"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."
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