The Death House 34

Shalo

I am sitting down on a balcony, watching two men hack each other to pieces, while drinking raktajino with the woman I want to kill. I suppose, in First City terms, this makes it a normal day.

One of the warriors falls to the floor of the challenge ring. Melani D'ian makes a tutting noise, and pushes a small pile of coins across the table to me with one impeccably manicured finger. "That is the second time I have lost money on a warrior of the House of Klagroth," she says. "I must have words with their trainer, sometime.... However. One more piece of good fortune on which to congratulate you, General."

"Those are always welcome," I say, and sip my raktajino. "Few as they are."

"You are back in favour with the High Council, you have thwarted a plot against the Empire...."

"We did not capture Kalevar Thrang."

D'ian smiles. "That is your good fortune too, I think. If you had risen too high in J'mpok's esteem, I would have had to take... certain measures. As things stand, you and I can continue to be useful to each other." She must catch my sour look, since she adds, "There is no need for us to like each other, General."

"That is fortunate," I say. Then I sigh. "So. How do matters stand, overall?"

"Oh," says D'ian, "the... tidying-up... is proceeding. It could have gone better, of course. The problem is, simply revealing that there were blackmail files on some High Councillors... made Imperial Intelligence very insistent about knowing what they were. So we had to hand over that data." Though if she thinks I believe she handed over all that data.... Well. Half of it probably came from dealings with the Syndicate already. "And then J'mpok became tiresomely traditional about executing the dishonoured Councillors...."

"I take it you dissuaded him?"

"K'men and I appealed to his practicality. In the interests of... continuity of government. So soon after the Iconian incident, it would never do to have another massacre of the High Council. So, certain Councillors live to fight another day."

And thus the Chancellor tightens his grip on the Council... but the blackmailed Councillors will know it, will resent it. J'mpok and K'men will have to tread carefully, even while they command obedience.... Well. It is the game of Klingon politics, and both of them have been playing it long enough to be masters.

"What of the other... details?" I ask. "The Letheans, and the Kobali?"

"Yes," says D'ian thoughtfully, "the Kobali. The Kobali government has disclaimed all responsibility for this General Jhey'quar; they claim he was a rogue officer, leader of a discredited radical movement which does not truly represent Kobali interests or intentions. We have, of course, no proof that they are lying...."

"Were their lips moving?" I ask. "That is generally a reliable sign."

D'ian laughs. "No actual proof. And we really cannot afford to meddle any further in Delta Quadrant politics, not just now. But this disclaimer means they have refused any sort of compensation to the Letheans for their lost colony... they will take the late colonists and integrate them into Kobali society, that is all. Relations between the Letheans and the Kobali, then, have... cooled, rather. To the point that it is a very good thing that they live at opposite ends of the galaxy."

"One more item on Thrang's account, then," I say. "Along with the situation on 54 Eridani V... do we have any idea how that will progress, now?"

"Well," says D'ian, "the civil war started by Thrang's proclamation appears to be in full swing. Once the shooting has died down, the Federation and the Empire will send in a joint peace-keeping and reconstruction force. We still hold their Grand Admiral, and by their standards he is a reasonable man... he will probably be adequate as an interim head of state. In the meantime, however, the Empire cannot intervene without provoking further hostility, and the Federation, of course, quotes its wretched Prime Directive and sits on its hands. Once the survivors start appealing for humanitarian aid, then we can move."

Until then - chaos and war. "Thrang's plans cost a lot of lives," I observe. "More, even, than yours."

"Mine? My dear General, I assure you, I am positively parsimonious with the lives I spend. One cannot buy an empire at too high a cost... or it will not be worth having. Do you not agree?"

"Some people's idea of a small cost," I say, "may be ruinous, to others."

"True," says D'ian. "And a point well worth considering, if you plan to rise in the Syndicate."

"I have no plans in that direction," I assure her firmly.

"Oh, you must put aside this prejudice!" She shakes her head. "The Syndicate needs competent operatives, and you are competent."

"I also desire your death."

"Well, that is true of most of my subordinates. For that matter, do you not recall how I reached my current position? I assure you -" her brilliant eyes are icy and stern "- I never forget."

I believe her. This woman knows what she has bought, and what she has paid for it - in blood, death and destruction. Melani D'ian's grip on the Orion people remains, I think, unbreakable.

For the moment, at least.

"I will concede this much," I say. "I would rather work with you, than with Kalevar Thrang."

"Oh," says D'ian with a sniff, "I am sure he thinks he would be ideal as head of the Syndicate.... That man has ambitions."

"Obviously," I say.

"And resources. He spirited himself away from 54 Eridani, and nobody seems to know where he might have gone. He is irritating." D'ian's face turns pensive for a moment. "I think we shall all sleep a little easier, once we have dealt with Kalevar Thrang."

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 25

Shalo

"A corpse," I say.

"Precisely." R'j's face grins at me from the viewscreen. "So, we must ask ourselves, why?"

"The Kobali, of course, have a use for corpses -"

"S-s-s-s-s." She sounds exasperated. "Collected, one at a time, over interstellar distances?"

"Then the corpse must be exceptional in some way." I sit back in the command chair and consider. "Whose was it?"

"Dahar Master Khreg. I am told he took his own life, in circumstances which are susceptible to multiple interpretations."

"Khreg." I know the name - there are few people, at certain levels of Imperial society, who would not know the name. "He would have been a useful ally for Thrang's tools on the High Council - if he were alive. But, dead, all his power and influence dies with him -"

Another hiss. "Does it? I have been thinking about this, and my conclusions are... disturbing."

I raise one eyebrow. "Go on."

"The body of Khreg has been taken to the Kobali, who will presumably do what they usually do. It is not uncommon for recently revived Kobali to retain the personality and memories of their... donors... until the virus reorganizes their brains sufficiently for the new Kobali persona to become dominant."

The conclusion is not an appealing one. "You think that Khreg will be subjected to some... post-mortem interrogation?"

"That is the only conclusion that makes sense to me."

I shake my head. "The memory traces are - unreliable, at best. And the Kobali seek to integrate the resurrectees into their society as quickly as possible -"

"S-s-s-s-s. If there is one thing we know about the Kobali, it is that they will sacrifice their principles for the sake of expediency. And, given what we know of Thrang, it is entirely possible he has devised a way to make the interrogations more reliable."

"I see." I pull a sour face. "It is... plausible. As a hypothesis. And the worst thing about it is... I think I know a way to test it."

---

Masur Viransa is an Orion colony world, marginal and little regarded. It has several advantages for me, just now: it is undeniably within the Orion rather than the Klingon sphere of influence, so I can be less worried about Council enforcers; it is within easy reach of the old Neutral Zone; finally, a large part of its industrial infrastructure is owned by one particular Orion House....

"I will require some assistance on the ground," I say, as the planet swells in the viewscreen before me.

"Mercenary elements, the price on your head, will wish to claim," says Foojoy. "Of deterrence, this one's presence may be, Gral Temm warriors, the reputation of, being known."

I think it is an offer of help. "I would be glad of your assistance," I say.

"Few mercenaries are disposed to argue with the Gorn, also," says the science officer, Thraak. I nod.

"If there are idiots down there, they might believe you've got allies in the Confederacy. And Orion space is full of idiots." The hissing voice comes from Vel'sh Tek, a Breen renegade who has sought refuge in the Empire. He is right, I suppose; that enigmatic masked presence might make some people think twice. "Your aid is also welcome," I say.

"I will assign a regular security detail also," says K'Gan. He looks at the screen. "You intend to beam down in person, though?"

"Of course. It is a matter of... prestige. I must show myself to be involved - and unafraid."

"A risk," the Klingon mutters.

"But a necessary one." I check the local space traffic. Few vessels on sensors - cargo haulers, mostly, and a scattering of corvettes, most likely having their own issues with Imperial law. The sensor logs show several abrupt departures since the massive form of the Knobos appeared in the system. I key a set of commands into my console. "Transmit normal requests to orbital traffic control," I order, "and take up standard orbit at whatever coordinates they assign. Also -" I tap out one final command. "Transmit this."

There are some mystified glances. Well, it is good that my crew does not know all my contacts.... I lean back in the command chair, steeple my hands, and wait. I do not need to wait for long.

"Orbital coordinates received," says Sano from her console. "And... incoming transmission on private band three eight seven."

I smile. "On screen."

An Orion face appears on the viewer; male, bald, with craggy features swathed in a layer of fat. "General Shalo. What a joy to see you. The price on your head is... adequate, I think, for me to live in luxury for the rest of my life." He smiles. "For however many seconds that would be, if I tried to claim it."

"Juvir," I say. "Good to see you, too. How go things with the House of Zorb?"

---

Juvir's offices at the port are spacious and furnished in the best of House Zorb taste - much gold and platinum, a great deal of hanging silk, and a certain number of highly explicit paintings and statuettes. The Klingon security team look on them with some displeasure. Foojoy seems to take it all in his stride, though, and I am unable to read any expressions on Thraak's scaled face, or Tek's metal mask.

Juvir settles himself behind a vast desk of highly polished wood - not native, an expensive import. In person, Juvir is almost the stereotype of the successful Orion enforcer; nearly seven feet tall, with layers of fat concealing more layers of rock-hard muscle. He grins expansively at me as I take my seat opposite him.

"Of course, this is not a social call," he says. "I could never have that much luck. So, General, how may I assist you, and how much can you afford to pay?"

"I hope for a deep discount," I tell him. "For love of our former House."

"Ah, nostalgia!" Juvir says. "Those dear dead days past recall. The House of Sinoom, alas, is no more. We have all had to make our own way in the galaxy.... I have prospered, modestly." He waves one massive hand, taking in the room and its furnishings with the gesture. "As you see. I have not risen so high as you, with your General's commission, your mighty warship, your numerous privateering contracts -"

"My proscription by the High Council," I add.

"A detail. I am sure you will attend to it, when it suits you." His eyes narrow slightly. Juvir is loud, brash, slightly comical... and never stupid. "So what brings you to my humble abode? Surely not the urge to reminisce."

I smile. "It is as I said to you. I would know how things stand with the House of Zorb."

Juvir purses his lips, and nods. "Things stand well enough."

"Even with your recent tragic loss?"

Juvir's expression changes to a sly smile. "I would not call the demise of Yeveus exactly tragic," he says.

"Inconvenient, though, surely?"

"Ah." Now, he wears a calculating look. "I would have expected - some inconvenience, yes. Yeveus was a secretive man, and when he died, he took with him passwords and secret accounts and such... but, it turned out, not so many of those; we received data, bypasses for biometric keys and so forth. His various business enterprises... passed smoothly into other hands. It was fortunate that he thought so far ahead."

"As if, perhaps, he expected to die?" I ask. "And made preparations for a smooth transition beforehand?"

Juvir's expansive humour is gone from his face entirely now. He is thinking. That is good. "It... could have been. But he showed no signs, before it happened, that he was... unduly preoccupied with death. There had been no threats against him - well, nothing beyond the normal run of things." His little dark eyes are fixed on my face. "Is that what you believe? That he expected death?"

"Candidly," I say, "no, it is not."

He raises one eyebrow. "Then, enlighten me, General. What do you believe?"

I brought a datapad with me; now, I skim it over the polished desktop towards Juvir. "There is a date there," I say, "a standardized Klingon stardate. I would know, Juvir, whether any of your instructions from Yeveus were received after that date."

"House records," says Juvir. "Highly confidential...."

"And therefore highly expensive. But I do not need to know what the instructions were... only when they were given."

He frowns. He touches some control beneath the desktop, and a section of wood slides away, to reveal a computer console. "You have some reason for asking," he says.

"A good one, and an urgent one. I will say this much," I add, "you need to know the answer, too, though you may not know why, yet."

"I think I will indulge you," says Juvir. He types rapidly on the console's interface for a moment. He takes pains to shield his movements from my gaze - well, I cannot fault him for that, security is a good habit to cultivate. "Converting from our local calendar to standard Imperial stardates... yes...." He frowns at the screen. "Yeveus's personal accounts were unlocked... some fifteen days after that date. Local days. I could convert to Imperial reckoning -"

"The details are not necessary. Anything else?"

"Biometric data was added, enabling us to unlock and decrypt his secure personal archives."

"Containing enough blackmail material to have a half-dozen High Councillors executed, I imagine," I say. "No, you do not need to confirm or deny it. You merely need to be aware of something." I reach out, tap my fingernail against the datapad. "If you convert that date to your local calendar... you will find it is the date of Yeveus's death."

Juvir stares at me. "It can be verified easily enough," I say.

Juvir's big face is slowly draining of colour. "But - the codes, the personal codes - and they were verified by biometric data -"

"Yes. Fairly quickly, I should imagine, while Yeveus's biometric data was still his own." Before the stolen body became too Kobali to be useful to them any longer. "The measurement of dates in an interstellar culture is... always a little complicated," I muse, aloud. "You cannot be faulted for overlooking this detail."

"Detail? Detail? The House's security has been breached! Our deepest secrets could be known to - to -"

"The Federation? The Tal Shiar? Imperial Intelligence? Worse than any of those," I say cheerfully. "The House of Zorb has been giving up its darkest secrets, its most desirable information, to a rogue human augment called Kalevar Thrang."

"Thrang," Juvir whispers. "I have heard that name." Then his big head snaps around. "What was that?"

A noise. An indistinct sound, from the corridor outside. It could be nothing, of course, but I am disposed to act... otherwise. "Stand ready," I say to my team in conversational tones, and I stand, and draw my weapon. A Romulan plasma repeater pistol, liberated from an Imperial Navy officer who had no further use for it. "I wonder if we have been indiscreet?" I say.

Juvir's face darkens with rage as he stands. There is a scuffling noise in the corridor beyond -

The door hisses open, and something flies through. With a roar, Juvir flips the desk over, so that it crashes down on the object. The blast of the concussion grenade is muted, though Juvir's desktop will need more than a little polish to put it right again. Men are charging through the doorway -

I aim at the first one, and the gun yammers in my hand, sending out bolt after bolt of blazing plasma, burning through his personal shield, then through his body. The Klingon troopers have drawn their bat'leths, good weapons for this close-quarter fighting. The CRM 200 is less ideal - but Tek uses it, nonetheless, strafing our attackers with bolts of absolute cold. Foojoy has a disruptor in one fist, a knife in the other, and is using both with sudden savagery. Thraak is using nothing but his claws.

Another one comes at me. Orion, again, no doubt part of the House of Zorb's security. He is holding a disruptor; I lash out with my foot, kicking it from his hand. I spin around, carried by the momentum of the kick, and slam my gun into the side of his head. He stumbles, but does not fall.

Then he is wrapped in a crackling web of blue light, and his personal shield blows out, and he screams. Juvir has produced a Ferengi energy whip from somewhere; he strikes with it again, sending out another blast of electricity. The man falls, then.

The rest of our attackers - are down. Some of them groaning or whimpering, others very silent.

"You should have this office swept for bugs," I say to Juvir.

"I do," he growls. "Regularly." He comes to stand beside me, looks down at the twitching shape of the man he felled with the energy whip. "This is Aksour, my chief of security, who carries out the checks. At least, I thought he was my chief of security -"

Aksour's eyelids flutter; he is starting to regain consciousness. I take careful aim. When he opens those eyes, the first thing he will see is the business end of my pistol. Perhaps it will be the last, too.

"Well," I say, "he is definitely yours, now." Aksour's eyes open. "I think we have some questions for you, my friend," I purr. "And I know you will answer them."

The Death House 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 16

Shalo

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

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

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

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

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

"Pilot error," Sarv grunts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

K'Gan stares at me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Death House 12

Shalo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"No, not far."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

---

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perhaps," I say. "Today."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She says nothing, but raises one exquisite eyebrow.

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

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

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

She purses her lips. "You have been associating with J'mpok for too long. He, too, has offered to feed me my own organs.... Well. I have many enemies, General, and you would have to stand in line and wait your turn. Kalevar Thrang is among those enemies. Destroy him, and -" she smiles, now "- you may have his place in the line."

The Death House 6

Shalo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Klingons." Thraak makes a dismissive noise.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I raise an eyebrow. "Poisoned?"

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

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

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

"With what results?"

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

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

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

"Do we know what type of ship?"

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

"Can you track it?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"That, we do not know." K'men frowns. "It was stolen from the morgue."