Deep Gate 2

Personal log: M'eioi, officer commanding USS Madagascar

The Ferasan's ears fold flat to the sides of her head. Her eyes, emerald-green in the lighter stripe that is the only marking on her blue-black fur, narrow. She opens her mouth wide, displaying her enormous Ferasan fangs to the full, and she throws back her head and screams.

The scream is terrifying - high-pitched, with snarling overtones - and it echoes, ringing through all the vast domed space around us. I see crewmen at distant workstations look up, startled. And I feel my own claws tense in my fingertips -

The Ferasan opens her eyes and chuckles. "M'eioi must forgive Rrueo," she says. "Rrueo just wanted to test the echo."

I relax. A little. "I take your point," I say. "Tuterian design philosophy is... well, different."

"Different indeed." Rrueo looks around, at the enormous hollow sphere about us, at the bridge workstations on free-floating discs linked by narrow walkways. "And Rrueo thought her ship's bridge was inconveniently large - M'eoi's old ship could fit inside this bridge, surely."

"Just about." My last command, the science vessel Timor, wasn't big. But she was tough, tough enough to cope with the Vaadwaur and the Voth - "Size isn't everything. But now the engineers have cleared some of these Tuterian prize vessels for general use, well, Science Division can use them."

"Rrueo does not doubt this. A Denuos-class dreadnought carrier - Rrueo almost feels she should be jealous." She rests one hand on the railing around the command disc, and looks down into the bowels of the ship. "Though Rrueo prefers Ferasan designs, that is certain."

Rrueo and I worked together during a crisis in the Delta Quadrant. We didn't come out of it friends, exactly, but we managed not to kill each other, which is good going for a Caitian and a Ferasan. Now, with the Treaty of Sauria - supposedly - setting up the basis for a rapprochement between the sundered branches of our species, the occasional diplomatic visit is reckoned a good thing. Which is why Rrueo is a guest aboard my new command.

Now she is prowling around the edge of the command disc. She looks a little like me, I suppose, though I am somewhat shorter and slighter in build - and my fur is plain black, without the blue tint - and I don't have those massive fangs. Sometimes, in my darker moods, I think the Ferasans' original designers were right, and she does look like an improved version of the species. But only in my darker moods.

The comms console suddenly pings for attention. I touch the button, and the main screen springs to life. I wince. There are definite scuff marks on it, from where the human engineering team re-jigged the gravity plating and played field hockey on it.... The face forming on the massive screen is that of a matronly Denobulan woman - Admiral Stroffa, the head of Stellar Survey. I come to attention and salute.

"Admiral M'eioi." Stroffa glances to one side. "And General Rrueo, I see. Is our hospitality to your satisfaction, General?"

"Rrueo has no complaints," says the Ferasan. "Should Rrueo absent herself, while you two talk business?"

Stroffa smiles. "No need. The KDF is already aware of the relevant factors, in fact." Her gaze shifts back to me. "A routine survey of Galactic Object 4704 had unexpected consequences. That anomaly seems to have... come to life. It emitted a wide spectrum of exotic radiation, under the stimulus of a powerful energy beam of undetermined origin. This is, to say the least, unusual."

"4704?" I rack my brains. There are thousands - at least 4,704, in fact - of incompletely studied anomalies out there, but some are better known than others. "Isn't that the completely dead zone out towards -"

"Not any more," Stroffa says dryly. "We need a science vessel to make detailed observations. And, since we know so little about that anomaly, and we have no idea who or what has caused it to change, that science vessel had better be prepared for anything. The Madagascar's somewhat extensive capabilities would seem to fit the bill."

"Yes, sir. I'll make immediate preparations for departure."

"Please do. I am transmitting the requisite information on your data subchannel now. General Rrueo, I regret that it may be necessary to cut your visit short -"

"Rrueo will find ways to amuse herself. Thank you, Admiral." Rrueo throws Stroffa a sketchy salute.

"Thank you for your understanding and your cooperation," says Stroffa. "Admiral M'eioi, in light of the undetermined nature of the problem, you may find it worthwhile to request additional support from Tactical Division. Just as a precaution, you understand. I have cleared this through normal channels in advance."

"It's a sound idea, sir. Thank you." I salute again.

"I will await your report with interest. Good luck, Admiral. Stroffa out." The huge screen goes blank. I hope Rrueo hasn't noticed the scuff marks.

Rrueo licks her fangs. "Well. Some people have all the luck, it seems. M'eioi is to investigate a new phenomenon at the frontier of space, while Rrueo cools her heels in the KDF legation. Never mind. Rrueo has a plan already. That rather handsome young ensign who is on duty outside Quinn's office... Rrueo has often wondered if it is true what they say, about unmodified Caitian males...."

"Oh, come on," I protest. "Ensign Rraak? He just wants a quiet life!"

"Then Rrueo suspects he has chosen the wrong profession, and the wrong workplace, and possibly the wrong century to be born into. But do not fear, Rrueo will treat him gently." She gives me an airy wave, and saunters off down the walkway. "Good fortune attend you on your mission. Rrueo hopes your banners will continue to wave bravely."

And, with that, she is gone. Commander Joaj is already at my elbow with a PADD full of requirements: the little engineer squints up at me, and her bristling antennae twitch. "What did she mean?" she asks. "About the banners, sir?"

"Oh." I take the PADD. "She's a telepath, and she has this habit of constructing... metaphors, I think she said... for the feel of people's minds. Apparently, my mind is like an army with banners. So she says."

"I see." Joaj peers at Rrueo's retreating form in the distance. She scratches her head, producing an alarming noise from her bark-like skin. "Flattering, I guess."

"I suppose so." I look at the PADD. "Better get moving. And get me a channel to the bureaucrats. I think a backup from Tac Division might come in handy. Let's see who they've got available."

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 29

Rrueo

"I'm sorry, sir," says Oschmann. "It's just that, well, he expects to see you, now."

I glare at her. "If Rrueo had another human officer to spare, Rrueo would gladly disembowel you," I tell her. "But since we must keep up this imposture -"

We are back in Oschmann's apartment, and her tame Baron is on his way to bring more tittle-tattle of the Grand Imperial court. I hope he has something useful to say. We need more information, especially in the light of recent events. Melani D'ian's informal communications channels are still open, and the last message that she passed to Shalo was... disturbing reading.

So, now, once again, I start to remove my uniform. "It's not any more pleasant for me than it is for you, sir," says Oschmann. "Dealing with the Baron, I mean."

"At least you get to keep your clothes on!" I snarl at her.

"So far," Oschmann mutters darkly.

"Do not expect Rrueo to intervene if the Baron makes demands of that nature. Rrueo is an innocent non-sapient house pet and knows nothing of such matters.... How can he be such a fool? He must know that nobody breeds hunting cats like Rrueo, by now!"

"This planet's communications infrastructure is rubbish," says Oschmann. "They don't even have a fully accessible planetary data net! Earth had one of those back in the twentieth century, but these idiots -" She sighs and runs her hand through her hair. I kick my uniform out of sight, and assume what is, by now, becoming a familiar position.

Again, a brassy fanfare sounds from the intercom, and a synthesized voice says, "Attention! Prepare for the ingress of the noble Baron Josef Chaka Guevara Foch, who honours you with his presence!"

"Oh, God," groans Oschmann. She composes her face in a pleasant expression, which belies her underlying mind-tone. I dwell on thoughts of leaping on prey and rending it.

The door opens. "Lady Cynthia!" The noble Baron's puddle of a mind is oozing with ignoble thoughts. "Charmin' to see you."

"Delighted, as always, my lord," trills Oschmann.

"And your pet, what?" The Baron steps over to me, and scratches me behind my left ear. I resist the temptation to take his hand off at the wrist. It is not easy. I force a purr, instead. "Delightful beast, what? Lots of spirit in her, eh?"

Then he turns back to Oschmann, and says, in that drawling voice which is suddenly thick with unpleasant intentions, "However, I rather think you'd better, well, put her out for the night, what? Seems to me, my lady, that matters between us need to proceed to a conclusion, don't y'think? And, well, I don't much care for the house pets watchin' me perform. M'first wife, now, she used to let her dog sleep on the bed. Puts a fellow off his stroke, that sort of thing, what?"

Even mind-blind, he must surely be able to see the tension in Oschmann's body language. I tense, myself. I do not propose to let this arrogant primitive outrage one of my officers, and be damned to the consequences -

Then the decision is taken out of my hands, as the apartment window lights up with a brilliant flash. The sound of the first explosion follows, seconds later... and by then, there have been more flashes.

"'pon my word." The Baron, distracted, wanders over to the window and peers out. "But," he says, bewilderment fogging his mind-tone, "that can't be right, can it?"

"What is it?" asks Oschmann.

"Well, now." The Baron scratches his head. "The word on the old grapevine was, Duke Thrang would be consolidatin' his position by takin' out the Grand Admiral. So, well, we were all expectin' some jolly old fireworks to kick off sometime soon. But, well, it would be a space battle, wouldn't it? But those flash-bangs, now, they're on the ground... comin' from the area of -"

It is at this point that I leap across the room, seize the Baron by the shoulder and the waistband of his trousers, and heave him face-first out of the window.

The continual rumblings of the explosions, and the distant warbling of phaser fire, do not quite drown out the sound of the crash, and the outcries, as he hits the pavement. Oschmann comes to the window and looks down. "I don't think he's dead, sir."

"A pity. But we have no time to attend to trivia." I turn and grab my clothing out from under the bed. "Thrang has let idiots like that think that he plans a challenge to this Grand Admiral. Thrang, not being an idiot, has already come to a cosy arrangement with the Grand Admiral."

"That noise is the Imperial Palace under attack," says Oschmann.

"Precisely." I shrug on my uniform tunic, and grab my wrist comm. "Rrueo to Skaldak. We are evacuating. Send the Hoh'Sus in, cloaked, under cover of the battle to make pickup. Rrueo and Oschmann."

"We're... leaving?" Oschmann says.

"We have done all we can. By tomorrow morning, Thrang will have completed his coup, and will be installed as Emperor. Our task, now, is to see that this is the only place where he is installed as Emperor."

The Death House 23

Rrueo

Taking the Skaldak through the blockade was a challenge. Evading the Council's patrols in-system, and even the inept picket forces of the Grand Imperium itself, remains a constant and ongoing challenge. I am over-supplied with challenges, and seriously short on resources.

Fortunately, I am short, not destitute. I am using one resource now, and she is proving useful.

I am standing in a hotel apartment in Caesar City, the capital of the Grand Imperium. I would, of course, stand out, were I to reserve an apartment of this kind for myself. However, I am blessed - if that is the word - with one officer who can blend seamlessly into a human society of this type.

"There's definitely something going on at the Palace," Oschmann says. She is dressed in the fashion of a minor Imperial aristocrat: a thigh-length scarlet jacket, tight-fitting white trousers that flare out over the thighs, and highly polished black riding boots. It is, I believe, an adaptation of a hunting costume from Earth's past, presumably from an Earth culture that did not believe in camouflage.

"The nature of this 'something'?" I ask. I sit down on the bed. The apartment is large, but sparsely furnished and starkly decorated. I understand that it is described as a "Spartan aesthetic", though I suspect the empty and functional look is simply due to lack of resources. The Grand Imperium is not economically efficient.

"There have been meetings with High Council representatives," Oschmann says. "At least, the descriptions I'm getting from my tame Baron tally with Council insignia. There have been talks with the Galactic Proconsul and the Lord Privy Seal."

"So, the titles are grandiose. What do they mean?"

"The Galactic Proconsul," Oschmann says with a slight smile, "is responsible for relations between the Imperium and the outer hinterlands - meaning, the rest of the galaxy. Essentially, their foreign minister. The Lord Privy Seal is a formal representative of the Emperor himself. Senior figures in the government. It sounds very much like the High Council is negotiating some formal agreement with the Imperium. Probably not a military agreement, given that the Grand Admiral isn't involved."

"The Imperial military is a negligible force in any event," I mutter.

"Possibly. Well, probably. Though there are reports I've heard about some hotshot new Baron with a first-rate ship... but first-rate might not mean much, in Imperial terms." Oschmann grimaces. "Problem is, these people have a screwed-up gender-biased society. They don't talk about - quote-unquote - serious stuff with mere women. So I'm finding it harder than I'd like to get solid facts about -"

We are interrupted by a fanfare of brassy notes from the apartment's door intercom. "Attention!" a synthesized voice cries. "Prepare for the ingress of the noble Baron Josef Chaka Guevara Foch, who honours you with his presence!"

Oschmann swears under her breath. "My tame Baron, paying a call. Damn it. We'll have to transport you out -"

"Skaldak is out of transporter range," I say. "She will not return for thirty more minutes - unless we recall her, but that will take her into the Council's tachyon detection pattern -"

Oschmann swears, more loudly this time. I look around. There is a sonic shower in one corner of the room, but its doorway is translucent. There is no wardrobe, only a free-standing clothing replicator. The storage cupboards are too small -

A light flashes in Oschmann's mind. I catch peculiar overtones, of both fear and - amusement. "He'll be here in a couple of minutes," she says. "Sir - can you strip, and get on all fours?"

For an instant, I am left boggling and outraged, and then I grasp her meaning. "This had better work," I hiss at her, as I tug at the straps of my uniform.

"If you have any better ideas," Oschmann mutters, "I'd love to hear them. Sir."

I growl. Oschmann kicks my discarded clothing under the bed, as I crouch down and try to look feral. I concentrate on animal thoughts. It is, unsurprisingly, easy.

There is no discreet knock on the door, no asking of permission - the door simply slides open, and the Baron enters. He is a tall, heavily built human, running to fat, with a pale face and a mop of thinning blond hair in what might be intended as an artful arrangement. He wears a long blue coat with extravagant golden braiding, buttons and epaulettes, a white ruffled shirt, and boots and trousers similar to Oschmann's. "Lady Cynthia," he says in a strange braying accent, and then spots me, and blinks. "'pon my word," he says. "Remarkable beast, what?"

"A bio-engineered hunting cat," Oschmann replies in the same overly mannered tones. "They breed them for neo-rhinoceros hunting on the New Assyrian Plains, you know. Bred for size and strength, naturally, with game like that."

"Certainly looks like it could take on a neo-rhino, what?" The man's mind is... worthless; a shallow puddle, muddied with self-indulgence and rippling with inconsequential desires. I regard him through slitted eyes. "What's all those things in its ears, though?"

"Oh," Oschmann says, stepping over to pat my head, "just her tags, to show she's had all her shots and things. I'm thinking of having her bred, though she might be getting a little long in the tooth for that."

I hiss in perfectly genuine exasperation. "I say, spirited beast, what?" says the vacuous Baron.

"Oh, she's an old softie, once she gets to know you," Oschmann says with a laugh. I repress the impulse to disembowel her. "I'd stay a little bit away from her, though, until then." She fingers one of my earrings. "I think all her shots are up to date, but I imagine a bite would still turn septic."

"Oh, quite, no fun at all, that," says the Baron with a forced laugh. "I just dropped by, you know, on the off-chance.... Do you have any plans for tomorrow afternoon?"

"Nothing I couldn't cancel, my lord. Why, do you have some devilishly clever entertainment planned?" I can feel expectancy rising in Oschmann's mind.

"Well, not so much me, more our up-and-coming newcomer chappie. The word is, the challenge floor at the Palace will be in use. You know, of course, we have this rising star in the wargames?"

"I'd heard something of the sort."

"Quite. Some of the chaps think it's unfair of him, coming to the game with that big flashy ship of his... but, well, all's fair in love and war, really, isn't it?" Braying moronic laugh. "Anyway, our parvenu Baron of the New Balearic Islands has been pushing for a challenge for some time, now, and he's finally got his chance. Some rule about points scores in the space battles, and then some other technicality about him winning his title in trial by combat - the lawyer chappies have all the details, I won't bore you with them, don't understand half of them m'self, come to think of it. But anyway, he'll be fighting the Duke of the Napoleonic Sector for the title. His Grace has chosen the weapons - rather, no weapons, unarmed hand-to-hand combat, winner takes all. Should be quite a show, what?"

"His Grace the Duke has skills in combat?" asks Oschmann.

"Oh, rather. Probably the best wrestler in the Imperium, I'd say. But the new chappie seems quite a tough customer, himself, so it's got the makings of a damned good show. Damned good. So, would you care to be an official witness? I can get jolly good seats, you know."

An image is forming in the foetid puddle of the Baron's mind. A face. I strive to control myself, to appear only the unintelligent animal I am feigning to be -

"Two big sweaty chaps locked together in mortal combat?" says Oschmann. "Oh, by all means, count me in!"

"Thought you'd probably say that. Delighted. Pick you up around three pip emma, then? And maybe dinner and a show afterwards?" The Baron purses his lips and glances at me. "Better leave your pet, though - don't think they allow them in the best restaurants."

"She's happier with a chunk of raw neo-rhino, anyway!" says Oschmann with a mannered laugh. "It will be a pleasure, my lord."

"Oh, I do hope so." The image in the Baron's mind now is... best not described. "Anyway, must dash, now, some tiresome old business things to see to. But tomorrow, definitely, it's a date, then?"

"Absolutely, my lord."

The Baron turns, goes to the door, then turns back to give a smile and a silly little wave. Oschmann blows him a kiss. The Baron's smile grows broader as he takes his leave. I feel his sordid little mind diminish in the distance.... I stand up.

"Rrueo is not sure," I say, "whether to commend your initiative, or execute you for your insolence."

"I figured he was too ignorant to recognize a Ferasan." Oschmann kneels down and starts to fish my clothes out from under the bed. "This new Baron of the New Balearics," she says, "seems to be a player of some kind. If I can get to see him in action -"

"You will confirm what Rrueo already knows," I say. "Rrueo saw an image in what passes for your Baron's mind. A foreign adventurer, rising rapidly in the Imperial nobility? Who does that sound like, to you?"

Oschmann's cold eyes widen. "The face fits -?"

"Closely enough. Telepathy is still not an exact science, but it is a face Rrueo has seen in a man's mind before. If you seek to rise in this absurd culture, you will need more of its currency." I start to pull my clothes over my sleek blue fur. "You can obtain this, I think, by placing a large wager on the winner of tomorrow's contest... the current Baron Kalevar Thrang."

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 13

Rrueo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That would be no consolation to you!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Speak them," I say.

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

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

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

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

K'Rokok shakes his head. "I hope you are right, sir."

The Death House 8

Rrueo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Our mystery?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Incoming hail," says Toriash.

"On screen."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is bothering you?" I ask directly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Working." Toriash, at another console - his eyes widen. I am seeing the same thing myself. "Explosion," the Gorn continues. "Consistent with... a core breach. Both the ship and the base - totally destroyed."

The Death House 4

By the Twelve Virtuous Mysteries and the Nine Auspicious Cycles of the moons, I swear and attest this record to be mine: R'j Bl'k', Adept of the Seven Greater Dodecagons, Guardian of the Cycle of M'tt'-kk'ri, Harbinger of the Grand Maelstrom, Knight-Acolyte of the Phocine Temple, Dahar Master and honorary General in the Klingon Defense Force, owner-master of the IKS Nuru-Or

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Coming out of warp," Siowershoe reports.

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

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

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

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

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

"Two thousand kellicams."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Fire torpedoes!"

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

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

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

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

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

"Fire."

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

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

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

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

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

"All cannons fire!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

- and suddenly it is gone.

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

"Incoming communication from - Skaldak."

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

"Rrueo appreciates it. How is your toy?"

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

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

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

---

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

This bothers me.

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

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

"Negative."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Rrueo has readings." She holds up her tricorder. "Complex organics in the air, inside the dome. Alpha-furanizol - a rapid respiratory poison. Rrueo is reading, also, other organic masses. Bodies. Dead ones. None living." Her whiskers twitch. "That is the reason for their silence. It is the silence of the grave."