The Death House 29

Rrueo

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

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

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

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

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

"So far," Oschmann mutters darkly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What is it?" asks Oschmann.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Death House 28

The pre-dawn light of 54 Eridani was soft and rosy, but there was nothing soft about Kalevar Thrang's expression. "Where is the ship now?" he asked.

"Unknown. Off the grid," Tharval replied. "My assumption is that the unpronouceable alien persuaded Captain Grak to go to ground with her. After our High Councillor's little misjudgement, he will have needed little persuading."

Thrang remained completely still and silent for several seconds, the only sign of life being the glittering of his eyes. "They can't have assimilated all the data yet. T'Khal and Dillan didn't have all the data. And it will take those agents time to piece together what parts they do have. They are keeping the ship and Captain Grak hidden until they're ready to make their move."

"They have quite enough pieces to make our lives difficult," Tharval said.

"But they have to fit them together. So, we have to move before then." Thrang sighed, and went to sit down on the couch. Tharval remained standing by the doorway. "Well. My plans always have an element of flexibility. It would have been nice if T'Khal and Dillan could have bought or cajoled or blackmailed a supermajority on the Council, but we still have enough clout to win a vote. Sarv will just have to make sure there are no backsliders."

"We will have to move faster. Sarv himself might be exposed, now. And J'mpok's agents are not fools, they will fit those pieces quickly. They have already fitted enough together to expose T'Khal and Dillan."

"Those two would have had to be retired anyway," said Thrang. "Still, it's annoying that it had to happen on their schedule and not mine." He stood up. "Well. That's life, isn't it? Never mind, I'll adapt -"

The harsh bleeping sound made both their heads turn. Thrang frowned, crossed the room, touched the sconce of a candleholder on one wall. A panel at head height slid aside, revealing a screen. It flashed once, and an image formed on it; the heavy grey face of a Kobali.

"General," said Thrang, with a smile that looked quite unforced. "A pleasure to hear from you."

"I doubt that you will think so in a moment, Thrang." Jhey'quar glowered from the screen. "I have news for you, and you will not care to hear it."

"I won't? I'm sorry to hear that, General. I always try to be obliging."

"And we have obliged you in return. But no longer." Jhey'quar's voice was icy with anger. "You have corrupted the last of our newborns, Thrang. My son Geterian is in custody, now, after your treatments so deranged his mind that he murdered our daughter Lilitsia -"

Behind him, Thrang heard a sort of sigh from Tharval.

"You did this, Thrang. You did this with your interrogation machines. You brought back the person my son was, and it was enough to break his mind. We do not know if he can be saved. We know that Lilitsia cannot. And how many others have you damaged, Thrang? It ends. It ends now."

"General." Thrang's voice was quite calm. "I'm sorry for your loss. You understand, I hope, that it was not my intention -"

"I do not care about your intentions!"

"Nevertheless," Thrang continued, "you have benefited from our arrangement, and I hope that we can put this behind us and go forward. Of course, in the circumstances, I'll discontinue the questioning sessions -"

"Your devices have already been destroyed, Thrang! You have no choice in the matter!"

"Nevertheless, we have an arrangement, and I hope we'll both continue to benefit from it. Working with me, you'll be able to extend the Kobali presence in this quadrant, and -"

"We can do that without your aid, Thrang. We can, and we will. I will implement my own plans from henceforward. This conversation, and our arrangement, is over." And the screen blanked out.

"Damn," said Thrang. "Damn." He closed his eyes, pinched the bridge of his nose, and took two deep breaths. Then he opened his eyes again, and turned to Tharval. "Are you all right?"

"I -" The Lethean shook his head, slowly. "I... suppose I am. She was dead. Already. I knew that...." He shook his head again. "I am all right."

"Good," said Thrang. "We just got another push. If Jhey'quar is that angry, the chances are good he's going to do something extremely stupid, and I think we should be out of here before he does. So, we were going to have to go into high gear... now we need to go one notch higher. Call the Grand Admiral. Tell him it's time to go to war. Then call Sarv, and tell him it's time for the vote."

---

"We need more time," J'mpok said.

The nameless Lethean looked at the Chancellor, looked at the massive Gorn and the tall elegant Orion who flanked him behind his desk. "I regret, Chancellor, that I can give you no more time. My government has questions.... Important people have, or had, relatives on the Eridani moon. And the attitude of the High Council has provoked... certain reactions."

"Lethean friendship is important to our overall alliance," said Melani D'ian in calm and measured tones. "The High Council is one thing... but you are among friends here, so surely we can be reasonable together?" She smiled.

"Private assurances are one thing," said the Lethean, "but the stated will of the High Council is another."

"If we are to make the High Council see reason," said J'mpok, "we need more time." Then he snarled as the comms panel on his desk buzzed for attention. He stabbed irritably at the button. "What is it?"

"Chancellor." The voice over the comm sounded nervous. "Councillor Sarv has requested to bring a special motion before the next meeting of the Council. He has appended details... which he urges everyone to consider deeply. Including, with respect, yourself, sir."

J'mpok swore under his breath. "Transmit the documents over my data channel, and then, no calls." Behind him, S'taass pulled out a datapad from his belt, and bent his massive head over it. "No more interruptions. I hope," said J'mpok. "Now. How may we persuade you to allow us more time to act?"

"I am under pressure from my government. I speak for Lethea... and there is concern, that my voice is not heard in the Council. That concern grows with each hour that passes."

"If we can reassure you as to the state of your colony," said D'ian, "would that alleviate some of the pressure? We have agents in the vicinity of the 54 Eridani system -"

"Those agents are on the run from the High Council, as I understand it," said the Lethean. "I do not know how much weight their words would carry - and I do not see how they can operate effectively, under that burden."

"They were effective enough to dispose of two rogue Councillors," D'ian said with a smile.

"Two Councillors are not the whole of the Council. And can they tell me what has happened to our people?"

"Hrrrr." The sound S'taass made was loud and terrifying. The three others all turned their heads towards him.

"Forgive me," the Gorn said. "But I too have received my copy of Councillor Sarv's proposal. I think, Chancellor, you should read it. We should all read it."

J'mpok's eyes rolled. "Is this going to improve my mood?" he demanded.

"Oh, no," said S'taass. "Definitely not."

The Death House 27

R'j

I will admit to feeling nervous. And the sight on the screen before me is not one to calm my spirits.

"I never actually met Thrang," the Reman says. She is scowling and unlovely even by Reman standards, with hot angry eyes set into hooded sockets whose black lids shade into the pebbly grey of her skin. Her name is Heizis, and she was instrumental in thwarting Thrang's previous bid for galactic domination. "I heard him speak over the communicator, and of course I witnessed some of his plans... but the only person who spoke with him at length was my Starfleet counterpart. Admiral Pexlini." Her expression grows even sourer at that name.

"I take it this Pexlini is not accessible?" I ask.

"Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Properly speaking, I should not be speaking to you, since you are proscribed by the High Council... but that is one thing, and stopping Thrang is more important. Whatever he is doing." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "Pexlini's assessment," she says, sounding reluctant, "was that Thrang is clever, talented, and devious, but that his weak spot lies in understanding virtues. Things like trust and honour. They are closed books to him - he acts only in accord with his own perceived self-interest, and expects others to do the same. It is not much help. Thrang's genetic enhancement makes him highly intelligent - he perceives his own interests with exceptional clarity. You should not underestimate him. However... your proposed plan is consistent with Klingon honour. It may be something he has not planned for." The hot angry eyes seem to burn into me from the screen. "Do not rely on that. Thrang should not be underestimated."

"S-s-s-s-s. I will try not to make that mistake. Thank you for your assistance."

Heizis nods curtly. "Good luck," she says, and breaks the connection.

I look around the bridge. "Well. We must depend on Klingon honour, then. I can see that it is generally reliable...."

"From Thrang's lackeys on the High Council?" asks Laska tartly.

"They must be seen to act with honour. They would never retain support, otherwise. S-s-s-s-s. Let us see if we can surprise Thrang. It would be gratifying to do so...."

Weeks spent skulking around the Neutral Zone, dodging Klingon patrols while we try to piece together Thrang's plans. Now, we have something. Shalo's efforts have given us the names of blackmail victims, picked from the dead but still productive mind of Yeveus of Zorb... and my own investigations have led me to two High Councillors, who are almost certainly Thrang's men.

So now Nuru-Or is skulking, not through the Neutral Zone, but deep in the heart of Klingon territory, on the track of those two High Councillors. It helps that I know the regular patrol schedules, the sensitive areas where tachyon grids are deployed... but, frankly, I think my ship and my crew could infiltrate the Empire without that help. We are, I flatter myself, that good.

I study the Y-shaped gdorab board. Ideas are forming in my brain.

"I have a transponder contact," Siowershoe reports. I turn my head.

"Is it them?"

"Verifying now. At least the High Councillors are easy to find.... Got it. IKS qu HoS, Vo'quv class, with the personal idents of Councillors Dillan and T'Khal."

"A nice plump carrier. It would be large as a kn'yhh'drrr in our gunsights... however, we are not here for target practice. Set an intercept course."

Laska is frowning. She is concerned over this plan... but it is the best one, I think. We have two of Thrang's agents; if we deal with them, we are bound to provoke some reaction, perhaps force him to tip his hand.

Perhaps.

I spare another glance for the game board. I know my games... but Kalevar Thrang is a consummate player.

"Course laid in. Engaging." I watch the vectors change on the helm repeater. The carrier is on a leisurely course through the outskirts of an Imperial system - possibly Dillan or T'Khal might be checking on some personal property. Both are High Councillors, wealthy and honoured men. Evidently, they do not feel they are wealthy and honoured enough, and so have thrown in their lot with Thrang.

This will prove a bad decision, for them.

"Intercept in three minutes." Nuru-Or can easily outpace a lumbering carrier. I sketch in a course on the tactical console.

"Very dramatic," says Laska, with a curl of her lip.

"S-s-s-s-s. Sometimes drama is helpful," I say.

My ship slides unseen past the carrier, and slews around to face it.

"Decloak. And open hailing frequencies."

Light shifts on my bridge... and the captain of the qu HoS, whoever he might be, is no doubt surprised to find a Bird of Prey suddenly blocking his ship's path.

"Hailing," reports Siowershoe. "I have them."

"On screen."

A scarred Klingon face appears on the viewer, a surly elderly male with a grizzled beard and thinning hair. "This is Captain Grak of the IKS qu HoS. Identify yourself."

I stand. "R'j Bl'k', commanding the IKS Nuru-Or. You are carrying two members of the High Council. I am currently proscribed by the High Council." I smile without humour. "I am here to surrender."

---

They let me keep my sidearms, and Laska to accompany me, as I beam over to the carrier. So far, everything is going to plan. No doubt that will change.

I am shown to a large and empty conference room. Captain Grak is there, with a number of armed guards... and two more.

Dillan and T'Khal are the very picture of eminent High Councillors, in their decorated robes and magnificently gleaming medals. Dillan wears a permanent sneer. T'Khal's eyes are canny and calculating.

They leave it to the captain to speak. "You are surrendering?" he barks at me. He seems displeased.

"S-s-s-s-s. The High Council has questions for me, and I have answers for them. It seems reasonable to bring the two together.... However, it appears I have been misinformed."

"Misinformed?" Grak's eyebrows gather thunderously together. "Misinformed how?"

"I was told that your ship carried two honourable members of the High Council."

"It does!" He waves an exasperated hand. "Councillor Dillan and Councillor T'Khal. You can see for yourself!"

"S-s-s-s-s. Two honourable members of the Council. I do not see those. I see only a pair of cowardly blackmailers, working at the orders of the renegade Kalevar Thrang. You can hardly expect me to surrender myself to scum such as that."

I have rehearsed this speech. It is deliberately calculated to produce an effect. It gets one. T'Khal stiffens and glares, while Dillan lets loose an inarticulate roar.

"You make grave charges, for an alien and a renegade!" shouts Grak.

"S-s-s-s-s. Alien, yes. Renegade, from such as these - well, to be otherwise would impugn my honour. And that is not acceptable."

"I will take your life for this, creature," hisses T'Khal.

"Is that a denial of your crimes, Councillor? It does not seem adequate." I take a determined step towards him. "You and your life partner here travel across the Empire at the whim of Kalevar Thrang, suborning honest men and forcing them to act against their honour and judgement. I will call you to account for it. Here and now, if you wish it. One at a time, or both together." I indicate my pistols in their holsters. "I am armed. And capable, and ready."

This is what Thrang may not expect. An investigation into Dillan and T'Khal would take weeks, would be blocked at every turn by their co-conspirators... but this, a direct challenge to their honour as Klingons, must be answered here and now, or they will lose face forever. Even now, I can see a shadow of doubt creeping over Grak's face... well, he commands their ship, he must know them well by now, and I do not think he knows anything much to their credit.

Of course, there is the minor detail of surviving this. At least, I fervently hope it is a minor detail.

"I too am armed!" declares Dillan. The "life partner" thing must have needled him - it does, with some. Actually, my impression of their relationship is that Dillan is a wealthy idiot, and T'Khal remains close by his side only to smooth over his social blunders. Now, he throws open his heavy leather coat, to display the disruptor pistol riding on his hip.

"And I," says T'Khal, with a smile on his lips. "So. Both together, you say? Then we will oblige you. Third Protocol for pistol duels. Suitably modified, according to the precedent set by T'Gan, Dakoth and Karn. Set it up," he snaps at Grak.

The captain looks at all three of us with a doubtful gaze, but he steps over to a wall console, and taps out commands.

Overhead, most of the lights grow dim. Three spotlights shine down, spaced equidistantly, casting a triangle of bright patches on the floor.

"You will take your place under one light," T'Khal orders. "You will not move -"

"S-s-s-s-s. I know the Third Protocol. And the amendment you mentioned. I have fought in this manner before." I stride over to one spotlit patch, stand in the light. I flex my fingers. "I am ready."

Fuming, Dillan stomps over to another pool of light. T'Khal takes the third. "You will act as marshal of the duel," he orders Grak. He spares a disdainful glance at Laska. "You are a witness. You will witness your captain's demise, and the redemption of our honour. I am ready."

"And I," calls out Dillan.

Grak licks his lips. The security guards look on, seemingly puzzled. "You are outnumbered two to one," he says. "You are entitled to some compensatory advantage -"

"I have two guns. I have two targets. That is all I need, Captain. That, and honour - which I have defended in this manner before."

Dillan looks uncertain. T'Khal does not. He, too, is displaying a disruptor pistol.

"Stand ready," Grak orders in a hoarse voice. "The duel commences at my command. Ready.... Now!"

My hands flash to my weapons. And my eyes focus on my targets. I told them I was capable of this. If they do not know, or do not believe, that I can move and focus my eyes independently - that is their problem.

Twin blasts of polaron fire erupt from my weapons.

One bolt catches Dillan in the head, hurls him dying to the ground, his fingers still twitching on his holstered weapon.

The second bolt disintegrates into a webwork of purple lightnings, a few centimetres from T'Khal's face.

A personal shield. And I may not move from the circle of light, and it will take me too long to burn the shield down, while he has all the time in the world to draw his disruptor and kill me. I am dead.

T'Khal snarls and draws his weapon -

And the disruptor is in his hand, but it does not fire, because his hand is parting from his arm in a flash of steel and a spray of blood.

"PetaQ!" Captain Grak rams the other end of his bat'leth into T'Khal's stomach, twists, tears, and pulls it back out. "You take unfair advantage in a duel of honour! Everything she said about you was true, you pujwI' -" He slashes again at T'Khal's abdomen. Pointless, as the first wound is clearly mortal. T'Khal falls to his knees, hand on his stomach, hopelessly trying to contain the things welling out of the wound.

Grak turns away from him, folds his arms across his chest, comes to attention with a stamp of his feet. After a moment, the guards follow suit. Behind me, I hear Laska do the same.

The last thing T'Khal sees in this life is that row of condemnatory Klingon backs.

And me.

The Death House 26

"So this is how a Grand Imperial Duke lives," said Tharval. He looked around the opulently furnished room. Through the windows, the golden light of 54 Eridani shone on the wall hangings, the painting over the roaring open fireplace, the suits of armour standing on pedestals beside the door... and the couch with the half-naked figure of Kalevar Thrang reclining on it.

Thrang smiled and flexed his left arm. "Very nearly wasn't," he said with a rueful look. "The former Duke was a lot tougher than I'd expected. I wonder if there wasn't some augment blood in there. There were one hell of a lot of by-blows during the Eugenics Wars, you know."

"But you were victorious," said Tharval. "As always." He wandered over to an occasional table, and picked up a little silver statuette of a mounted knight. He turned it over in his fingers.

Thrang watched him. "Something bothering you?" he asked.

"I had not previously participated in these... sessions. As you remember," said Tharval.

Thrang sat up. "How did it go?"

"The late Subcommander Akhat was... very helpful. Dahar Master Khreg had less in the way of confidential information, but we learned a lot about what claims of honour he could make on various Great Houses. His heirs will inherit those claims, and will be - subtly encouraged - to make use of them. I have prepared a datapad with a full report."

"But something is still bothering you," Thrang said.

The Lethean turned towards him, dropping the statuette back onto the table. "Do not presume to read my mind, Thrang."

"I'm not reading your mind. Just your mood. What's bothering you?"

"Something and nothing." Tharval pulled up a chair and sat down. "One learns a certain level of respect for one's opposition, when one is engaged in intelligence work. If one knows one's opposite number, a curious relationship develops, sometimes. A co-dependency, almost an affection...."

Thrang grinned. "Tharval, you devil! Were you in love with Talisa Sheardlove?"

"Not exactly. But when the war ended, and we reached a - a personal accord -" Tharval shook his head. "My feelings are, perhaps, hard to describe. But - we became friends. We even, well, arranged matters so that if one of us had to change sides -"

"A spy's insurance policy." Thrang's voice was almost sympathetic.

"Quite. So, you may appreciate that it came as something of a shock to learn of her death... and another shock, when I met a young Kobali female named Lilitsia." Tharval's voice was quite flat.

Thrang made no reply.

"I understand, now, how you knew so much about our - arrangements," Tharval said.

Thrang was silent for another moment. Then he said, "The Kobali say their virus gives people... another chance at life. But they're also adamant that the resurrectee is a new person, newborn and not reborn. The Kobali... aren't consistent on this point. It doesn't matter to me, really... but maybe it does to you?"

"Is she the person she was?" Tharval shook his head. "I have used your devices, Thrang, and I have felt the minds of the Kobali while I did so... and I have no clear answer to that question. I... I do not think I could bear to look into this Lilitsia's mind."

"Some questions," said Thrang softly, "are best not answered. Sometimes, best not even asked."

"But sometimes they cannot be evaded," said Tharval.

"Maybe you should speak to her," said Thrang. "See what there is, of the woman you knew. Or see what there is to be seen... of the woman she is now."

"Perhaps," said Tharval. "Perhaps."

---

"Restrain him." Jhey'quar's voice was iron. Two soldiers stepped forwards, to grip the arms of the cringing Geterian.

"I did not mean it." Geterian's voice was high-pitched, ragged, his words tumbling over each other as he spoke. "I never intended - but - but - I remembered things, things that women liked, that I liked - and I thought, I thought she would like them - but she resisted, and - and -"

Jhey'quar looked down at the still form on the deck, and closed his eyes. Some of the things that Geterian had done -

"This Yeveus of Zorb was not worthy of rebirth!" somebody hissed.

Jhey'quar raised his head. "What is done, is done," he said. "And now the consequences must be faced -" He turned. "Geterian. You must be confined and examined. We must know if - if the sickness which afflicts you can be cured. If it can, we will cure you. We will cure you. Understand this. This - this thing that you have done - it came from the old part of you, the part that is gone, now, and should have stayed gone. If we can, we will take that part of you away. If we can."

He steeled himself, but Geterian was quietly weeping, was too broken to pose the obvious question - and if you cannot?

"Take him away," Jhey'quar ordered. "And... prepare our daughter Lilitsia for burial. It is a tragedy. She should have had a whole new life ahead of her." His voice hardened. "Once that is done, we will have Thrang's machinery removed from the medical bay. We have our foothold in this quadrant now, and we will work by ourselves to keep it. This - this is part of Thrang's price for his help, and it is too high a price to pay. Thrang will corrupt no more of our newborns. Destroy the machines."

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 24

"So this is where the magic happens," said Tharval.

The Kobali medical tech looked up from the stasis pod. "It can happen anywhere," he said. "Of course, it is best if the virus is introduced in a controlled situation... if the newborn is enabled to make a full recovery under medical supervision, to ease the stress of entry into our society."

He pressed a hypospray to the throat of the corpse that had been Dahar Master Khreg.

"Introducing a heavy viral load makes the transition quicker and easier," he continued, "but, of course, infection may come about anywhere, by all manner of methods. The virus is... surprisingly resilient." He shook his head. "That can cause problems in itself. Accidental infection.... We cannot always track the newborns created by accident. Can you imagine their pain? To be reborn as Kobali, but not to know who the Kobali are, how we live - how to be Kobali?"

"It must be distressing," said Tharval absently. He leaned forwards, inspecting Khreg's corpse. "How long before revitalization begins?"

"It has already begun, at the cellular level. It will take time before we see actual responses. There are many factors. Klingons are strong and resilient, and that makes for a quicker transition... but this one died from a most effective poison, and that must be purged from the system before the body's metabolism can begin anew."

Tharval's face contorted in what might have been a smile. "Forgive me. I really must quell my urges for immediate gratification. It will be days, I gather, before this... new person... is ready for the, ahh, the procedure?"

The medical tech's back stiffened. "It will. And I must say, I do not approve of this procedure."

"On purely medical grounds, no doubt," said Tharval. "And, on purely medical grounds, I'm sure you're right. But sometimes even medicine has to give way to... practicality."

"The General has given orders to cooperate with Thrang. I will not gainsay him." The tech sighed. "My approval, or disapproval, is not relevant."

"I understand your frustrations," said Tharval. "However. I, too, have my orders. There is another one ready for me, I understand?"

"Lisian. He is in your special facility already." The tech indicated a door at the far end of Ostigon's sickbay, a door marked with warning sigils and blocked by the shimmer of a force field.

"You've locked him in? Very security-conscious of you." Tharval strolled up to the door, put his hand on the scanner beside it. There was a momentary pause, and then the scanner glowed green and the field vanished with a pop. Tharval turned back to the tech. "I've been given full instructions. I won't need you."

"I do not know what goes on in that room," said the tech. "I only see the effects on our newborns." Tharval could feel the resentment bubbling in his mind. The Lethean paid no attention, as he stepped through the door and checked it was sealed behind him.

Inside, a Kobali was lying on a couch, his head enclosed in the scan module of the modified psychotricorder. "Greetings," said Tharval, feeling nervousness radiate from the subject. "I'm here on behalf of Kalevar Thrang - do you know the name?"

"I have heard of him." The Kobali's voice was muffled by the metal cage surrounding his head.

"There's no need to be concerned," said Tharval. "This is just a scan - you won't feel a thing. I will need to administer a mild hypnotic, just to put you in a receptive frame of mind. You don't mind, I hope?"

"I have given consent." The Kobali still sounded dubious. Tharval noted the couch's built-in restraints, discreetly concealed at the moment - but the flick of a single switch would make the test subject's consent a matter of indifference. He walked around the couch, to the controls of the psychotricorder. A hypospray lay beside the console; he picked it up, checked the dosage, applied it to the Kobali's neck.

"There. Not so painful, was it?"

"No...." The stuff was fast acting; that was good.

"Just relax." Tharval touched the controls of the device. Wave forms danced across the display screen; the activity patterns of the six-lobed Kobali brain.

"What's your name?"

"Lisian." The Kobali's voice was slurred. Tharval touched another control. His eyes narrowed as he reached out with his own psionic talent, feeling Lisian's mind turn dull and foggy. The patterns on the screen were slower and weaker, now.

"And what do you do?"

"Assigned to... engineering. Work on... warp core... with Sector Intelligence... no...."

Tharval's fingers moved delicately on the controls. "What's your name?"

"Lisian...?"

"And what do you do?"

"Warp core...."

Thrang had been quite specific in his instructions... and Tharval understood what was being attempted, too. His psionic sense tingled. It was like watching a sunken continent rising again from the deeps, he thought. A shadow, looming out of vagueness, details gradually resolving... ruined buildings, eroded by time, encrusted with weeds and corals... but still visible, still there, underneath the ocean waters of the Kobali mind.

Within the cage of the scanner module, lights began to glow: scanning beams, probing the Kobali's brain, mapping the neural circuits, stimulating precise points.

"What's your name?"

"Lisi... no...." The voice was different, subtly. Deeper and rougher, perhaps.

"What's your name?"

"Akhat i-Tellasor tr'Kandran."

"Thank you, Subcommander." Tharval's tone was brisk and official, now. "You were on a deep-penetration mission in Klingon space. You were involved in an accident."

"Accident. Yes. I remember - explosion -"

"You were seriously injured, Subcommander Akhat. You were lucky to survive. But you did not have time to deliver your report, Subcommander. It is vitally necessary that you make a complete report."

"I remember.... Authorization. Need authorization. Clearance codes."

Tharval bared his teeth. Too much of the original personality was bleeding through, along with the memories he needed. He made adjustments to the controls. "This is a matter of urgency, Subcommander. I do not have direct communications with the Tal Shiar. You must present your report verbally, to me, now." Lines of light spiked across the display. Tharval's fingers moved on the controls, gently, coaxingly. "I know it is irregular, but the matter is urgent. Your report, Subcommander Akhat. We must have it."

The Kobali's whole body twitched and shuddered, as if he was fighting some internal battle. Then he began to speak.

---

Hours later, Tharval stepped out of the room. The medical tech was still there, hunched over the stasis pod containing Khreg's body.

"He's sleeping it off. All very satisfactory." He savoured the tech's sullen, unspoken response. He went to the stasis pod and peered through the transparent canopy. Khreg's face was greyish, already, and the ridges on his forehead seemed to be shallower. "Progress?"

"As you see," said the tech. "It will be many more hours before this new person awakens."

"Well, I can wait. General Jhey'quar has been generous with his hospitality. I'll go to my guest quarters and rest for a while." He found he couldn't resist a quick barb. "Thank you so much for all you're doing for us." And he walked out of the sickbay before the tech could frame a response.

He paused for a moment in the corridor outside, getting his bearings. The modified Samsar-class cruiser was a big ship, and he was unfamiliar with its internal layout. Still, he had come to the sickbay from the guest quarters, so all he needed to do was to retrace his steps -

A black-clad figure passed by him in the corridor, and his eyes widened.

"Excuse me," he said. The Kobali did not respond. "Excuse me!" he called out, louder.

She turned and looked at him with cold, lilac-coloured eyes. She was slim, and tall, and her face had a curiously composed look about it. "May I be of assistance?" she asked.

Tharval stared for a moment. "Forgive me," he said. "It's just - have we met?"

The Kobali woman frowned. "I do not believe so," she said, and Tharval could see in her mind that she spoke the truth. "You are Kalevar Thrang's associate, I gather?"

"I am." His voice was flat with sudden disappointment.

"We are, of course, grateful for Thrang's - efforts - on our behalf. How may I help you?"

Tharval shook his head. "I do not think you can. I - I thought you were someone else. A mistake on my part." Though she had been someone else. And he thought he knew who. "May I ask your name?"

"I am Hanchon Lilitsia." Her eyes were still cold. "Will there be anything else?"

"No. I apologize for my error."

"Then I must be about my duties." And she turned and walked unhurriedly away. Tharval's gaze followed her down the corridor, until she reached the end, turned the corner, and vanished from his sight.

The Death House 23

Rrueo

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"I'd heard something of the sort."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Absolutely, my lord."

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

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

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

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

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

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