S-s-s-s-s. The High Council has questions for me, and I have answers for them. It seems reasonable to bring the two together.... However, it appears I have been misinformed."
"Misinformed?" Grak's eyebrows gather thunderously together. "Misinformed how?"
"I was told that your ship carried two honourable members of the High Council."
"It does!" He waves an exasperated hand. "Councillor Dillan and Councillor T'Khal. You can see for yourself!"
"S-s-s-s-s. Two honourable members of the Council. I do not see those. I see only a pair of cowardly blackmailers, working at the orders of the renegade Kalevar Thrang. You can hardly expect me to surrender myself to scum such as that."
I have rehearsed this speech. It is deliberately calculated to produce an effect. It gets one. T'Khal stiffens and glares, while Dillan lets loose an inarticulate roar.
"You make grave charges, for an alien and a renegade!" shouts Grak.
"S-s-s-s-s. Alien, yes. Renegade, from such as these - well, to be otherwise would impugn my honour. And that is not acceptable."
"I will take your life for this, creature," hisses T'Khal.
"Is that a denial of your crimes, Councillor? It does not seem adequate." I take a determined step towards him. "You and your life partner here travel across the Empire at the whim of Kalevar Thrang, suborning honest men and forcing them to act against their honour and judgement. I will call you to account for it. Here and now, if you wish it. One at a time, or both together." I indicate my pistols in their holsters. "I am armed. And capable, and ready."
This is what Thrang may not expect. An investigation into Dillan and T'Khal would take weeks, would be blocked at every turn by their co-conspirators... but this, a direct challenge to their honour as Klingons, must be answered here and now, or they will lose face forever. Even now, I can see a shadow of doubt creeping over Grak's face... well, he commands their ship, he must know them well by now, and I do not think he knows anything much to their credit.
Of course, there is the minor detail of surviving this. At least, I fervently hope it is a minor detail.
"I too am armed!" declares Dillan. The "life partner" thing must have needled him - it does, with some. Actually, my impression of their relationship is that Dillan is a wealthy idiot, and T'Khal remains close by his side only to smooth over his social blunders. Now, he throws open his heavy leather coat, to display the disruptor pistol riding on his hip.
"And I," says T'Khal, with a smile on his lips. "So. Both together, you say? Then we will oblige you. Third Protocol for pistol duels. Suitably modified, according to the precedent set by T'Gan, Dakoth and Karn. Set it up," he snaps at Grak.
The captain looks at all three of us with a doubtful gaze, but he steps over to a wall console, and taps out commands.
Overhead, most of the lights grow dim. Three spotlights shine down, spaced equidistantly, casting a triangle of bright patches on the floor.
"You will take your place under one light," T'Khal orders. "You will not move -"
"S-s-s-s-s. I know the Third Protocol. And the amendment you mentioned. I have fought in this manner before." I stride over to one spotlit patch, stand in the light. I flex my fingers. "I am ready."
Fuming, Dillan stomps over to another pool of light. T'Khal takes the third. "You will act as marshal of the duel," he orders Grak. He spares a disdainful glance at Laska. "You are a witness. You will witness your captain's demise, and the redemption of our honour. I am ready."
"And I," calls out Dillan.
Grak licks his lips. The security guards look on, seemingly puzzled. "You are outnumbered two to one," he says. "You are entitled to some compensatory advantage -"
"I have two guns. I have two targets. That is all I need, Captain. That, and honour - which I have defended in this manner before."
Dillan looks uncertain. T'Khal does not. He, too, is displaying a disruptor pistol.
"Stand ready," Grak orders in a hoarse voice. "The duel commences at my command. Ready.... Now!"
My hands flash to my weapons. And my eyes focus on my targets. I told them I was capable of this. If they do not know, or do not believe, that I can move and focus my eyes independently - that is their problem.
Twin blasts of polaron fire erupt from my weapons.
One bolt catches Dillan in the head, hurls him dying to the ground, his fingers still twitching on his holstered weapon.
The second bolt disintegrates into a webwork of purple lightnings, a few centimetres from T'Khal's face.
A personal shield. And I may not move from the circle of light, and it will take me too long to burn the shield down, while he has all the time in the world to draw his disruptor and kill me. I am dead.
T'Khal snarls and draws his weapon -
And the disruptor is in his hand, but it does not fire, because his hand is parting from his arm in a flash of steel and a spray of blood.
"PetaQ!" Captain Grak rams the other end of his bat'leth into T'Khal's stomach, twists, tears, and pulls it back out. "You take unfair advantage in a duel of honour! Everything she said about you was true, you pujwI' -" He slashes again at T'Khal's abdomen. Pointless, as the first wound is clearly mortal. T'Khal falls to his knees, hand on his stomach, hopelessly trying to contain the things welling out of the wound.
Grak turns away from him, folds his arms across his chest, comes to attention with a stamp of his feet. After a moment, the guards follow suit. Behind me, I hear Laska do the same.
The last thing T'Khal sees in this life is that row of condemnatory Klingon backs.
And me.
Infinite possibilities have implications that could not be completely understood if you turned this entire universe into a giant supercomputer.
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!
(I'm guessing, though shevet, if you ever want an extra beta reader...)
Member Access Denied Armada!
My forum single-issue of rage: Make the Proton Experimental Weapon go for subsystem targetting!