The Death House 33

Rrueo

I close the helmet of the Sentinel suit, and R'js voice whisper-rasps in my ears, "I hope you know what you are doing."

"Rrueo does. Rrueo is the expert on Delta Quadrant ships, after all." In as much as we have any experts... well, at least I have shot at several of them. I step into the airlock, close the inner door, wait as the chamber is evacuated, then open the outer door. "Rrueo is ready," I announce.

"Adjusting flight angle now," says K'Rokok's voice. "Trajectory locked and set. Countdown should be on your helmet visor now, sir."

It is. The numbers are worryingly low. Already, I am regretting this decision, but it is far too late to back out now. "Patch Rrueo through to transmissions from the Knobos," I say.

The next voice to fill my ears is Shalo's; she is talking - well, speechifying - to the Imperials. "… cannot guarantee any negotiating position on behalf of the Klingon Empire," she is saying. "However, we are not necessarily hostile, provided that cooperation is given. We have requested your forces to clear the battle zone; we now request those ships which have not complied... to submit to detailed sensor scans for potential hostiles, including high-intensity tachyon scans -"

And that is my cue. I gather my muscles, take hold of the edges of the airlock opening. The squat shape of the Nihydron ship is sweeping into my field of vision. The countdown on my visor reaches zero.

And I scream, and I leap.

I leave the artificial gravity field of the Skaldak, and I am flying free in space, hurtling towards the Nihydron destroyer. So far, so good. K'Rokok has been putting Skaldak through a series of course changes, which have coincidentally brought her, for a few moments, into close range and matching velocity with Thrang's ship - at least, it should look like coincidence. It may pass as equally coincidental when Shalo's tachyon scan momentarily reaches a very high intensity level, enough to destabilize the Nihydron's shields.

Thrang, of course, will not believe in such coincidences. But we have just saved the homeworld of the Grand Imperium, and he may find it hard to convince his crews that we are, nonetheless, the enemy. In any case, it is not as though we are launching an obvious attack on him. Yet.

Just one lone figure, flying through space. One Ferasan - I will admit it to myself, one very nervous Ferasan - in a spacesuit, carrying a single spatial charge.

Silent stars watch me as I drop across the kilometres that separate Skaldak from the Nihydron ship. I can risk only the slightest of corrective burns with my suit's thrusters; even like this, I risk detection - despite the heavy space suit, I feel nakedly exposed.

The Nihydron ship expands towards me, growing in my visor from a child's plaything to... what it is, a massive and very effective military starship. I check my speed; I must risk the thrusters, to decelerate, or I will be smashed against that armoured hull -

I turn, fire the thrusters, wait with my heart hammering -

And I am down; I feel the shock in my pads as my boots make contact. Anyone on the other side of that hull... actually, how much will they have heard, through the layered composite armour? I do not know. I must proceed, then, on the assumption that I have very little time.

Outside the hull, the ship's artificial gravity field is weak, patchy and inconsistent - more of an annoyance than anything else. I scramble from handhold to handhold across the curving armour, towards the base of one projecting pylon, and the spot I need to reach.

Oh, we could simply blast this ship out of space - it is no match for the three of us. But presenting the High Council with a large bag of ashes, and saying Thrang might be somewhere among them... is not an elegant solution. We need to catch him alive, or at least see him dead.

So I am scrambling for the base of the pylon, and then for a point between it and its mate on the other side of the ship. Assuming that I am remembering correctly what little I know about Nihydron ship architecture -

I miss a handhold, flail in empty space, must risk another burst on thrusters to get me back into position.

No one has noticed me yet, it seems. Such luck cannot last long. I reach the place. I spot the rounded, shallow dome between the two pylons, and permit myself a little purr. Then I swing the spatial charge into place and set it.

And now, I have a tight deadline. I swarm across the underside of the destroyer, looking for what I know is there... these ships are capable of emergency landings, there are access hatches and airlocks on the underside....

I reach one such hatch. It is secured, but I have specialist tools that break the lock in seconds. Too many seconds, though. As I swing it open, a shiver runs through the vessel, and my shadow is cast on the hatch cover before me - stark black as if etched on the metal by the white light behind me.

The spatial charge was correctly placed; it has breached the destroyer's main plasma manifold, and now a column of brilliant white flame is spouting from the breach. It is easily repaired, given time and opportunity - but, for the moment, the ship's main power is offline, its weapons and defensive systems crippled.

I pull myself up through the hatchway, seal it behind me. Air hisses around me. I open the airlock's inner door. I am in a deserted maintenance run at the lowest level of the ship. No one is yet about - that is good enough.

I touch my wrist comm, engage my transporter buffer. It is a weird feeling, to have my suit disappear around me and be replaced by the segments of my Honor Guard armour - but the big disruptor pulsewave is a comforting weight, now, and the transporter enhancers are ready at hand. I place them on the deck, activate them, and touch the comm again.

"Rrueo here. Boarding parties to beam over now."

And the dimness of the maintenance run is filled with red light, that darkens and resolves itself into Klingon warriors. I stand straight and address them.

"You have your assigned targets. Life support. Main engineering. Computer core. Auxiliary control. Strike team one, with Rrueo, to the bridge, now!"

They move - with discipline, and with savage smiles on their faces. Klingon warriors. The play-actors of the Grand Imperium are about to get a rude awakening to the realities of combat. We are heavily outnumbered by this ship's crew, of course - and it must contain at least a cadre of Thrang's own people, who we must assume are competent - but, even so, I am confident that my warriors will take their objectives.

I raise the wrist comm to my mouth again as my team falls in behind me. "Rrueo to Skaldak. Commence transporter interdiction now." And I flick another switch, that converts the transporter enhancers to transporter jammers.

"General Bl'k' promised to send support -" K'Rokok begins.

"And she will keep her word. She always does. Now, move."

And we move. Myself, K'Rokok, Oschmann... the two Gorn, Toriash and Shegithem... the Lissepian medic Siowxayer... and the Breen renegade who calls himself Gal the Recusant. It is not a force that any sane person would confront, but I do not know how much sanity to expect from the Grand Imperium. The corridors and slanting ramps of the Nihydron ship are... confusing. I have a deck plan on my tricorder, and I try to look, as far as possible, as if I know where I am going.

We come upon a group of technicians - humans, almost certainly Imperials. Sensibly, they flee. We round a corner, and charge up another ramp - and face our first active opposition. An armoured figure in a demon-masked helmet: one of the Imperium's supposed warriors - they call them the samurai-praetorians. He roars a challenge and charges us with his absurd power sword raised above his head.

Seven disruptor bolts slam into his midriff, and he falls to the deck in several pieces. K'Rokok laughs.

"They are idiots," I say. "But they may be lucky idiots. Stay alert." And we press on. Intruder alarms are, belatedly, starting to sound.

The Nihydron corridors are bare, functional - but this ship is now part of the Grand Imperial navy, and signs of this become apparent as we move onwards. There are decorative wall hangings, gaudy armorial bearings, other indications that we are moving into the higher-status regions of the vessel.

Around a corner, I hear a voice - and I stop in my tracks, astonished. The voice and the mind-tone behind it are familiar.

"- all I'm sayin' is, a tour of the flagship is one thing, but it's possible to have a bit too much bally excitement along the way, what? So when can I expect all this damn noise to quieten down, so I can catch a shuttle back to civilization - hello? Hello?" The baron swears. "Cut me off, did he? Damn impertinence."

He steps around the corner, and his jaw drops. He is unarmed, in civilian clothing, and I notice some bruises. "Lady Cynthia!" he says to Oschmann, and then he blinks as my presence registers. "You," he says, "you're - you're Lady Cynthia's pet -"

"Oh, no," I say, "that would be you." And I slam my fist hard into his stomach. He folds up, choking. There is a Jeffries tube in the opposite wall; I stuff him through the opening, and listen to the bumps and gasps as he tumbles down it.

Onwards. Aristocratic guest quarters; we must be close now. K'Rokok is consulting his tricorder. "The Nuru-Or is manoeuvring for docking," he says, with a frown. "But she is too far forward - she has missed the main airlock -"

I say nothing. I reach out and take a firm hold on a projecting stanchion.

As a result, I am the only one to keep my feet when the blast from the breaching charge runs through the deckplates. "General Bl'k' has a habit of making her own entrances," I tell the rest of my team as they scramble to right themselves. "That was close at hand - we will link up with her, now."

It is easy enough to hear where R'j and her boarding party have entered the ship. The gunfire has died down by the time we arrive, though, and R'j is stalking imperiously along the corridors with a gaggle of heavily armed Klingons and Gorn behind her. As she draws level with a side door, her arm shoots out and the pistol in her hand cracks. A samurai-praetorian falls out of the doorway, with a smoking hole in the middle of his demon mask. "S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "Those people are annoying."

My wrist comm buzzes for attention; I raise it to my mouth. "Report."

"Commander Vesas here. As you ordered, auxiliary control and the computer core are now secure. We have tapped the core and have control of ship's functions."

"Excellent. Cancel their security. Lock all interior doors in the open position." I grin at R'j. "Nothing bars our way to the bridge. Shall we?"

She smiles back. "Lead on."

And we move, loping up the last ramp, along the last corridor. Someone has erected a barricade, a clumsy thing of piled-up furniture. I trigger the pulsewave's grenade launcher, and a photonic blast knocks it away.

I charge onto the bridge, snarling, the pulsewave sending out blast after blast of sick green disruptor light. Beside me, the twin beams of R'j's pistols stab through the air with surgical precision. Half the bridge crew are down before they even have a chance to surrender.

The command chair is big, throne-like, its high back turned towards me. I leap forwards and spin it around, the barrel of my pulsewave pointing straight at the occupant's head.

It is not Thrang. It is an older human male, dressed in an over-decorated Imperial uniform. I hiss in disappointment, and aim my tricorder at him. It is definitely not Thrang. We have his genetic profile, and the tricorder scan confirms it. This is... someone else.

"S-s-s-s-s," says R'j. "The Grand Admiral with all the other grand titles. Ter Horst, that was the name, yes?"

The man glares at us, hopeless but defiant. "I am the Grand Admiral," he says, "and I command the flagship in battle. The Emperor gave me this ship -"

"All very well," I snarl at him, "but it is your Emperor we want. Where is he? Where is Kalevar Thrang?"

And a voice from behind me says, "I'm not in just now."

---

I whirl. The face on the main viewscreen is definitely Kalevar Thrang's. The smugness alone would confirm it.

"If you're watching this recording," he continues, "then things haven't gone to plan. I suppose it's my own fault, really - I keep forgetting that I'm not dealing with reasonable people. Reasonable people would keep their heads down when they're wanted by the High Council. Or they'd have the sense to stick to an eminently sensible arrangement which benefits everyone, aside from a few Kobali newborns with psychological issues. Seriously. You know the old saying about eggs and omelettes, don't you?"

He positively pouts in disappointment. "Anyway. As I'm speaking, well, I've just heard what's happened aboard Jhey'quar's ship. If you're looking for Sarv, by the way, don't bother, he's past anyone's concern by now. I'll give you that for nothing. As a gesture of goodwill, if you like." His tone brightens. "Anyway, now Sarv's failed and Jhey'quar's gone rogue, well, there's no way even I can pick up all the pieces of this little scheme. So, well, it's time to cut my losses. I don't think I'd like being the emperor of just one silly planet, anyway, so my last act as Grand Emperor is to abdicate and proclaim the republic of 54 Eridani V." He raises one clenched fist over his head. "Power to the people! - Bye now."

I exchange baffled glares with R'j, as the screen freezes on Thrang's odiously smiling face.

Somehow, we both manage not to shoot it.

The Death House 32

R'j

Nuru-Or comes screaming into 54 Eridani space, into the blasting and glare of an all-out war.

Behind me, Skaldak and Knobos crash out of subspace, weapons hot. I am comforted. I am not greatly comforted, as it is necessary to take Thrang, or at least confirm his death, and the confusion of a space battle is not the best place to do that.

"S-s-s-s-s. What is the tactical situation?" I ask.

"The Grand Imperial forces are fighting the Kobali cruiser," says Laska. The flash of a core breach illuminates the screen. "And losing," she adds.

"We tentatively identified that Nihydron ship as Thrang's, yes?"

"Yes. It seems to be acting as flagship for the Imperials - which would make sense, if it is Thrang's ship and he is now Emperor. It is the only vessel which can even put up a fight against the Kobali."

Lights are flashing on the comms console. I hit it, and Rrueo's and Shalo's faces appear on the small screen. "What exactly is happening?" I ask.

"Thrang's tools appear to be fighting amongst themselves," says Shalo. "We should wait for the dust to settle, then pick through the wreckage, I think."

"Rrueo disagrees." The Ferasan's face is grim. "Rrueo has performed sensor scans. There is a disturbing factor. The Kobali ship is loaded with complex organics. Alpha-furanizol. For Rrueo to be able to detect the compound, at this range and in this much sensor noise, there must be a very great deal of it."

"S-s-s-s-s. Why would the Kobali ship be carrying huge quantities of poison -?" The answer comes as soon as I frame the question. "To make more Kobali. Indeed, to mass produce more Kobali."

"Thrang would not allow his empire to be destroyed -" Shalo begins.

"Thrang now knows Sarv has failed him," I interrupt her. "Perhaps he now seeks a new Kobali power base. In any case -"

"Mass murder of civilians," says Rrueo. "Rrueo is not often idealistic, but... the Empire is supposed to stand for something, after all."

"And," says Shalo, "if we defend the Grand Imperials, they may be more accommodating later, when we ask for the head of their new Emperor.... Very well. Let us do the decent and proper thing." She laughs. "At least it will be a novelty."

"Battle cloak," I order, and, "Threat assessment."

"Heavily modified Kobali Samsar-class cruiser," says Laska. "Reman style shields and deflector, Vaadwaur polaron armament... I do not recognize the engine readings, they may have been individually customized by Thrang."

"Complex hybrid technologies," I muse, while I sketch out a battle plan on the tac console. "The sort of thing Starfleet's Experimental Engineering Division likes to play with. S-s-s-s-s. Perhaps we should send them any remaining usable fragments." Rrueo and Shalo are signalling approval of the tactical plan. "Range?"

"Three thousand kellicams and closing rapidly."

"Steer two six mark two. On my order, hard about." The Grand Imperium's navy is being slowly swatted away, antique ships tumbling in flame across the sky. The Nihydron ship is dealing out a reasonable amount of damage, but not enough to trouble those high-powered Reman-designed shields... and the Nihydron itself is taking polaron fire, and suffering.

"Skaldak is - in position. Knobos is - approaching position. All-bands hail from - General Shalo."

"Let us hear it, at least."

Shalo's face comes up on the main screen. "I am General Shalo of the House of Sinoom," she announces, "personal emissary of the Chancellor and the High Council of the Klingon Empire. Grand Imperium ships, clear this area, now. To the commander of the Kobali vessel approaching 54 Eridani V - power down your drives, shields and weapons, and eject your warp core, now, as a signal of unconditional surrender. No further warnings will be given." And she looks, very definitely, as though she means it.

I check the tac display. The Samsar is still boring straight in for the planet, blasting defensive satellites and the occasional quixotic Imperial relic out of its path as it goes. The Nihydron ship is swinging around for another pass at the Samsar's port shields. Whoever is handling that ship has some talent, but it will not be enough.

A new voice sounds on the comms channels. "This is General Jhey'quar. We do not take orders from the High Council, or from Kalevar Thrang, or from any source but our own destiny. This is not your fight, Orion. Do not involve yourself." So. We can be reasonably certain that Kalevar Thrang is not on that ship.

And mine are in position. "Hard about, three five five mark zero. Lock torpedoes. Sensors, stand ready. All cannons to rapid fire. Commence attack run."

Nuru-Or swings sharply around, aiming herself directly at the oncoming Samsar. From this angle, the ship's deflector and sensor grid, with armour above and below, and the two sharp prongs at each side, looks like the toothy maw of some hungry predator. On the screen, it expands towards us. I count off the range in my head.

"Fire torpedoes." Balls of green-hot burning light spout from our launchers. "Decloak and open fire!"

Nuru-Or shimmers into visibility to launch a ghostly spray of antiproton bolts which make the Kobali ship's forward screens flare and waver. Knobos has come about, has deployed fighters and support platforms, is directing withering fire onto the Kobali's flank. Skaldak is hanging back. It must irk Rrueo, but she is where I need her to be.

The grin of the Samsar is suddenly disfigured by bursts of flame as our bolts pierce its failing shields... but the damage is merely superficial, as yet, and the Kobali ship shows as much, with a sudden barrage of polaron fire. Our own shields flare in response, and there is a flash-bang on the bridge as a conduit overloads. "Steady," I hiss.

Nuru-Or hurtles forward into the hail of fire, guns spitting out bolt after bolt... and as we slant upwards, over the frowning brow of the Samsar, I order, "Vent warp plasma now!"

Charged particles spill from our rear vents, enveloping the Samsar in an auroral fog. Through it, bolts of antiprotons and polarons flash. We are running an evasion pattern, but the Kobali gunners are good; our shields are weakening, the ship is rocking from impacts, and the damage control board is... disheartening. I can only hope that Laska, on the science console, is getting what we need -

We slam past the tall fin at the rear of the Samsar's hull, trailing warp plasma and fire. "Hard about!" I order. Shields are lower than I would like -

A weak burst of phaser fire comes from somewhere on our starboard quarter. The Pioneer-class ship, the one we encountered on our first visit to this system. It is approaching the Samsar in an act of futile defiance. Its phasers barely irritate the big ship's shields - but they elicit a polaron barrage in reply. Flaming craters erupt on the Pioneer's forward saucer; the fragile domes of the Bussard collectors shatter at once. The Pioneer yaws violently; another polaron barrage rips away a nacelle and opens the engineering hull to space.

Considerate of them to die on our behalf. "Targeting solution is locked," Laska reports.

"Take out their shield emitters! All cannons rapid fire!"

Kobali. They are very protective of their second lives. That cruiser is layered about with protective measures, with armour and reactive nanites and regenerative integrity fields... to hurt it seriously, we must strike, not just hard, but accurately, overwhelming its shields at precision points, damaging the emitters to take the shields offline - temporarily, until repairs are made, but I do not propose to allow them time to make repairs....

Nuru-Or's cannons roar, following the precise guidelines laid down by Laska's sensor suite, and the eldritch glow of the Reman-designed shields flickers and fades.

"Now!" I yell over the comms channels. The Samsar is laying down a punishing barrage of polaron fire in order to protect itself - my ship is shaking, my shields are in tatters, and the lurid light of exploding conduits is flooding the bridge. Distractions. I ignore them.

My ship hurtles back towards the Kobali, weapons blazing. The cruiser's thick, slab-sided armoured flanks begin to disintegrate under the barrage. I am not alone in my attack. Knobos is closing in on the starboard flank, beam arrays clawing the hull armour into jagged ruins of blazing metal. There are organic shapes on the sensors, fleetingly - Kobali, blasted into space on torrents of escaping air, to die a very final second death.

Skaldak drops neatly into position, her forward weapons ablaze, her disruptor autocannon raking the Samsar's long shape, opening up the cruiser's spine.

Auxiliaries are launching - shuttles, registering cargoes of alpha-furanizol. Shalo's To'Duj fighters peel off from their attack runs to intercept. The Kobali shuttles are outmatched; they shatter in bursts of poison and flame.

Rrueo's attack has torn open a huge trench along the Samsar's upper hull. "Two four seven mark three seven two!" I shout, and Nuru-Or wheels about and points her prow directly at the monstrous wound. "Fire!"

Plasma torpedoes roar from our launchers, unimpeded by shields, to drive through the torn gaps in the hull armour and deep into the bowels of the enemy ship.

The Samsar lurches and heaves, flames spewing from its wounded hull. Nuru-Or comes about and screams in for another attack run - but there is no need; the polaron fire is slackening and failing, and the battered hull is visibly deforming as a series of explosions runs through the interior. My ship races down the length of the enemy vessel... and flies free into empty space, just as the cruiser's warp core goes, and the ship dissolves into a white-hot spray of debris. Whatever destiny Jhey'quar had in mind, he goes to face it alone, now.

My damage control board makes for sad reading, but the worst is over now - or it would be, if there were not a message light blinking on the console. I rattle out the brief version of the Ss'kra-h'ji sutra, which consoles those whose work is never done. Then I accept the call.

"One down," says Rrueo. "One to go."

"The Nihydron?" I suppose it cannot be avoided.

"Thrang's flagship," says Rrueo, and licks her fangs. "Rrueo has a plan."

The Death House 30

Shalo

"You." The serjeant-at-arms puffs out his chest and glowers at me. "You three, you are all wanted by the High Council -"

"And we are here, now, to present ourselves to the High Council," I say with hauteur.

"You are proscribed! You are wanted criminals! You dare to approach the Great Hall in this manner?" He is a very picture of outraged Klingon officialdom.

"The High Council wishes us to account for ourselves, and we have urgent information for the High Council. It is in everyone's interests if we enter, immediately."

A breakneck flight from 54 Eridani to Qo'noS, using transwarp gates and every illicit means Melani D'ian could arrange to smooth our way... and now the last obstacle is this pompous official, barring our way to the Great Hall.

"I will summon the Yan-Isleth! You shall not go before the High Council, unless it is in chains! I will -"

There is a pulse of light in the air, and a force plucks the serjeant-at-arms off his feet and hurls him against the wall. He falls in a stunned heap.

I turn and direct a quelling stare at R'j. She shrugs. "Reasoning with him was getting you nowhere. And I believe we have a deadline."

"True." I step over the prone body and push open the door.

D'ian is on the other side, and she raises a finger to her lips. I look past her, at the Great Hall. J'mpok sits slumped and brooding on his seat; Sarv has the floor, and across the hall, the Lethean envoy glowers at him. A data sheet is showing on the holo-display; the population figures for the moon of 54 Eridani VI. They make grim reading, if you are a Lethean.

"Try not to attract attention," says D'ian, "for the moment. I have briefed the Lethean, but not J'mpok. I think it is best to have his authentic reaction."

The three of us sidle into the Great Hall, as inconspicuously as we can manage. It is not hard; the Lethean is speaking.

"So this," he says, "is the High Council's honour. This. The extermination of a colony of our people, to be resurrected as Kobali, as part of an underhand arrangement with that government -"

"The extermination was none of our doing!" snarls Sarv.

"That remains to be proved," the Lethean retorts. "And even so, what can the Kobali offer the Empire? A minor power, half the galaxy away! Lethean friendship towards the Empire has been steadfast, up till now... does the Councillor wish to throw that away, for the sake of a dubious Kobali alliance?"

"Not just Kobali!" shouts Sarv. "They will be our partners in that system - and will oversee our alliance with the humans!"

There is a shocked murmur among some of the Council - the ones Sarv has not already primed for this. J'mpok stirs on his seat, but does not speak.

"Yes!" Sarv crows. "The humans! A human colony, at first, but when Earth hears of this, when the warrior humans learn of a firm alliance with our people - they will rise up! They will throw off the shackles of the Federation pacifists! They will take back their birthright of combat and blood! Two great warrior peoples of the quadrant will unite, and nothing will be impossible for them!"

It is, I suppose, possible he believes this himself.

J'mpok speaks at last. "And at what cost will we buy this human alliance, Councillor?"

"Only a small one," says Sarv. "Only the granting of a title - a title that is meaningful, true, but one whose actual effectiveness is in name only. The one called Kahless filled the role of Emperor well - he inspired our warriors in battle, he upheld the great traditions of the Empire, and at the last he died as a warrior should! But his throne is now vacant. What Klingon can claim it? Would you dare, Chancellor?"

"I am not worthy," says J'mpok. "Who is?"

"What use is a throne if it is empty?" demands Sarv. "Someone must fill it - and the Grand Imperium has an Emperor. I say, in token of our grand alliance, we will seat him upon the throne! This honourable Council will attend to the details of administration - but the symbolic might, the name and title, will be borne by our new ally!"

It is worrying how little protest and outcry there is at this. Sarv has evidently prepared his puppets well.

"We shall let the new Emperor have all official pomp and splendour," says Sarv. "And how the humans will smile! They will think they have conquered us - but we, we will know that we have won! To take our old enemies and make them Klingon - is it not the greatest of victories?"

He swaggers across the floor of the Hall, and picks up a datapad. "The Council will be pleased to vote on these preliminaries," he says. "Matters of administrative trivia - the official entitlements, a formal treaty, a nominal amnesty for any offences committed against the Empire -"

D'ian nudges me, but I do not need her urging to spot the right moment. "Let us ensure that all relevant data is brought before the High Council," I declaim. "What is the name of our Emperor-to-be?"

Sarv stares at me. "You -" he begins.

"I have been called to account for myself before this honourable Council. Well, here I am. And I have information more current than Councillor Sarv's. We have obtained much data from the records of the late Councillors T'Khal and Dillan." With each word, I advance into the hall, until I am in the open, facing Sarv. I do not look at him; I let my smile play, like a disruptor bolt, across the ranks of Councillors.

And I see the quicker ones react, and my smile broadens. Yes. You know, now, that the blackmail files assembled by Thrang's minions are now in our hands. You know who owns you now.

"The name, Councillor Sarv," I repeat. "Give us the name."

"I -" He takes a step back. "The Grand Emperor is Hadrian VII of the House of Corvo -"

"Your information is out of date, Councillor." Now I smile directly at him. "By now, the ruler of the Grand Imperium - the man you want to rule this Empire - is Kalevar Thrang. And he will no doubt be very glad of that nominal amnesty you wish to arrange -"

And I am interrupted. J'mpok springs from his seat, his face congested with rage. His authentic reaction, indeed.

"You imbecile!" he roars at Sarv. "You dolt! You want my office, and you try to set up Kalevar Thrang as a puppet on your behalf? You are the puppet! Thrang's puppet! He would have you dancing on his strings within a week, and he would lead the Empire to ruin! You unutterable -" He clutches spasmodically at the air in his fury. "I have seen targ droppings with better sense than you!"

The Hall is filling with rancorous shouts. No one who was not already cowed by Sarv would support his proposal... and, now, those who were must realize that their only hope for survival lies in denouncing him.

Sarv's reaction... is not one I had expected. He gapes at J'mpok, he casts a worried glance around the Hall - and then he bolts for the nearest exit. I have never seen a High Councillor move so quickly.

The display of open cowardice stuns everyone, for an instant. J'mpok is first to recover. "Stop him!" he roars.

"Let him run!" I bellow, as loud as I can. "He will run to Thrang!"

J'mpok rounds on me, and for a moment I think I am dead. The floor of the Great Hall is not the wisest place to gainsay the Chancellor.... But his pragmatism kicks in, just in time to save my life. He glares at me. "Then you will pursue him," he snarls, "now!"

I raise my fist in salute. "As you order, Chancellor!"

J'mpok is staring at something else, now, and I see what - or, rather, who - it is, as we turn to go. "What are you grinning at?" he demands.

"Oh, just an idle thought." Melani D'ian's smile is bright and poisonous. "I just wondered... if the honourable Council would care to vote, now, on Councillor Sarv's proposal."

The Death House 27

R'j

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.

The Death House 25

Shalo

"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."

The Death House 21

R'j

"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."

The Death House 18

Rrueo

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."

The Death House 14

R'j

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I shall, Chancellor."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

"Humans?" Laska sounds both amused and outraged.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Would they get it?" Laska asks.

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

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

"But we do approach?" Laska asks.

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

"We approach, then," says Laska.

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Our unknown?" I ask.

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

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

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

"Hailing," Goota replies.

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

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

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

"On screen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Sir?" Laska looks puzzled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Enemy ship is - firing torpedoes."

"Ignore it. Warp speed."

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

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

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

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

"Two?"

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

"Delta Quadrant? We will need to return, to check this out further. Thrang's compressed decalithium came from the Delta Quadrant.... We need to know more. And we must consult with our superiors... regarding how much latitude they will give us, in dealing with pests."