I will admit to feeling nervous. And the sight on the screen before me is not one to calm my spirits.
"I never actually met Thrang," the Reman says. She is scowling and unlovely even by Reman standards, with hot angry eyes set into hooded sockets whose black lids shade into the pebbly grey of her skin. Her name is Heizis, and she was instrumental in thwarting Thrang's previous bid for galactic domination. "I heard him speak over the communicator, and of course I witnessed some of his plans... but the only person who spoke with him at length was my Starfleet counterpart. Admiral Pexlini." Her expression grows even sourer at that name.
"I take it this Pexlini is not accessible?" I ask.
"Doubtful. Highly doubtful. Properly speaking, I should not be speaking to you, since you are proscribed by the High Council... but that is one thing, and stopping Thrang is more important. Whatever he is doing." She pauses for a moment, thinking. "Pexlini's assessment," she says, sounding reluctant, "was that Thrang is clever, talented, and devious, but that his weak spot lies in understanding virtues. Things like trust and honour. They are closed books to him - he acts only in accord with his own perceived self-interest, and expects others to do the same. It is not much help. Thrang's genetic enhancement makes him highly intelligent - he perceives his own interests with exceptional clarity. You should not underestimate him. However... your proposed plan is consistent with Klingon honour. It may be something he has not planned for." The hot angry eyes seem to burn into me from the screen. "Do not rely on that. Thrang should not be underestimated."
"S-s-s-s-s. I will try not to make that mistake. Thank you for your assistance."
Heizis nods curtly. "Good luck," she says, and breaks the connection.
I look around the bridge. "Well. We must depend on Klingon honour, then. I can see that it is generally reliable...."
"From Thrang's lackeys on the High Council?" asks Laska tartly.
"They must be seen to act with honour. They would never retain support, otherwise. S-s-s-s-s. Let us see if we can surprise Thrang. It would be gratifying to do so...."
Weeks spent skulking around the Neutral Zone, dodging Klingon patrols while we try to piece together Thrang's plans. Now, we have something. Shalo's efforts have given us the names of blackmail victims, picked from the dead but still productive mind of Yeveus of Zorb... and my own investigations have led me to two High Councillors, who are almost certainly Thrang's men.
So now Nuru-Or is skulking, not through the Neutral Zone, but deep in the heart of Klingon territory, on the track of those two High Councillors. It helps that I know the regular patrol schedules, the sensitive areas where tachyon grids are deployed... but, frankly, I think my ship and my crew could infiltrate the Empire without that help. We are, I flatter myself, that good.
I study the Y-shaped gdorab board. Ideas are forming in my brain.
"I have a transponder contact," Siowershoe reports. I turn my head.
"Is it them?"
"Verifying now. At least the High Councillors are easy to find.... Got it. IKS qu HoS, Vo'quv class, with the personal idents of Councillors Dillan and T'Khal."
"A nice plump carrier. It would be large as a kn'yhh'drrr in our gunsights... however, we are not here for target practice. Set an intercept course."
Laska is frowning. She is concerned over this plan... but it is the best one, I think. We have two of Thrang's agents; if we deal with them, we are bound to provoke some reaction, perhaps force him to tip his hand.
Perhaps.
I spare another glance for the game board. I know my games... but Kalevar Thrang is a consummate player.
"Course laid in. Engaging." I watch the vectors change on the helm repeater. The carrier is on a leisurely course through the outskirts of an Imperial system - possibly Dillan or T'Khal might be checking on some personal property. Both are High Councillors, wealthy and honoured men. Evidently, they do not feel they are wealthy and honoured enough, and so have thrown in their lot with Thrang.
This will prove a bad decision, for them.
"Intercept in three minutes." Nuru-Or can easily outpace a lumbering carrier. I sketch in a course on the tactical console.
"Very dramatic," says Laska, with a curl of her lip.
"S-s-s-s-s. Sometimes drama is helpful," I say.
My ship slides unseen past the carrier, and slews around to face it.
"Decloak. And open hailing frequencies."
Light shifts on my bridge... and the captain of the qu HoS, whoever he might be, is no doubt surprised to find a Bird of Prey suddenly blocking his ship's path.
"Hailing," reports Siowershoe. "I have them."
"On screen."
A scarred Klingon face appears on the viewer, a surly elderly male with a grizzled beard and thinning hair. "This is Captain Grak of the IKS qu HoS. Identify yourself."
I stand. "R'j Bl'k', commanding the IKS Nuru-Or. You are carrying two members of the High Council. I am currently proscribed by the High Council." I smile without humour. "I am here to surrender."
---
They let me keep my sidearms, and Laska to accompany me, as I beam over to the carrier. So far, everything is going to plan. No doubt that will change.
I am shown to a large and empty conference room. Captain Grak is there, with a number of armed guards... and two more.
Dillan and T'Khal are the very picture of eminent High Councillors, in their decorated robes and magnificently gleaming medals. Dillan wears a permanent sneer. T'Khal's eyes are canny and calculating.
They leave it to the captain to speak. "You are surrendering?" he barks at me. He seems displeased.
"S-s-s-s-s. The High Council has questions for me, and I have answers for them. It seems reasonable to bring the two together.... However, it appears I have been misinformed."
"Misinformed?" Grak's eyebrows gather thunderously together. "Misinformed how?"
"I was told that your ship carried two honourable members of the High Council."
"It does!" He waves an exasperated hand. "Councillor Dillan and Councillor T'Khal. You can see for yourself!"
"S-s-s-s-s. Two honourable members of the Council. I do not see those. I see only a pair of cowardly blackmailers, working at the orders of the renegade Kalevar Thrang. You can hardly expect me to surrender myself to scum such as that."
I have rehearsed this speech. It is deliberately calculated to produce an effect. It gets one. T'Khal stiffens and glares, while Dillan lets loose an inarticulate roar.
"You make grave charges, for an alien and a renegade!" shouts Grak.
"S-s-s-s-s. Alien, yes. Renegade, from such as these - well, to be otherwise would impugn my honour. And that is not acceptable."
"I will take your life for this, creature," hisses T'Khal.
"Is that a denial of your crimes, Councillor? It does not seem adequate." I take a determined step towards him. "You and your life partner here travel across the Empire at the whim of Kalevar Thrang, suborning honest men and forcing them to act against their honour and judgement. I will call you to account for it. Here and now, if you wish it. One at a time, or both together." I indicate my pistols in their holsters. "I am armed. And capable, and ready."
This is what Thrang may not expect. An investigation into Dillan and T'Khal would take weeks, would be blocked at every turn by their co-conspirators... but this, a direct challenge to their honour as Klingons, must be answered here and now, or they will lose face forever. Even now, I can see a shadow of doubt creeping over Grak's face... well, he commands their ship, he must know them well by now, and I do not think he knows anything much to their credit.
Of course, there is the minor detail of surviving this. At least, I fervently hope it is a minor detail.
"I too am armed!" declares Dillan. The "life partner" thing must have needled him - it does, with some. Actually, my impression of their relationship is that Dillan is a wealthy idiot, and T'Khal remains close by his side only to smooth over his social blunders. Now, he throws open his heavy leather coat, to display the disruptor pistol riding on his hip.
"And I," says T'Khal, with a smile on his lips. "So. Both together, you say? Then we will oblige you. Third Protocol for pistol duels. Suitably modified, according to the precedent set by T'Gan, Dakoth and Karn. Set it up," he snaps at Grak.
The captain looks at all three of us with a doubtful gaze, but he steps over to a wall console, and taps out commands.
Overhead, most of the lights grow dim. Three spotlights shine down, spaced equidistantly, casting a triangle of bright patches on the floor.
"You will take your place under one light," T'Khal orders. "You will not move -"
"S-s-s-s-s. I know the Third Protocol. And the amendment you mentioned. I have fought in this manner before." I stride over to one spotlit patch, stand in the light. I flex my fingers. "I am ready."
Fuming, Dillan stomps over to another pool of light. T'Khal takes the third. "You will act as marshal of the duel," he orders Grak. He spares a disdainful glance at Laska. "You are a witness. You will witness your captain's demise, and the redemption of our honour. I am ready."
"And I," calls out Dillan.
Grak licks his lips. The security guards look on, seemingly puzzled. "You are outnumbered two to one," he says. "You are entitled to some compensatory advantage -"
"I have two guns. I have two targets. That is all I need, Captain. That, and honour - which I have defended in this manner before."
Dillan looks uncertain. T'Khal does not. He, too, is displaying a disruptor pistol.
"Stand ready," Grak orders in a hoarse voice. "The duel commences at my command. Ready.... Now!"
My hands flash to my weapons. And my eyes focus on my targets. I told them I was capable of this. If they do not know, or do not believe, that I can move and focus my eyes independently - that is their problem.
Twin blasts of polaron fire erupt from my weapons.
One bolt catches Dillan in the head, hurls him dying to the ground, his fingers still twitching on his holstered weapon.
The second bolt disintegrates into a webwork of purple lightnings, a few centimetres from T'Khal's face.
A personal shield. And I may not move from the circle of light, and it will take me too long to burn the shield down, while he has all the time in the world to draw his disruptor and kill me. I am dead.
T'Khal snarls and draws his weapon -
And the disruptor is in his hand, but it does not fire, because his hand is parting from his arm in a flash of steel and a spray of blood.
"PetaQ!" Captain Grak rams the other end of his bat'leth into T'Khal's stomach, twists, tears, and pulls it back out. "You take unfair advantage in a duel of honour! Everything she said about you was true, you pujwI' -" He slashes again at T'Khal's abdomen. Pointless, as the first wound is clearly mortal. T'Khal falls to his knees, hand on his stomach, hopelessly trying to contain the things welling out of the wound.
Grak turns away from him, folds his arms across his chest, comes to attention with a stamp of his feet. After a moment, the guards follow suit. Behind me, I hear Laska do the same.
The last thing T'Khal sees in this life is that row of condemnatory Klingon backs.
And me.
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