The Siohonin were humanoid, similar in most details to a human being... except for their slit-pupilled eyes, and the harsh, exaggerated, angular look of their faces, and of course the horns. All the Siohonin had a pair of horns growing from their foreheads; the style varied from individual to individual, as did hair and beard. All the Siohonin in the triangular Council Hall were male, and wore beards.
The hall illustrated the tripartite nature of Siohonin government. On one side sat the military, in sober ranks of field-grey and bronze uniforms. On another were those administrative and mercantile caste, severe in garments of black and white. The last side of the triangle was a riot of colour, with the representatives of the religious caste, each one in the raiment of his particular sect. Between them all lay a wide expanse of marble floor, illuminated by the great windows high in the ceiling, through which the lowering polluted sky of the homeworld could be seen.
A single man stepped forward onto the expanse of empty floor, a man of medium height, with neatly groomed dark hair and horns filed down to two small black nubs. His clothes were entirely white. From somewhere at the sides of the hall, an usher intoned in a high falsetto voice, "The Council heeds the words of the High Magister, Sivetalin Aun."
Aun paced to the exact centre of the floor, and stopped. When he spoke, his voice was mild, almost diffident. "There is only one matter which concerns us this day," he said. "We have, it seems, thrown down a gauntlet to the Klingon Empire. We must determine how best to proceed."
A faint frown crossed his brow. "I, myself, have always taken the long view of our situation. I would be content to wait, to bide our time until galactic politics should loosen the grasp of the Klingons on this region of space. We know that theirs is an unstable, destructive society, so unlike our own. It seems, to me, reasonable to wait for it to collapse of its own inefficiencies. However, it appears that others disagree. I now call," he raised his voice slightly, "on the Grand Marshal to inform us of the exact military situation." He stepped back, one pace, then two, then three, and looked towards the military's side.
The man who stepped forward was massively build, his hair and beard iron grey, his horns capped with steel spikes. While most of the military wore tunics with bronze-coloured front panels, his uniform was the real thing, his chest covered by fine bronze chainmail links. "The Council heeds the words of the Grand Marshal Suhanaluk Var."
"First, the facts." The Grand Marshal's voice was a deep bass growl. "Our forces, comprising the Seventy-Fifth Defence Squadron, two observer ships, and three special vessels, intercepted the Klingon's tax vessel on its approach to the system. The squadron was under the direct command of the Second Marshal Amenalet Durn. As the Klingon cruiser approached, the special vessels, under the direction of their religious advisers, engaged their experimental systems." He grimaced. "The cruiser was damaged, its warp drive rendered inoperable. Seventy-Fifth Defence Squadron engaged and destroyed it. However, in the process, we lost seven ships from the squadron, and five more suffered irreparable damage. In addition, the two observers and two of the special vessels were destroyed. Second Marshal Durn was aboard one of the observers, and perished with it."
"It seems a high price to pay," Aun observed in his mild voice. "The Klingons have many cruisers."
"And we will, no doubt, be seeing them," Var said. "In my opinion, this adventure of Durn's was... ill-judged. If he were not beyond our judgment now, he would answer to me for it. We must expect a Klingon punitive task force, and soon. We would be unwise, in my opinion, to offer resistance." His face fell, and he looked down at the stone floor. "There will be heavy penalties to pay," he muttered, "but we may be able to pass it off as the unauthorized act of a rogue commander...."
"And if we cannot?" a new voice demanded.
"The Council hears the opinions of the Second Marshal Gamariden Tal," the falsetto usher intoned. Var turned around to glower at his subordinate. The freshly promoted Second Marshal stood his ground. He was a younger man, with sleek black hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and horns of polished ivory.
"We took losses," Tal said, "heavy losses. I mourn the deaths of my gallant comrades and my late commander. However, the important thing is, the special weapons work. We have replicator facilities, we have the mineral resources for which the Klingons tax us. We can build, even in the short time before a task force arrives, a hundred vessels to replace each one lost. We can refine the special weapons and our tactics for employing them. If it comes to a fight, we do not need to lose."
"To destroy one tax vessel - amends might be made for that," said Var. "But what you suggest, Second Marshal, would be rebellion against the Empire. We would need to be very sure we could survive that, if we were to attempt it. War with the Klingons, on the basis of one arguably successful skirmish?" He shook his head, decisively.
"The matter seems to hinge," said Aun, "on the - forgive me, I am no military man - but it seems to me that the issue is the efficacy of these special weapons, no? I understand they were developed with the help of the religious caste? It seems strange to me, but perhaps the First Pontiff may enlighten us...."
"The Council heeds the words of the First Pontiff Glavelecun Dir."
Portly and resplendent in his rainbow-coloured robes, the jewelled staff of office clutched in his right hand, his elaborately carved horns almost blending into his ornate high headdress, the leader of the religious caste took only one step forward. "The priesthood as a whole," he said, "was not party to this. The priesthood as a whole defers to the military in all, well, military matters. But the cult of Sebreac Tharr, now, I understand, is involved, deeply involved, in the project... and I call upon its High Priest to inform this Council."
"The Council hears the opinions of the High Priest of Sebreac Tharr, Enteskilen Mur."
The man who stepped forward now was old, thin and gaunt, his grey hair and beard wild, his horns overgrown, cracked and seamed and unpolished. While most of the religious leaders wore rich and colourful robes, Enteskilen Mur wore a simple floor-length tabard, in vertical stripes of red, white and black, decorated on the chest with a stylized golden flame. A similar device tipped the slender gold wand he carried in his right hand. He advanced onto the floor, and glared from under bushy brows with the eyes of a fanatic.
"The military came to Sebreac Tharr for aid," he said, and his voice was strong and deep and powerful despite his age, "and the god answered them. Second Marshal Durn desired weapons capable of destroying the Klingons. With the god's aid, we provided one. We can provide more... and the god will ensure that all our enemies will fall to their might. To his might. I have communed with the god Sebreac Tharr in my soul, and I know his power. No mere temporal agency can withstand it. With our faith and our god, we will overcome all that oppose us. No more need be said."
"A great deal more need be said," said Var. "Before deploying forces, I need an exact military assessment of the relative weapon strengths of our troops and the Klingons. So far, the Klingon military might is - overwhelming. Convince me that your weapons will tip the balance."
"Conviction is to be found only in the soul," said Mur.
"I need more than platitudes if we are to fight the Klingons!" snapped Var.
"While of course we respect your religious beliefs," said Aun smoothly, "you must understand that, to those of us who do not share them - who worship, for example, other members of the Great Pantheon than Sebreac Tharr - something more is needed -"
"No more is needed!" Mur's voice rang across the chamber. "Sebreac Tharr is a true god, and I who am his servant speak truly! Put your trust in Sebreac Tharr, and you will certainly conquer!"
"And the special weapons do work," Second Marshal Tal added, much more quietly.
"Even if they do," Var turned on his subordinate, "how can we field enough of them to matter? Oh, yes, we have the industrial replicators, we have the mines to feed them - but where will you find enough men to serve the fleet we would need, to fight the Empire?"
"Use drabs," said Tal, shortly.
"What?" Var was aghast. A murmur of disapproval ran around the outer ranks of the assembly.
"To use members of the labouring caste," said Aun, "in a military role - it would be, well, it would be an unprecedented break with the traditions of our forefathers -"
"They would push buttons," said Tal, "and carry out basic menial shipboard duties, under the direction of a military caste commander. Is that such an affront to tradition? If it gives us victory and freedom? Perhaps we should consult the drabs' representative."
"Perhaps we should," said Aun. "Let him be brought forward."
"The Council deigns to hear the representative of the labouring caste, Homorochol Nin."
He wore clothing of dull beige, and his horns were filed down to flat discs on his forehead. In accordance with tradition, he came no closer than the outermost edge of the floor, and looked down, making no eye contact with any of his superiors. "What do you say to the Second Marshal's proposal?" Aun asked.
"We will serve as we are directed," Nin answered in a low voice. "If the Second Marshal directs us to serve on ships - I do not deny, many of us would love to know... even a little bit... to know the privileges of the higher castes. But we serve. We serve as our masters direct us, always."
"Prime military material," sneered Var.
"They can carry out the necessary functions," said Tal. "It is wise to use every resource we have."
"If it comes to a fight," said Var, "we may need such desperate measures. But it is my belief that an open conflict can yet be avoided."
"It can be won," said Mur, unexpectedly, "if you but trust in the god Sebreac Tharr."
"It is possible, sir," said Tal.
"There would seem," observed Aun, "to be a division in the opinions of the military on this matter."
"No!" shouted Tal. "I - present the options, nothing more. I am subject to the Grand Marshal's orders, and I will serve as he sees fit."
"Very well," said Var. "I believe a war with the Klingons is not winnable at this point. My recommendation to this Council is that we stand ready to make what amends we must."
---
The Council hall was surrounded by a veritable warren of suites and offices and private chambers. Gamariden Tal made his way, slowly and uncertainly, along a corridor, down a flight of stairs, along another corridor that twisted and turned, until he came to a sliding door marked with a stylized flame. He took a deep breath, and knocked.
The door slid open. "So," said Enteskilen Mur, "you found us. Come in."
Tal stepped through the door. "I am not so familiar with the offices of the religious caste," he said.
The room within was small and sparsely furnished. There were three chairs, and one was already occupied, by a thin, sandy-haired man in the red, white and black of Sebreac Tharr. Mur took a chair himself, and waved the Second Marshal to the last one.
"So," he said, "the Grand Marshal flinches from the thought of war."
Tal bridled at this. "He is my superior officer," he snapped. "And any sane man would flinch from the Klingons."
"Commendably loyal," said Mur. "But, nonetheless, you would act differently, in his position."
"Perhaps," said Tal. "But I have studied the battle reports from our surviving ships. The subspace disruption effect was too slow, too loosely focused. A Klingon Bird of Prey might evade it completely - a larger vessel might well weather the blow. It is not enough to be effective."
"With the god's help," said Mur, "it can be made so. I, too, have studied those reports." He raised one eyebrow at the Second Marshal's startled look. "I have my sources. There are true believers among the military. My associate, here, has been hard at work -"
The sandy-haired man held out a datapad. Tal took it, even as his gaze searched the other's face. "You," he said, his back suddenly stiffening, "I know you - you are -"
"Nyredalit Amm," said the sandy-haired man.
"The apostate," said Tal.
"An over-dramatic term," Amm replied with a chuckle. "The military simply did not offer enough opportunities for a man of science... so I discovered a vocation for the religious life."
Tal's stiffness relaxed, a little. "It is true that the science division has fallen from favour in the military...."
"For understandable reason," said Mur. "I am old enough to remember when the military developed the warp drive. They promised us the stars, unlimited room for our population to expand. We were all, naturally, disappointed when they brought us Klingon taxation instead."
"They could hardly have known that local space was under the control of a militaristic empire!" said Tal.
"No, true," said Mur, "it was not their fault, but they were blamed anyway.... So, military research languishes, and my friend here sought the aid of my church... my true god. See, now, how he has used his fine mind to develop and express the wishes of Sebreac Tharr."
"In practical terms," said Amm, "a new version of the weapon, with replicator-ready schematics for units capable of being installed on a single standard frigate. In addition, a secondary weapon, perhaps more potent for the sort of dog-fighting that Birds of Prey imply... and a defensive system whose possibilities may intrigue you."
"Replicator ready?" Tal frowned. "I am concerned over that... my people still do not have a clear idea of how the special weapon works - how it generates its effects."
"Do they need one?" Mur asked.
"If something should go wrong," said Tal, "with this - this black-box technology - then we would be helpless to repair it, without understanding its principles."
"Have faith in the god," said Mur. "I know, you think I am reciting a mere rote phrase... but I am not. Sebreac Tharr is a true god, Second Marshal. I have communed with him in my soul, and I know. Have faith in him. He will bring you victory."
Tal swallowed hard. There was a long moment's silence.
"Touching on other matters," said Amm. "The god's help is bought with faith alone, but other offerings would be acceptable in his service." He held out another datapad.
Tal took it, and read with widening eyes. "That is... a substantial sum," he said, after a while.
"In the service of the god," said Mur. He gestured at the bare walls of the small room. "We do not ask for our own material comfort. But the god has his ends, and wealth may serve them."
"My personal estates could not cover so much refined dilithium and pergium," said Tal.
"We do not ask it of you," said Amm. "The discretionary budget for military projects could cover it many times over... and it is, sadly, needed. Some people will not act for love of the god alone."
"I do not have such control over military budgets," said Tal.
"No," said Mur, "but, were the Grand Marshal to - retire, for example - you would naturally take his place, would you not?"
"I am next in line for promotion," said Tal. "But the Grand Marshal shows no signs of retiring."
"So it seems," said Mur. "He will not fight the Klingons, he will not fund our projects, he will not accept the weapons the god brings to him...." He picked up the slender gold rod, tipped with the stylized flame. "It seems to me that the Grand Marshal Suhanaluk Var is... an obstacle. And for that, in the name of Sebreac Tharr - I rebuke him."
---
Suhanaluk Var sat behind his desk at Command Headquarters, and swore under his breath.
First Durn, now Tal... some people needed to stop listening to priests, and concentrate on the military. He was not going to let some unbalanced cultist lead them into war with the greatest military power in space - nor would he countenance Tal's absurd idea of conscripting the drabs. Military power lay with the military caste, and always would, while he, Suhanaluk Var, had breath in his body....
Breath. He tugged at his collar. The air in the office seemed hot and close, all of a sudden. Irritably, he stabbed a finger at his intercom. "Orderly," he growled.
The door of the office slid open. "Sir?" the orderly asked.
"Air conditioning," said Var, twisting uncomfortably in his seat. "Something's wrong with it. Fix it, will you?"
The orderly crossed the floor to a wall console, studied it, frowned. "The thermostat seems normal, sir," he said. "I can run a diagnostic -" He turned towards the Grand Marshal, and stared, open-mouthed.
Var was clutching at his throat with both hands, his face congested and purple. As the orderly gaped, he saw wisps of smoke rising from the Grand Marshal's hair and beard - and then Var gave a single immense scream, and burst into flame.
By the time the firefighters arrived at the office, there was very little left of the Grand Marshal, save a blackened skeleton. The bronze chainmail of his uniform was now oxidised, and fused to his bare ribs by the heat.
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