The Three-Handed Game 28

"Dammit, dammit, dammit!" snarled Maury Lansing. Daniella Quar said nothing, but passed another of the dwindling supply of missiles up to him.

A shout. Daniella turned her head. Thom was running towards them, his phaser gripped firmly in his hand. "They're onto us!" he yelled. "Targeting lidar just lit up this building! Come on, move!"

"I can get him when he swings round again!" Maury shouted back.

"No!" snapped Thom. "They've got better range, they'd fry us before you got the shot off. No time to argue! Move!"

And they moved, Maury manhandling the two-metre tube of the missile launcher and swearing all the way, Daniella struggling under the weight of the munitions satchel, refusing to let the other two see she was struggling -

They reached the manhole with scant seconds to spare, dived down it and pulled the cover to. Once, Daniella had gagged at the stench of Einsteingrad's main trunk sewer; now, it smelled like safety, like home, almost. Through the closed cover, they heard the shrill warble of Siohonin disruptors, heard the roar of flames and the crashing of shattered masonry as the warehouse building they'd been using as a vantage point collapsed in ruins.

"Damn those horn-head -" Maury began a long and inventive tirade, cut short when Thom came up to him and put one hand on his partner's shoulder.

"We can't afford to get ourselves killed now," Thom said simply. "They're still strafing the capital, and we don't have contact either with the home defence militia, or with Starfleet. It's up to us to keep the fight going until the military can regroup and push them off the planet."

He spoke with quiet conviction and intensity. Her brother had really grown into this role, Daniella reflected. Maybe Starfleet would be the right career choice for him after all.

"So what do we do now?" she asked.

"Link up with Sidak and Tahn," said Thom, "at the main waste processing plant. Then I reckon we take the service tunnel by the reclamation pipe, here -" He jabbed a finger at the map. The map was a plastic sheet, with the plan of the sewers drawn in luminous ink; low-tech, it wouldn't show up on scans, wasn't vulnerable to information warfare attack. The map was a lifeline, a talisman - it had saved them already, so many times.

Now they trooped through the malodorous tunnels, heads bowed, finding their way by the occasional maintenance lamps, not daring to turn on flashlights. Somehow, the Siohonin had ways of finding their targets. The citizens' defence militia had found that out, the hard way.

They paused for breath in the hollow of a maintenance supplies bay. "We got any word from Starfleet?" Maury asked. "Anything at all?"

Thom shook his head. "We reckon some of the frigates got out, though. They must have raised the alert at Starfleet Command by now. The Vespasian bought them time enough before they -" He fell silent. They had all heard the last transmissions from the cruiser USS Vespasian as the Siohonin fleet closed in.

Thom allowed them three minutes of rest before they pressed on. Daniella shouldered the munitions pack, tried not to think about how much it weighed... or how much it had weighed. They had seven photonic missiles left, three cartons of ammunition for the photon mortar, some plasma grenades - Daniella reproached herself for not knowing exactly how many plasma grenades they had left. She would make a count, at the first opportunity.

They reached the reprocessing plant, a mechanical wilderness of pipes and concrete, walkways and hatches. An army could hide in it for days. The thin Vulcan Sidak was there, and his friend Tahn. Daniella didn't know the name of Tahn's species; she was small and slight, with skin like tree bark, and a pair of antennae bristling from her forehead. The five of them crouched beneath a metre-wide pipe, and while Sidak and Thom talked tactics, Daniella counted the grenades. Sixteen. Was that enough? She had no idea.

"The Siohonin cannot exert effective control without ground forces," said Sidak. "Logically, transporter operations are too hazardous, given the random radiations associated with a battlefield, as well as such active transporter interdiction as we still possess. They must, therefore, attempt to land troop ships."

"And the capital is the obvious place to start," said Thom, "and we've already taken out some of the ground troops they have landed, so they must send reinforcements."

"Yes. The most logical approach for landing troop ships, given the site of the city's spaceport, is here." Sidak sketched in a line on a map of the city. "The dam face for the reservoir affords an adequate vantage point - and, if the Siohonin aim to take the city intact, they cannot respond with heavy weapons for fear of breaching the dam."

"If they aim to take the city intact," said Maury gloomily.

"It is logical to assume that is their intention."

"Yeah," said Maury, "but the horn-heads haven't shown a lot of restraint so far...." He shook his head, and picked up the missile launcher. "It's our best chance to hit them, though. Do we go for it?"

"I got some comms traffic off the Siohonin net." Tahn spoke up for the first time. "Something big's happening in an hour or so. Have to guess it's a troop drop."

It seemed like wishful thinking to Daniella, but she said nothing. They had to do something... they had to believe that what they did would make a difference.

Uncomplaining, she hoisted the munitions pack onto her shoulders and set off on the steep climb up the service tunnel to the dam. Her back ached, her thigh muscles burned. She steeled herself to ignore it - after all, it was no worse, wasn't it, than a hard day's training? She would not let the others down... even little Tahn was keeping pace, gamely, uncomplaining. She would keep going. However long it took. Whatever it took.

She sighed quietly with relief, though, when they reached the end of the tunnel and stepped out onto the rim of the dam.. After so long in the tunnels, the daylight was dazzling. She crouched down and peered over the ferroconcrete parapet. Behind her, the waters of the reservoir were placid, untroubled; before her and beneath her, Einsteingrad was spread out, columns of smoke reaching into the sky from the most recent sites of Siohonin bombardment.

There were drifting shapes in the sky - Siohonin fighters, for the most part, though a few, a very few, interceptors from the defence force were still flying. Tahn knelt down beside Daniella, unstrapping a pack from her back. "Help me set this up," the little alien said.

The pack held a passive sensor rig, detectors which could track movements in the atmosphere. Under Tahn's terse directions, Daniella placed the little pyramid shapes of the antennae. They dared not use active sensors, not until the very last moment.

"Good," muttered Tahn, hunched over the instrument. "Good. Something's coming in, all right. Bigger than a fighter... smaller than one of their frigates...."

"On the course we anticipated?" asked Sidak. Tahn made an affirmative grunt.

"Set the shot up, quick," Thom ordered. He squeezed Daniella's shoulder as he scrambled past to check the exit to the maintenance tunnel, and she felt hugely grateful for the quick touch of her brother's hand. Quickly, she passed a photon missile from the pack to Maury, readied another. He might get a second chance, if he missed with the first. The Siohonin freighters were slow. Their atmospheric fighters, though, were pretty fast.

"It's reached the stratosphere," said Tahn. "Can almost feel the compression wave already."

There was a wind rising, Daniella thought. Or maybe it was just in her imagination. Maury was swearing under his breath as he checked and rechecked the missile launcher. Sidak was a stolid, calm presence, watching along the dam, phaser ready in his hand. Daniella felt for the sidearm at her own hip. She was not used to this. Not to any of this.

"Here it comes," said Tahn. Maury was down on one knee, the missile launcher raised, at the ready. There was a deep throbbing rumble like thunder in the air.

The Siohonin freighter hurtled overhead, its ungainly bulk blotting out the sun for a brief instant. And, in that instant, Maury fired. The launcher made a shrieking noise like some terrible animal -

But it was beautiful, Daniella thought, the missile itself becoming a silver streak of light, blossoming into a burst of yellow flame as it struck the Siohonin ship. The freighter slewed and dropped abruptly, smoke and blazing fragments jetting from one ruined engine... and suddenly it was toppling through the air, and off course, heading for the low rounded hills to the south of the city. The stricken craft disappeared behind the curve of one hill. An instant later, the hill was silhouetted in a burst of brilliant light, and a cloud of burning debris rose up above it. The ear-splitting sound of the explosion followed a few seconds later.

"Yes!" Maury yelled, almost inaudibly in the noise.

"Move!" It was Thom's voice. "Squad coming up the tunnel! Move!"

Daniella's mind raced. They would have to get to the other end of the dam, find the trails, scatter, head for the country, then double back and go to ground in the maintenance tunnels before the Siohonin sensors could sweep the area -

Tahn reached for her sensor device. Then she screamed, and glowed, flaring with light, an intolerable heat pouring off her, making Daniella flinch back. And then she was gone, nothing more than a scattering of glowing embers across the concrete surface.

"What the hell- ?" Maury stood aghast. "Where did that come from?"

"Move!" Thom shouted again. Daniella looked around in a panic. Where had it come from, whatever that force was, the one that killed Tahn? Was there a sniper somewhere, or -?

The shockwave caught her and knocked her off her feet, rolling her along the concrete until her legs were dangling over the edge, her feet splashing in the water of the reservoir. A Siohonin fighter - it had swooped overhead, not firing, simply bowling them over with the rush of its passage. Daniella's ears rang as she pulled herself back from the brink. Suddenly, there were Siohonin troops around them.

They were tall and bearded, their horns poking through slots in the metal helmets they wore. Most of them were military caste, wearing the field-grey uniforms with metallic chest panels, uniforms the people of Farnon's World had learned to loathe already. But one of them -

He wore robes of red and black and white, and there was the emblem of a stylized flame on his chest, and on the tip of the short rod he held in one hand. He was bare-headed, apparently unarmoured. The military caste held weapons, old-fashioned lasers for the most part, but this one held nothing in his hands but that flame-tipped rod. Daniella was most horrified by how young he was. He looked as though... as though he was the same age as her, and her friends.

"Rebels!" he said, in a high-pitched tone, as if his voice had not yet finished breaking. Thom dropped his phaser, raised his hands above his head. There were more Siohonin coming from the other end of the dam. Daniella realized bleakly that they had never stood a chance of escaping. But at least we brought the troopship down, she told herself. At least we did that much.

"Rebels!" the robed Siohonin repeated. "You defy the one true god! You bring harm to his worshippers, you try to stand in the path of our rightful conquest! You know now that you can never win! The one true god will not permit it! And now you will taste his vengeance!"

"We surrender," said Thom, thickly. "We surrender, and we request fair treatment as prisoners of war under applicable Galactic law." Maury should have said that, Daniella thought. Maury was going to be a lawyer.

"You are rebels," said the Siohonin, "no more than that." His gaze flicked across Daniella, dismissed her. "You have a female to serve you. She will be taken to serve us. As for the males -"

He raised the rod, and Thom and Maury and Sidak screamed and glowed and burned to ashes. It happened all in one instant, and Daniella was too stunned to speak, or scream, or grieve, as they seized her and took her away.

The Three-Handed Game 27

Tylha

The lumpy rounded bulk of the Orion Slavemaster battleship swells in King Estmere's viewscreen. I feel the anticipation running through me. "Red alert," I order. Alarms start to howl.

"Launching Alpha. Launching Bravo," says Anthi Vihl crisply. The 871-metre bulk of the carrier shudders as the two Mesh Weaver frigates shoot from the launching bays. I check the tactical display. Goroke is swinging wide, deploying her auxiliary craft, coming in on the battleship's rear angle. Tapiola is moving out to the other side. The battleship is deploying its own auxiliaries -

"Zazaru. Get me a read on those small craft. I want to know if any of them's equipped for transporter penetration missions." The Orions use light raiding craft with precision transporters; that's the sort of ship we think took Ronnie. If our current target has those kinds of ships....

"Weapons range in five minutes," Anthi reports. "Launching Charlie. Launching Delta. Tactical telemetry coming through from Goroke and Tapiola."

"Skipper," says F'hon Tlaxx. "Hail coming in from the Orion ship."

I sit back. "On screen."

A wide green face appears on the viewer, the face of a man who might have been handsome, once, but who has let himself go to seed with high living and too much food. Fat lips spray outrage at me. "What is your problem? I am a legitimate entrepreneur! And Starfleet has no jurisdiction in Klingon space!"

"Tylha Shohl," I say, "commanding the USS King Estmere. Are you Surtus the Indefeasible?"

"Everyone in two quadrants knows who I am!"

"Stand down and prepare to be boarded."

"What? On what authority, Andorian?" Surtus's eyes glare at me through rolls of fat.

"My own. And the cooperation of the KDF. You will notice one of my consorts has KDF ID."

"The KDF has no right! My operations are entirely legal!"

"We're going to check that," I say grimly. "If you want to continue operating, you'll let us do it. Otherwise - well, we'll check anyway, once the shooting's over. I imagine that will be quite quickly."

Surtus's eyes dart from side to side. My guess is, he is reading a tactical display of his own. I'd hazard a further guess, that he doesn't much like what he's seeing.

"I am," he begins, and licks his full lips, and starts again, "I will... stand down. Under protest."

"Protest all you like." I hit my intercom panel. "Bulpli. Nozys. Sirip. Ready your tactical and security teams. Board and secure. Klerupiru, I want you and Amiga on computer analysis." What Klerupiru's instincts don't pick up on, the android science officer's computerized eyes will catch.

The Slavemaster's screens drop, its impulse drive powers down. Goroke's goat's-skull shape drifts in, to come to a halt about three kilometres aft of the battleship. I can see the scatter from her targeting pings on my tactical display; R'j is locking her crescent-wave disruptor batteries onto the Orion, and at that range they will cut an unshielded ship in half. I check King Estmere's plasma banks; they, too, are locked, and ready to burn the halves to ashes once R'j has finished.

"Zazaru. Begin scans. Full intensity and maximum penetration. I want to be able to read the labels on Surtus's underwear."

"If he's wearing any, sir, you'll have them," says the Trill science chief.

"Lots of data feeds coming in," says F'hon. "I think Tapiola has had the same idea."

"Good," I say, "then we can cross-check."

My intercom beeps for attention. "Security teams ready," says Bulpli Yulan's voice.

"All right. Beam over and commence search. Secure the Slavemaster's computer core - no one is to go near it until our data forensic teams are through with it. And use your imagination when looking for Surtus's hidden backups, too."

"On it, sir. Transporting now."

I sit back in the command chair and start fretting. This Surtus character is exactly the sort of person who might snatch Ronnie... and one of his private fleet of ships might be a match for the warp signature of the craft that took her. But it's all conjecture, at this point.

"Sir," says F'hon, "we have a hail... and an incoming vessel. It's the Falcon, sir."

Well, it's something to stop me from fretting. "Put them on."

The harried face of Ronnie's exec appears on the screen. "Commander Tallasa reporting from the USS Falcon, sir," she says. "We have permission from Starfleet Command to join your task group in the search for Vice Admiral Grau. If you'll have us, sir, that is." Her tone is wary. I still don't know Tallasa's personal history, whatever it was that cost her her family name... she is, naturally, guarded around other Andorians. But she's a good officer, for all that, and the Falcon's firepower could be a major asset for us.

"Permission granted. Welcome to the fray, Commander. We're searching this Orion battlewagon right now - if we turn anything up, I'll be sure to let you know."

"We have no Borg life signs detected," Zazaru reports. "Interestingly, we do have signs of Borg nanotechnology... possibly stored in stasis fields. Surtus might be running some smuggling racket involving quarantined technology."

In which case... he might want Ronnie, an atypical example of a liberated Borg, for reasons of his own. "I think we ought to have words with Surtus the Indefeasible," I say.

---

In the flesh... there is a lot of flesh. Surtus the Indefeasible is vast, nearly two metres tall, and surely more than that around. He doesn't just dominate his end of the briefing room table, he very nearly fills it.

"I will make a protest," he says. "I have friends at the very highest levels, and I promise you, you will regret that you meddled with me."

I snort. T'Pia looks unimpressed. R'j, lounging against the wall with elaborate unconcern, says, "How do you intend to contact them, from the afterlife?"

Surtus turns his face towards her. "You cannot -"

"S-s-s-s-s. I will have to wait until these strait-laced people from Starfleet leave, that is all. The Federation has a strong belief in diplomacy and the rights of sentients and the rule of law. You and I know, Surtus, that the Empire is more... pragmatic... about such things." She grins, and it is not a pretty sight. "With your body mass, you may present a puzzle for future astronomers. A rogue green moon, hanging in interstellar space...." She straightens up. "Enough of such pleasing fancies. Starfleet has questions for you. Answer them."

Surtus looks shifty. "I have done nothing that would be of interest to Starfleet -"

"There is the matter of the Borg devices in your storage rooms," says T'Pia. "Nine hundred and five millilitres of the Borg nanovirus, eight hundred and twenty assorted cybernetic assemblies -"

"And four hundred and fifty-three metres of fibro-neural interface cabling," I add. "Were you planning to knit your own Borg?"

"Borg technology is restricted for sound reasons," says T'Pia. "The destruction of your vessel may be indicated, as an urgent quarantine measure."

"It was sealed in stasis chambers!" Surtus protests. "The security was absolute!"

"Those have been the last words of many incautious persons who have meddled with Borg technology," says T'Pia.

"Or second-to-last," I add, "their last words being 'We are the Borg'. However, we're not necessarily interested in that."

"Though the artifacts in question will be confiscated and destroyed," says T'Pia. Surtus looks sick.

"Speaking of artifacts," says R'j, "the KDF has some interest in the contents of your other store rooms. You have many rare gems and artworks, the provenance of which must be investigated. And there is the matter of the Zosman nacre in hold 34-D. The Zosman purple oyster is an endangered species... should it become extinct, there would be no more nacre. The authorities on Zosma IV, therefore, exact stringent penalties against smugglers. The details - well, they need not concern us. Or, at least, they need not concern me."

Surtus is looking a distinctly unhealthy shade of green, now. Well, this is the sort of stuff you'd expect to find when you raid the ship of a mid-to-high level Syndicate goon... and our best efforts have turned up no trace of Ronnie. Enough of the threats, now for some concrete details. "The OSS Kebrul is one of your ships," I say.

"What?" says Surtus. "Yes. Yes, it is."

"Light raiding vessel with advanced transporter systems. Yes?"

"It's designed for fast pickups in possible combat conditions." Surtus is both relieved and wary, now.

"Where have you used it recently?" I ask.

"The Kebrul?" Surtus is obviously uncomfortable with this line of questioning. "It's... I've had some involvement with... certain parties. A fast ship was necessary, there."

"What parties?" raps R'j. "The Siohonin?"

"What? No! No, of course not. What do the Siohonin have that I might want?"

"They're offering about a planet's worth of rare metals to buy a particular Starfleet officer," I say. "A Starfleet officer who was recently kidnapped. By a fast ship, designed for fast pickups in combat conditions."

"Oh," says Surtus. "Oh, no. No. Not me. Whoever took your officer, it was not me."

My gaze locks with his. "Convince me."

"I -" Surtus licks his lips. His eyes scan each one of us in turn. "I... can make the Kebrul's logs available."

I force a laugh. "I'm not interested in reading fiction," I say.

"They... can be verified. The Kebrul suffered heavy damage. It has been in spacedock for over a month, repairs will not be complete for some weeks. It -" Surtus takes a deep breath. "The ship was intercepted by Republic forces during its - mission. It only just escaped -"

"Republic forces," says R'j thoughtfully. "I can think of some reasons why the Republic might fire on an Orion ship. How loud were these 'certain parties' of yours?"

"How loud?" He looks baffled.

"S-s-s-s-s. Let me suggest a possibility. I suspect they were not very loud at all. I would even guess that they were silent."

A silent enemy... "Is that it?" I ask. "You were running captive test subjects to the Elachi?"

"The monsters pay well," says Surtus. "And it was only dregs - people who would never be missed, of no use even to themselves -"

"I withdraw my earlier threat," says R'j. "I will not pollute the heavens with your carcass, Surtus."

I say nothing. I'm weighing up the comparative virtues of shooting him here and now, or passing the transcript of this session over to Republic Intelligence.

"Do you possess any ships with similar characteristics to the Kebrul?" T'Pia asks.

"No," says Surtus. "How often do you think I need a fast, cloaked raider?"

"Do you know anyone who does possess a similar ship?" T'Pia is polite, calm, and quite relentless.

Surtus licks his lips again. "There... there are many Syndicate operatives who - who might find a use for such craft. But not many who are good enough - my transporter operators are the finest in Orion space. The finest. I paid for the finest. Others have to be content with my leavings...."

"Others such as whom?" says T'Pia.

"Understand," says R'j, "we have names. We merely seek confirmation. We have wasted time and effort on you already, we do not wish to waste more."

"I can think of no one who might have had dealings with the Siohonin," says Surtus. "They are a minor species that has risen in rebellion... and they have no respect for females. How should we Orions find common cause with them?" Well, he has a point there, I suppose.

"The Siohonin hired Gorn mercenaries, at first," says T'Pia. "Does this datum suggest anything to you?"

"Wait," says Surtus. "Wait. The Gorn?" His huge round face screws itself up in exaggerated concentration. "The Gorn. The House of Vuon was always greatly concerned with the Gorn, and I know Matron Khevnitra tried to outbid me for those transporter operators...."

I glance at R'j. Her silvery eyes are wary.

"S-s-s-s-s. Yes, this name is known to us. Now," she purrs, "convince us that you name her for valid reasons, and not as some vendetta of your own."

---

The interrogation drags on, and on, for what seems like hours. Details to be verified, checked against the Slavemaster's computer core and other sources....

I feel exhausted when I finally emerge from the briefing room. I still don't know what to do about Surtus. The man is not indefeasible, so much as unspeakable. But, then, he's a successful Orion entrepreneur.... Sometimes, I think Starfleet should make more value judgments about alien cultures. If there was ever a case for violating the Prime Directive, the Orion criminal empire is it.

I'm heading for my quarters when the intercom chimes at me again. "Calling Vice Admiral Shohl," says F'hon's voice.

I sigh, and head for one of the data stalagmites that line the corridors. "Shohl here," I say.

"I have Admiral Semok for you on subspace, sir," says F'hon.

I straighten myself up. "Put him through."

"Vice Admiral Shohl." Semok's mild face appears on the small screen. "Do you have any news?"

"Nothing definite yet, sir, I'm afraid. We have intercepted one known Orion criminal, and we've found evidence of a great deal of illegal activity - but none of it relating to Vice Admiral Grau. He has given us partial confirmation of another lead, though, and we're moving to follow it up."

"I am gratified to hear it," says Semok. "It is the opinion of Starfleet Command that Vice Admiral Grau's importance to the Siohonin needs to be explained as quickly and completely as possible. Also, there is activity in the Stygmalian Rift which needs investigation. Such investigations could, no doubt, benefit from her insight."

"The Rift has gone live?" I ask, aghast.

"There is activity. It has not yet reached the level at which the Rift became a navigational hazard. However, it is the matter of the Siohonin which concerns us most immediately." His normally impassive face takes on a grave and troubled look. "Siohonin military forces have engaged in hostile acts against the Federation. They have occupied the colony planets Sorella IX and Farnon's World."

The Three-Handed Game 26

"This is a mistake," Gamariden Tal said flatly.

Sivetalin Aun raised the ceramic ball to his nostrils, inhaled deeply, and set it back down on his desk. "I do enjoy the scent of sehva blossom," he said. "I find it calming. Perhaps you would care to indulge, Grand Marshal?"

"I would not," said Tal. He continued to pace across Aun's elegantly furnished office. Aun privately sighed at the thought of what those military boots were doing to his carpet.

"If anyone is at fault," said Tal, "it is me. I ordered the test. I am fully confident that I can defend my actions, of course... but it was a military decision."

"But Enteskilen Mur was present," said Aun.

"In an unofficial capacity!" snapped Tal. He left off pacing and turned to face the High Magister directly. "He was no more than an observer."

"I see," said Aun. "But the Pontiff's argument is - you understand, it is not my argument, it is his - the Pontiff's argument is that the cult of Sebreac Tharr is inextricably linked with the military, now. They provide your special weapons... your captains and ship officers are all members of the cult... you, yourself, are a member in good standing...."

"Freedom of religion is an absolute right within the military," said Tal. "As it has always been. I cannot help it if my subordinates notice that, under the patronage of Sebreac Tharr... we conquer."

"Yes," said Aun, "yes, it is hard to argue with success." He gave vent to a theatrical sigh. "And yet, successful people attract attention, and not all of it welcome. Glavelecun Dir sees his influence waning... and the result of your test affected him, personally. I can understand his point of view - I do not necessarily condone it, but I can understand it. He feels slighted, he feels threatened... he takes this opportunity to pay back for the slights and neutralize the threats. It is all very unfortunate, but I do not know what is to be done. I certainly do not see what I can do. This is a religious matter, and one over which I have no influence... one over which I am allowed no influence. And, I must add, quite rightly so. Freedom of religion is a fundamental principle for everyone, not just the military. I cannot use my office to give orders to Dir on religious matters."

"You have no official influence," said Tal. "But you know Dir. You have a measure of informal authority over him. Use it. This trial is an error. It will weaken the confidence of the military, at a time when confidence is all-important."

"I greatly fear," said Aun, "I greatly fear... that the Pontiff will not prove amenable to persuasion."

---

The Grand Court of the Pantheon was a vast pillared enclosure, surmounted by a domed roof which was painted with scenes from the lives of all the gods of the Siohonin. The priests of those many gods stood, now, around the rim of the Court, a gaudily coloured assembly, all waiting for the drama that was to unfold.

Glavelecun Dir strode towards the Dais of Judgment at the centre of the Court, wearing his most majestic many-coloured robes, the black staff of Ceamag-Tai in his right hand. He stepped onto the dais, and raised the staff above his head.

"We are gathered here," he declaimed, "to do justice upon one who has flouted our traditions, has wilfully and shamelessly sown dissension among the religious caste, has tried - fruitlessly, but he has tried - to bring back the old times of discord and strife between the priests of the many gods. We come here to hear the case against the accused, and to condemn him for his reprehensible acts. Let the culprit come forward!"

There was a stir at the edge of the court, and Enteskilen Mur stepped out.

He wore the red, white and black robes of Sebreac Tharr, and the stylized flame gleamed in gold on his chest, and on the tip of the rod he carried in his right hand. He walked towards the dais with his shaggy grey head held high, his eyes fixed on Glavelecun Dir.

He came to the base of the dais, and stopped. Dir glowered down at him. The dais was - just - high enough that he overtopped Mur's height.

"Enteskilen Mur, High Priest of Sebreac Tharr, you stand accused of a heinous crime, that of open warfare on the priests and the true believers of another cult. Do you deny, o most base and perfidious of men, that you were present at the military test at orbital arcology Segonna-Yapt 107?"

"I do not deny this." Mur's resonant voice was firm. "It is a matter of public record."

"Public record! Yes!" said Dir. "That arcology was the property of the cult of Ceamag-Tai! The god's priests were aboard it when this test was carried out! Two hundred and fifty million worshippers, also, the property of Ceamag-Tai! We grieve, Mur, for the loss of our brethren! And for the great, the terrible, the calamitous financial damage done to the temple of Ceamag-Tai by the destruction of the arcology and its drabs! What have you to say, Mur? What possible justification can you give? What amends, what restitution can you make?"

"The Grand Marshal began his test without the attention of the true god Sebreac Tharr," said Mur. "Condemn me if you will, but do not sully the name of the true god."

"The true god? The true god? Your god, Mur, incites his followers to disregard the rights of other cults! Your god has inspired the military caste to forget its traditions, to put drabs to work on starships, to set centuries of worthy customs aside in the pursuit of vain and hollow worldly conquest! Your god, Enteskilen Mur -" Dir drew himself up to his full height, and made a sweeping gesture with his staff "- is a false god!"

There was a brief murmur of consternation from the watching priests at the rim of the court. It died away, swiftly, and in the silence, Mur said, "No."

"No?" Dir's face was purple with theatrical rage. "No? You dare to contradict your First Pontiff, you -"

"I dare." Mur's voice cut through Dir's expostulations. "I know why you have chosen to present this sideshow, Glavelecun Dir. You fear the influence of Sebreac Tharr, the growth of his priesthood. You fear the success of our armies under the true god's beneficent guidance. And so, like many another little man before you, you seek to undermine what you cannot control. I see through you, Glavelecun Dir. And I see, too, that you speak heresy and blasphemy. Sebreac Tharr is a true god, his truth proven beyond dispute by his mighty deeds. Where are the deeds of your god, Glavelecun Dir? Where are the miracles wrought by Ceamag-Tai? Your god, my friend, is as dead as his worshippers!"

"You - you -" Dir sputtered. "You liar! You blasphemer! You utter, self-condemned heresiarch! The agreement, the agreement between all the cults of the pantheon specifies, it specifies that all the gods should be treated with respect!"

"Oh," said Mur, "I am aware of this. And I propose that the agreement should be amended. Let the respect be extended only to true gods, and let those gods proclaim and give incontrovertible evidence of their truth. That is only reasonable, is it not, Glavelecun Dir? Come. Let me see a miracle of Ceamag-Tai. Let the god of death take me where I stand! A fair test, no? A fair test of his power?"

"You - The god does not deign to take notice of one such as you!" yelled Dir.

"He should," said Mur. "No miracle, then?" He raised his right hand, with the rod in it. The flame symbol of Sebreac Tharr gleamed. "Then I shall be as good as my word. Sebreac Tharr shall show forth his power, and everyone shall be convinced."

He turned, and raised the gleaming rod high over his head. "In the name of the true god, I condemn the false gods!" he bellowed. "I bring to you truth and cleansing flame! Throughout this court, through every city of the homeworld, every outpost in space, I call on the true god Sebreac Tharr to look upon the unbelievers and render his judgment!"

"You are the one who is here to be judged!" shouted Dir. And then he screamed.

Over his multi-coloured robes, red and yellow broke out; flames, licking up his body, engulfing him, turning him into a writhing, screaming fireball that toppled from the dais to crash to the floor of the court.

And around the rim of the court, too, flames burst out, enveloping the watching priests, who screamed and struggled vainly to flee -

"Burn!" shouted Mur, and his voice rang out louder than the shrieks of the blazing priests. "All you unbelievers, burn and know the truth! There is only one true god, and that is Sebreac Tharr! Serve him, or die in his cleansing flames! Burn, false priests! Burn, unbelievers! Burn! Burn! Burn!"

The Three-Handed Game 25

T'Pia

The interior of the Monbosh battleship reminds me, in a peculiar way, of a tropical rain forest. The hexagonal metal plating seems to be assembled into organic shapes, curving and branching; there are mists, there are unexpected pools of light, bulbous computer nodes like fruits, display panels like the petals of flowers. It is an unusual sensation. The Elachi are a very different species from most humanoids, and their design and technology reflects this. Even the air smells strange, as if the Elachi atmosphere has not yet entirely dissipated.

I find my way to the Goroke's bridge without incident. The centre of the room is dominated by a rippling, glassy, force field sphere, enclosing the command couch where R'j Bl'k' is lying, apparently absorbed in her work. I turn to one of the Klingon junior officers. "I have the latest data on the suspect warp signature," I say, and raise the PADD in my right hand.

He glowers at me. His face is harsh, bearded, scarred around the left eye. "Commander Laska," he says, and points the way with a jerk of the hand.

Commander Laska is a Klingon female, rather tall, with a craggy humourless face and dark eyes. She is standing at a console, apparently busy at some task, but she turns as I approach. "You are Vice Admiral T'Pia," she says. "Welcome to the Goroke."

"Thank you." I hold out the PADD. "I have here all the available data on the warp signature detected at Delta Gracilis."

"Good." She takes the PADD.

"I do not know if you have the technical background to appreciate this information," I say. "Although the warp field is essentially the same for any type of vessel, the exact details of the wave-forms it produces in subspace vary according to a multitude of factors -"

"I am aware of this," says Laska. "I am a graduate of the science division of the Klingon Imperial Academy... specializing in warp mechanics."

"I see," I say. "Then you will not require further explanations."

"I will not, no." She looks at me, snorts, and smiles wryly. "Vulcans," she says.

"Is there a problem?"

"You do not apologize, so you are not weak. But you do not... challenge. There is no attitude of 'pah, a mere Klingon could not hope to understand warp physics'. You merely - acknowledge the facts, and move on." She shakes her head. "I am Klingon. I do not have the right... cultural reference points... for dealing with you."

"I see." I contemplate this. "I do not see how this situation can immediately be ameliorated."

"And there you go again," says Laska.

"Klingons and Vulcans have had social interactions on many occasions, over a period of some centuries."

"Indeed they have. And many of them," says Laska, "have ended with the Klingon in question screaming with rage and burying a blade in the Vulcan's head." She seems amused, though, rather than combative. I suppose I should be grateful for that.

"Please do not kill our guests and allies," says a sibilant whisper from behind me, "at least where we may be found out." R'j Bl'k' has left the command couch and is standing behind us. Tall, thin and wiry, she towers even over the Klingon, to say nothing of myself. The ancillary breathing organs along her jawline expand and contract arrhythmically. Her silvery eyes gleam in the tropical forest lighting of the bridge.

"General Bl'k'," I say, politely.

"S-s-s-s-s. Your pronunciation is... reasonably adequate. What results do we have?"

"None, as yet," says Laska. "You must give these adaptive pattern matchers some time to run.... In any case, I am less than sanguine about this. It is by no means impossible, given reasonable engineering facilities, to change a ship's warp signature."

"I regret," I say, "that our trace is so incomplete that only a partial identification would be possible in any case."

"No matter," says R'j. She sounds almost cheerful. "If we can only identify some possibilities, that will be a start. We can cross-reference with our internal intelligence files, which are not insubstantial."

"I see," I say. "There must be a limited subset of persons already with both the incentive and the technical capability to abduct Vice Admiral Grau. Presumably, many of them will be known to Klingon Intelligence in... one capacity or another."

"Precisely," says R'j with a disturbing grin.

"Could you do it?" I ask.

"Conceivably," says R'j, and her grin widens. "Tylha Shohl has Caitian flight deck transporter officers - I have Ferasans. An improved breed, as it were."

"I did not know that the Monbosh battleship also served as a carrier."

"We have specialized auxiliary vessels. One thing we do not have, however, is a cloaking device. The Goroke is too large, its power signatures too exotic, for a standard KDF cloak to be effective. However, I do have access to other ships.... S-s-s-s-s. It would be a pretty tactical problem... to snatch, as my people would say, the h'dr'hh while the gg'trr'n and the ll'hhhn-krr fight over it...."

"I think, now, I am the one who lacks the proper cultural reference points," I say.

"Most do," says R'j with a noise that might be a laugh. "My culture is not widely studied."

"Preliminary data conversions are complete," says Laska. While we have been talking, she has been working busily at the computer console. "Beginning matches now. As I said, the adaptive algorithms will take time to run. There is a great deal of data to process, which is not tremendously significant - and much of it is corrupt or incomplete, which affects the outcome greatly."

"I do not ask for miracles," says R'j, "only results."

"Is there a difference?" asks Laska dryly. Interesting. This verges on insubordination; a Klingon captain would not permit it... but R'j Bl'k' is not a Klingon. I do not know what she is. I am familiar, of course, with our standard files on her species, but that is a very long way from knowing her as an individual. When last I saw her, she was morose and angry, with herself more than anyone else, for the failure of her plans to exploit the Tiaza Zephora entity. Here, on the bridge of her starship, she is assured, confident, almost affable. Confident enough, in fact, to ignore minor acts of insubordination... most Klingon crews would take advantage of that, unless their commanding officer held their respect and their loyalty tightly. R'j is an alien from an obscure minority species, but somehow she has managed to inspire that respect and loyalty.

I find myself relieved that she is no longer the enemy.

"Working," says Laska. "Amazing. We have some results. First possible, a criminal by the name of Ekkdosin sh'Durn...."

"No," says R'j.

"You say that with some authority," says Laska. "Sh'Durn is listed as technically competent, owns - or has owned - a scout ship whose warp drive might be a match... and his current whereabouts are unknown."

"I know that he is not our man," says R'j. "Move on."

Laska shoots her a puzzled look, but complies. "Next up, a group of Orion minor houses... probabilities roughly equal. Perhaps we should ask General Shalo's opinion?"

"Perhaps," says R'j. "I do not wish to distract her from her existing duties unless it becomes necessary, though. Our resources," she adds, turning to me, "are unusually limited, due to the Siohonin problem. Many ships are being diverted to that conflict. Others are having to cope with a greatly expanded range of duties as a consequence."

"I appreciate the difficulty," I say. Inwardly, I am alarmed. The Siohonin "problem", it seems, has already grown to the stage where it is significantly affecting Imperial ship deployments. That is a worrying development.

"So," says Laska. "Novoad Toln. Kalevar Thrang. Surtus the Indefeasible. Matron Khevnitra of the House of Vuon. Those would be the names of our four most plausible culprits, according to this... so far."

"S-s-s-s-s. The House of Vuon... I know that name. Surtus the Indefeasible, I have heard that one, too. But in what context...?"

"Only you can answer that," says Laska. "The pattern matcher is throwing up more possibilities, now, but they are an order of magnitude less probable. These five names - four, if we are to discount sh'Durn - would seem the best place to start."

"Yes," says R'j, thoughtfully. "Do we have internal intelligence files cross-linked with out database yet?"

"Everything Imperial Intelligence has seen fit to disclose, at least," says Laska.

"The day Imperial Intelligence tells anyone a complete story," R'j growls, "the jj'y't-dh'l will dance across the rrr'g'rr'kyhrr. With its tail feathers pointing left," she adds. "Well, no matter. On the balance of probabilities, which of these individuals is likely to be closest to us?"

Laska sighs heavily and turns back to the console. "You do not ask much.... Probabilities. Surtus the Indefeasible is known to have a base of operations in the Qey'tirgh system... last reports from II put him in that area... and it is only some five light years away, and even in approximately the right direction."

"I will transmit this information to Vice Admiral Shohl," I say, "and we will consult and decide a course of action."

"Oh, by all means, do so," says R'j. "In the meantime, we will set course for Qey'tirgh at maximum warp. I saw Vice Admiral Shohl, a little while ago, and I recognized in her certain symptoms."

"Symptoms?" I ask. Tylha has not mentioned any medical issues.

"Symptoms common to warrior races," says R'j. "Symptoms of an urgent desire to go out and punch someone. So, we go to Qey'tirgh. If nothing else, Surtus the Indefeasible is likely to be intensely punchable."

The Three-Handed Game 24

Admiral Gref didn't know how Quinn could stand for the new design. The office. The office had glass walls, it had an open doorway, there was no privacy. How could anyone tolerate it?

At least, he supposed, there was a wonderful view from Quinn's desk. The head of Starfleet looked out, now, directly through that wide-open doorway at the great windows beyond, at the free-floating spacedocks and the warm blue curve of the Earth beyond them. Just now, the sleek, massive form of an Odyssey-class cruiser was drifting past the windows. Quite a sight, Gref thought. Yes.

"Apart from Ronnie Grau," said Quinn, "Sixth Fleet is ready for operations, yes?"

"I don't need Grau," said Gref. "She's useful, but my table of organization is flexible, I can plug any gaps. Within reason. Don't ask me to operate without proper logistic support."

"That shouldn't be a problem," said Quinn. He swung his chair around, to face the huge star sector map that dominated the rear wall. "You'll be operating inside the Federation, or near to the Neutral Zone - the old Neutral Zone, I should say, now. Here." He touched a button on his desk, and a group of stars began to flash red.

"The Siohonin," Quinn said. "Apparently, an unremarkable Klingon client species. Overpopulated, stuck in an archaic social order, but progressing towards a modern economy.... Now, all of a sudden, they are fighting the Klingons, and they are winning. Not only that, they have hit scattered systems in Republic space - and the Romulans have so far had no success in taking those systems back."

Gref stumped forwards to peer at the map. He sighed, noisily. "A few months ago, we'd have been glad of someone else fighting the Klingons."

"Times change," said Quinn. "Besides, the Siohonin aren't natural allies of the Federation, either. Their social structure is very old-fashioned - and unpleasant. All their females, and most of their males, are disenfranchised, effectively a body of serfs owned by a small entrenched aristocracy. It doesn't conform to the standards of a UFP member."

"Nor do the Klingons." Gref snorted "I suppose we can't just let them tear each other apart."

"We have commitments, now, in the face of a greater threat. And there are formal treaty obligations towards the Republic, too. And there are some other complicating factors." Quinn stood up, abruptly, and strode over to the map.

"The first issue," he said, "is one of simple proximity. So far, the Siohonin expansion has been limited to Klingon, and a few Reman, systems - but they're close to the border, and there is no reason to suppose they wouldn't hold back from attacking Federation territory. Within easy strike range of their ships...." He tapped his fingertip against the map. "Sorella IX, Tau Herculis, Farnon's World, Siraneia Zeta - all Federation colonies, all potentially vulnerable. They could even reach as far as the trading station at Dioclema -"

"That's a Tellarite commercial facility!" Gref bristled.

"I thought you'd spot that," Quinn remarked dryly. "In any case, all these worlds need to be defended, and that is Starfleet's job. That brings me to the second factor... we still aren't sure what we're defending against. The Romulans have intelligence assets in place -"

"Oh, they would," said Gref.

"They're trying to get a handle on the Siohonin weaponry," Quinn continued. "So are we, in our way. We're deploying a network of sensor buoys and patrol drones in the vicinity of the Siohonin. Intensive passive surveillance and analysis. Again, it's a job for Starfleet - the science division, mostly, but still Starfleet." His face turned pensive. "The third complicating factor... is a wild card. Ronnie Grau."

"What about Grau?" Gref demanded.

"That's the problem. We don't know. We know she's missing, we know the Siohonin want her badly for some reason - bad enough to pay an enormous sum to those Gorn mercenaries. But we don't know if they have her already, or - most importantly - why they want her. We have to assume that it's related, somehow, to Grau's past, and to the - cryptic - message we got from Q. In that context -" Quinn frowned. "It may be unrelated, but - Grau ordered a watch kept, and there have been anomalies sighted in the region of the former Stygmalian rift. Chroniton surges, anti-tachyon emissions - I don't understand half the details myself, to be honest, but science division is puzzled."

"Me, too," said Gref. "So. What is it you want me to do?"

"Take Sixth Fleet and secure the border in the neighbourhood of Siohonin-held space. You have all the military and scientific capability to handle that... and you know Ronnie Grau better than most people." Quinn's face was grave. "I don't know how, but that may count for something."

The Three-Handed Game 23

Ronnie

The cell is about four metres by six. In one corner, there is a foam mattress; in the opposite corner, some very basic sanitary facilities. The temperature is constant and warm, the light in the ceiling is never extinguished.

In one wall, there is a door which never opens. Opposite it is a hatch, which at irregular intervals does open, dispensing water and basic rations packs. I won't starve, I guess. The intervals at which the meals are delivered vary widely - that, and the constant light, seems a deliberate attempt to disorientate me, to confuse my sense of time.

*/*187 hours 36 minutes 14 seconds since transportation*/*

That sort of thing doesn't work too well on someone with Borg implants. I'm keeping that fact to myself, though, since I might need every advantage I can get.

Not that there's anyone to tell. I haven't seen a living soul since I was brought here. I didn't even get a look at them at the start - as soon as the transporter beam faded out, I was hit with enough heavy stun to fell an elephant. And when I woke up, I was in this cell.

Someone took my uniform - all I'm wearing is a grey-brown coverall, a bit too big for me, and the collar. The collar is pretty much standard Orion slaver gear, but that doesn't really give me any clues. I guess it can deliver a punishing neural shock any time someone feels like giving me one, and I'd further guess that it contains enough explosives to take my head off if I try to remove it. I'm not in any great hurry to verify either of those guesses, mind.

There are few clues to where I might be. Something about the metallic sterility of the cell says "spaceship" to me, but I could be completely wrong, of course. The air is recirculated, a completely standard mixture you'd find on any oxygen-breathers' starship. The gravity setting - if it's artificial - is about two per cent higher than Earth standard. The temperature is consistently warm....

The worst thing, I think, is the silence. Sometimes I sing or mutter to myself, just for the sake of breaking it... but the metal walls give my voice an odd, forlorn echo, and I soon stop. Two of Twelve is no help - the imprisonment is stressing me, and when I'm stressed, she subsides into low-level muttering and the occasional pop-up statistic. Not that I'm anxious to have a conversation with my Borg half, anyway.

Except... even Two of Twelve would be someone to talk to. The quiet is really starting to get on my nerves.

---

It's a little while later when the door finally opens. I'm lying on the mattress, but I jump up at that.

The guy standing in the doorway is an Orion */*species 2021*/*. Might have expected that, though of course he could just have been hired by whoever's taken me. He is half naked, bald, and must weigh nearly two hundred kilos. OK, he's the first person I've seen in more than a week, but he's still not exactly a pretty sight.

"About time," I say. "The noise and the crowds around here are getting terrible, do you know that?"

He just grunts, and touches a jewelled wristband. White-hot pulsing fire blasts out of the collar and along my nerves. I grit my teeth hard and don't scream. It isn't easy.

"I bet you say that to all the girls," I gasp, when the shock abates.

That earns me another zapping. I decide, purely of my own volition you understand, to curl up and lie down on the floor for a while. Our relationship is not going to go anywhere if he keeps doing that.

He lumbers into the cell and stands over me. This is where the holo-vid hero would jump up and punch him heroically on the jaw before making a dash for freedom. I'm sort of more concerned with not throwing up. Anyway, I can't reach his jaw, and something tells me his groin is armoured.

"The Matron," he says, "orders your presence." He grabs a fold or two of the loose coverall and yanks me to my feet. His voice is exactly what you'd expect, deep and gravelly and sounds like he's got about the same IQ as the deck plating.

"Matron, huh?" I say. "Sounds good, I could use some medical attention." I was hoping his hands were too full for him to reach the button. Guess what? I was wrong.

So it is a shaking, shambling Ronnie who gets hustled along interminable bleak corridors with a big Orion thug's hand on the back of her neck. I can't tell very much from my surroundings; there are no distinguishing marks, no bits of decoration that give me important cultural clues, or anything of that sort. Not that I'm looking too closely, I'm more worried about stopping my head from falling off. I am not in a good way, here.

The Orion shoves me through another door, and this time I get cultural clues in plenty; scents, sounds, exotic carpets underfoot and silk hangings in the air, all the unmistakeable tart's-boudoir vibe of a high-ranking Orion's quarters. The Matron is sitting on a sort of throne thing, looking poised and elegant, or at least as elegant as you can when you're only wearing a tiara, a spangly bikini, and a few square centimetres of gauze. The big guy lets go of my coveralls, and I decide that falling over is much easier than staying standing up. The carpet is much more comfortable than the mattress in the cell.

"You might be more comfortable in a chair," says the Matron. Her voice, too, is what you might expect, low and musical with just a hint of command in that suggestion. I think about picking myself up, but decide not to. I'm already cutting an unimpressive figure, I might as well lie down while I do it.

There is a brief respite, and then the big guy hauls me up and drops me into a chair. I'm not so sure she's right, actually, this one feels like it's been stuffed with live tribbles and they're trying to get out. Or maybe that's just my jangled nerves.

"You will find things go a great deal better for you if you cooperate," says the Matron. "You're a senior Starfleet officer, you didn't reach that position by being unintelligent. I suggest you use your intelligence."

"Grau, Veronika," I mutter, "Vice Admiral, niner seven dash theta dash seven seven six oh five."

"Please," says the Matron. "You are not a prisoner of war, don't bore me with that rigmarole."

"Glad to hear it," I croak. "OK, when am I going home?"

"You are not," says the Matron, "a prisoner of war." A fine distinction, there. I'd kind of worked that out already, though. "You are, though, in my custody. A matter of... a private endeavour on my House's part. And you will remain in my custody until... well, until my ends are accomplished." She smiles a dazzling smile. I can almost feel her mood-altering pheromones at work. "It need not be unpleasant."

Standard bad-cop, good-cop routine. The big guy to hit my nervous system with the stick, and Madame Smarmy here to dangle the carrot. Textbook stuff. Problem is, they know that I know this routine, and I know that they know.... My abused brain gives up rambling off into a string of pronouns. "What's it all about, anyway?" I ask tiredly.

She looks very pleased. "A step towards intelligent cooperation," she says. "Very good. What do you know of the Siohonin?"

"The who?"

Her smile disappears like it's been switched off. "Oh, dear," she says. "I had hoped we could avoid these tiresome preliminaries." She nods at the big guy. What happens next, I don't enjoy at all.

When I've stopped quivering, she asks again. "What do you know of the Siohonin?"

"I don't," I protest. "I've never even heard of it, them, whatever. Seriously."

"They have heard of you," she says. "Try again." Big guy does his stuff. Somewhere along the line, I slide off the chair and wind up lying on the floor again.

"The Siohonin," she says. "The intelligent species native to the Dolsulca system."

I try to marshal my spinning thoughts, which isn't easy at the best of times, and this is emphatically not the best of times. "I don't know them," I say. "Seriously. Two of Twelve can't even give me a Borg species number for them." Have you ever had a Borg shrug and look shamefaced inside your head? Believe me, it feels weird.

"Let us suppose," the Matron says, "that I believe you. For the moment. Put her back in the chair," she tells the big guy. He hauls me up and dumps me down. I lean back and contemplate the ceiling swirling overhead.

"My contacts in General Ssurt's organization," the Matron says, "obtained details of his contract for me. Very little of importance happens in Imperial space without my being aware of it." She holds up a datapad, and I manage to focus on it. "This is the sum that was to be paid to Ssurt, in exchange for your safe delivery."

"Wow," I say. "With money like that, you could afford clothes." It's not a clever thing to say. She makes a miffed gesture at the big guy, and bad things happen to little Ronnie for a while.

"The offer is tempting," the Matron says, when I'm back in the chair again. I'm sweating all over her upholstery, and I hope it leaves a stain. Best I can do, for the moment. "However, I am also intrigued. So great a sum... it seems the Siohonin want you desperately. This leads me to wonder why." She stands over me and smiles down. "I could simply hand you straight over to them... but I would hate to sell you too cheaply."

I can't think of a witty riposte that won't get my nervous system fried, so I shut up.

"Also," the Matron continues, "there are other sets of intriguing possibilities. If you are taken to the Siohonin, you may be in a position to act as... our agent among them. It would certainly be interesting to have your impressions of their military capabilities - if you are in a position to learn them. And, who knows? Once this affair with the Siohonin is finished... perhaps you will even survive it. In which case, you could become an equally highly placed agent within Starfleet. That would be valuable."

"I... don't... think...." I'm slurring. That's a bad sign.

"You would have to be brought around to... our way of thinking, yes," says the Matron. There is not even a trace of pleasantness in her smile, now. "You know us, Vice Admiral Grau. You know our methods. You know that - in the end - that will happen. Why even attempt to resist it?"

The Three-Handed Game 22

Tylha

"So you're my KDF liaison," I say.

The green face on my viewscreen, the colour of old bronze, smiles without humour. "We have cooperated in the past," says the rasping, whispering voice.

"Cooperated? Apart from you trying to kill me, yes, I suppose we did."

"Ah." She looks, momentarily, crestfallen. And the bony process on her skull would be quite some crest to fall. "Yes, I gathered Rrueo told you about that. You were still the enemy. At the time." Her silvery eyes narrow at me. "And do not attempt to convince me that you would not use a similar stratagem yourself, if the opportunity arose."

"Possibly," I concede. "Just possibly."

The woman on the screen is a high-ranking mercenary commander, nominally under the aegis of the KDF. Her species has an incredibly complex vocal tract; her name is a rasp, a squelch and a series of clicks that transliterates most exactly as R'j Bl'k'. She is intelligent, proud, highly capable, and I do not trust her one single millimetre. The fact that she tried to lure me into the destructive radius of the Tiaza Zephora rift entity is only one sound reason not to.

"So," says R'j, and settles herself comfortably on the command couch of her ship, a monstrous Elachi Monbosh battleship that is very nearly the same shape as the crest on her skull. "How may the glorious Klingon military assist its noble allies on this occasion?"

"You mean you haven't been briefed already?" I say. "How inefficient."

"S-s-s-s-s. Yes. You have lost Ronnie Grau. Careless of you."

"We haven't lost her. She was taken."

"Quite. But by whom? And how anxious are you to make sure they retain her?"

"All we're sure of is that it was a Klingon-style transporter beam," I say patiently. "We detected an unfamiliar warp signature in the Delta Gracilis system... our best analysis points it in the direction of Imperial space."

R'j nods. Her face is difficult to read, but I think it has turned serious. "To search the whole of Imperial space for one person - a formidable task. And, of course, it will go better for you if you have a KDF escort. Very few people are disposed to argue with the Goroke."

"Nor with King Estmere or Tapiola, come to that."

"Oh, quite," says R'j. "You are both terrifying, I concede this. S-s-s-s-s." She turns businesslike again. "Transmit the data you have on this warp signature. If it is a Klingon or allied vessel, it is possible that Goroke's database may be able to provide a match."

"I'll get Vice Admiral T'Pia to transmit all our available data."

"S-s-s-s-s. I recall her from Tiaza Zephora. She struck me as reasonably competent." High praise, indeed.

"Whoever they were," I say, "they got into the Delta Gracilis system unobserved, got close to the Falcon under battle conditions, beamed Ronnie off her own bridge through shields, and escaped still undetected. They're good."

"Yes," says R'j thoughtfully. "This narrows down the field of possible suspects, I suppose. There are elements of the Orion Syndicate which specialize in such... operations. And they would seem a likely suspect for other reasons, too."

"Such as what?"

"My first conjecture, on reading the briefing material," says R'j, "was that someone had... stolen... Ronnie Grau for personal profit. If the Siohonin would pay Ssurt so handsomely for her, they might be inclined to pay another vendor equally handsomely. Of course, dealing with the Siohonin from within the Empire, just now, presents problems. The Siohonin themselves are a problem."

"How much of a problem can they be?" I ask. "They're one star system...."

"Currently, they appear to be rather more than one," said R'j. "Their military expansion is rapid, and disturbingly unopposed. They have considerable material resources and immense reserves of manpower... and weapons whose full nature we have yet to understand. Oh, I am confident enough that they will be defeated, in the long run... but for now, they are a problem."

R'j isn't Klingon and doesn't have the typical Klingon braggadocio - but she, like the rest of her obscure species, has her pride, and conceding that the Siohonin are a "problem" can't be easy for her. "So," I say, "they're a problem... and they want Ronnie Grau."

"Indeed," says R'j.

"So a question that springs to my mind -"

"Why do they want her? Quite."

"It might have something to do with Q. And the Stygmalian Rift. But I don't see how."

"Q claimed that the Tiaza Zephora situation was all about her. I quote," says R'j. "I am not entirely convinced, though. The Q entity is unreliable, its words cannot be taken at face value."

"It's something to think about, though." I scratch moodily at the base of one of my antennae. "We have very little to go on."

"Well, there is one thing that should give us heart," says R'j. "Wherever Ronnie Grau is, now, it is extremely unlikely that she will keep quiet about it."