Dragon's Honor

by Greg Cox

  With every appearance of casual ease, Riker sank down onto the plush, velvet divan. The soft cushion gave beneath his weight as he sat cross-legged between the princes. Beneath his red Starfleet dress uniform, his neck and shoulders ached slightly from maintaining—and concealing—his constant state of alertness. He reached back to massage his neck, only to be surprised by the gentle touch of hands already at work upon the sore muscles there. Strong fingers kneaded his flesh through his tunic, and Riker glimpsed turquoise nails at the periphery of his vision. “What—?” he exclaimed, startled but not all distressed by this sudden turn of events.

  Looking over his shoulder, he saw that the lady of the turquoise fruit had returned, this time with no refreshment to offer aside from her own tender ministrations. Her body pressed gently against his back, and her blue-green lipstick glistened even more wetly than before. She kept her eyes downturned, declining to meet his gaze, but a smile lifted the corners of her mouth as he beamed welcomingly at her. This is more like it, he thought.

  “Hah!” Kan-hi laughed, his good humor returning. “I think you have made a conquest, Commander . . . I mean, Will.”

  Chuan-chi merely sniffed disapprovingly. Perhaps, Riker thought, he considered the turquoise handmaiden a traitor to the cause of Pai isolationism. Too bad. At least I’m making some friends here.

  Riker contemplated the woman’s delicate features. She really was quite attractive and exotic. If, as Kanhi had claimed earlier, this beauty was unremarkable by Pai standards, he had to wonder just how gorgeous the vaunted Green Pearl was. Could she really be beautiful enough to bring peace to this warring planet? Or to warm the dour heart of the Dragon-Heir? He grew steadily more curious to see the bride herself at tomorrow’s wedding.

  In the meantime, the woman’s hands continued to work their soothing magic on his neck and shoulders, massaging away the stress and anxiety he felt. Better be careful, he thought, or I’ll be too relaxed to bodyguard the princes. Still, he closed his eyes for just a second or two, letting his body indulge in the lovely young woman’s accomplished pampering.

  He nearly jumped out of his skin, though, when he felt two more hands sliding sensuously over his chest, working their way beneath the fold of his dress uniform. His eyes snapped open and his head twisted around to see another serving maid, the one clad solely in beads, kneeling before him, stroking his torso even as her sister servant ran her hands up and down his spine. Unlike the blue-eyed, ponytailed maiden behind him, this woman had waves of inky black hair flowing over shoulders and large purple eyes like amethysts. One string of tiny, silver beads dangled over the woman’s generous breasts, while an identical string encircled her narrow waist, the beads rolling over her naked hips as she leaned closer to him. Staring wide-eyed at the new arrival, his beard only inches away from her pale white chest, her fragrant perfume filling his nostrils with the scent of fresh flowers, Riker found himself rendered briefly speechless. Those are really small beads, he thought.

  Amused by Riker’s predicament, Kan-hi had plenty to say. “My brother’s servants appear quite taken with you, Will Riker. Apparently, one must never underestimate the effects of novelty on a female’s delicate sensibilities, meaning no disrespect, of course, to your own individual magnetism, which I am sure is considerable.” The Second Son chuckled as he watched the nubile serving maids wrap themselves around Riker, enveloping him in soft, warm, buxom, female flesh. “I trust you are enjoying yourself?”

  Turquoise lips brushed his ear as the first woman nuzzled the left side of his neck. Beads rustled seductively as the other woman kissed the right side, purring as softly as a tribble. “I am, er, overwhelmed by their hospitality,” he gasped. This is getting out of hand. He wondered how he was going to extricate himself, literally and figuratively, from the women’s all-too-distracting attentions. It was a shame Data had not been able to come along; he definitely would have gotten an education.

  Two extremely large men guarded the broad archway in front of Beverly Crusher. Huge, curved scimitars rested on the men’s broad shoulders while some type of energy weapon hung on the sash about each guard’s waist. Eyes fixed straight ahead, never deviating from their assigned task, the men stood at attention on opposite sides of the archway. The open doorway was framed by a breathtaking jade arch decorated with intricate engravings of men and horses. Beverly paused to inspect the engravings; as nearly as she could tell, the carvings illustrated the rise and fall of an ambitious warlord. The story, whether mythical or historical, reminded her of Lord Lu Tung’s recently quelled rebellion against the Emperor. She glanced at the stolid, middle-aged man. In accordance with Pai tradition, he walked a few steps ahead of her.

  “The Dragon, in his generosity, has provided me with quarters of my own within the Imperial Palace,” Lu Tung explained. “This is the entrance to my harem, where my daughter resides until tomorrow.”

  “I look forward to meeting her, Lord Lu Tung,” Beverly said. She wondered whether the Emperor had deliberately placed Lu Tung’s quarters beyond this engraved saga of thwarted ambition. A not-so-subtle message, perhaps, and a permanent recrimination? They passed under the archway, leaving the armed guards behind.

  Lu Tung’s harem proved to be surprisingly spacious. Despite the cautionary carvings over the gate, Beverly observed, the rebel lord had hardly been confined to the Tower of London. The hall they traversed seemed infinitely long, the combination of dim lighting and puffs of brightly colored incense making the farther end difficult to discern. Doorways, painted a dizzying variety of hues, opened onto a variety of chambers on either side of the hall. Beverly peeked through the open doors as she hurried by them, getting quick glimpses of opulent furnishings and gilded, luxurious decor. Women, all strikingly beautiful and clad in long, elegant gowns, drifted along the length of the hall, bowing to the floor as they recognized their lord. Although their garments superficially resembled Beverly’s, she noted that the women’s gowns were slit higher along the sides, and cut lower in the front. This was a harem after all, she recalled.

  “What a lot of women there seem to be,” Beverly said, intrigued. “Do they all reside here?”

  “Of course,” Lu Tung replied. Beverly contemplated the back of his head, wishing she could watch his facial expressions. She hoped she wasn’t being too nosy. “These are just servants, really.”

  For servants, the women did not appear to be doing much besides gliding to and fro through the outer chambers of the harem. Indeed, their lavish, expensive-looking attire seemed quite ill suited to housework or other practical duties. Surely, though, the women’s function couldn’t be entirely decorative, could it? “Your servants are unusually attractive,” she said.

  “They’re mostly there as insulation between my inner harem and the outside world,” Lu Tung explained.

  “I see,” she said, understanding at last. “Just in case someone gets through the palace’s defenses, and past the men with the swords.”

  “Quite right,” he said. “This way intruders will be distracted and not get to my daughter or my concubines before I am able to intercede. I take excellent care of all my women.”

  Although Beverly could not see his face, Lu Tung’s voice sounded sincere. As spoiled Pai males went, he struck Beverly as a decent sort; so far he had treated her with respect, and had not made any improper advances to her even though he now had her alone in his harem. (Beverly did not bother with false modesty. All decked out in her robes of peach and emerald, she knew she was stunning.) None of which, she reminded herself, meant that Lu Tung had not been responsible for the assassination attempt during the banquet. A man could be chivalrous and still plot to conquer a throne; Klingon legend held that even the fierce Kahless had shown mercy toward the women and children of his enemies. As the Dragon’s longtime enemy, Lu Tung had to head the list of suspects.

  “Is your daughter near, Lord Lu Tung?” Beverly asked.

  “At my instruction, she sits in the Room of Prolonged Anticipation tonight.”


  “Not too prolonged, I hope,” Beverly joked.

  “Not at all,” Lu Tung replied. “Here we are.” Unlike the other doorways they had walked past, this one was closed and seemingly impenetrable. Aquamarine trimming outlined a rectangular metal gate wide enough to permit two people’s passage if not for the dense, black door blocking their path. Beverly touched the dark-hued metal with her fingers; it felt like solid iron. An embossed dragon, at least six meters tall, guarded the door, beneath a string of unfamiliar Chinese characters painted above the upper edge of the door. Beverly could not read the turquoise calligraphy, but she assumed that the writing, along with the ferocious dragon, meant “Keep Out.” Her fingers traced the outline of the dragon’s sharp fangs. Two glittering rubies, embedded in the metal, formed the dragon’s eyes.

  “Excuse me, Doctor,” Lu Tung said, stepping between her and the iron door. He held up his right hand before the dragon’s eyes. “Lord Lu Tung and guest,” he said loudly. “Provide admittance for two.”

  To Beverly’s surprise, the dragon’s jeweled eyes moved.

  Two pairs of moist lips murmured in Riker’s ears. Four graceful hands burrowed beneath the folds of his dress uniform.

  “If you prefer,” Kan-hi said solicitously, “I’m sure private chambers can be found for you and your new admirers. Isn’t that so, brother?”

  Chuan-chi acted merely bored by the sight of two of his own women crawling over Riker. “Naturally,” he said. “It was the Emperor’s wish that we extend you every courtesy.” Clearly implied in his tone was the suggestion that the Heir’s own wishes were quite different from his father’s. Not that it mattered to Riker. He couldn’t allow this amorous pair to separate him from the princes he was responsible for protecting. I just hope Captain Picard appreciates my devotion to duty.

  “Maybe some other time,” he said, trying to gently shove the beaded woman away from his face. “Not that your . . . staff . . . isn’t charming, but I would prefer the honor of your own company this evening.”

  Kan-hi was not convinced. “But what about making love, not war?”

  “That’s just an expression.” The beaded maiden slid off Riker’s lap as he struggled to his feet. He felt the other woman hanging from his shoulders, her painted toenails barely grazing the floor behind him. “Thank you very much, miss, but . . . I’m very flattered, but . . . excuse me . . .” Using both hands, he pried the women away from him as courteously as he could until, abruptly, he found himself standing free and clear—with a saffron ribbon dangling from one hand and a string of beads wrapped around the other. “Oops,” he said weakly.

  “Dog!” an angry voice cried out. “Defiler of Pai womanhood!” The voice came from the warrior with the blackened left eye, who lumbered toward Riker with rage blazing in his one good eye and moral indignation reverberating in his voice. Up until now, Riker hadn’t realized just how big the man was. His skull looked roughly the size of a bull’s and his fists were as big as baby Hortas. He weighed easily three hundred pounds, not counting his robes. Sumo wrestling, Riker recalled, was of Japanese origins, not Chinese; but considering the sheer mass of incensed warrior stomping this way, he couldn’t help wondering if maybe the original Pai colonists hadn’t imported a sumo or two.

  “This isn’t as bad as it looks,” he said, trying to shake the incriminating garments from his hands. The yellow gauze clung like static to his fingers. The string of beads tangled itself into knots. I can’t believe I actually said that, Riker thought. He felt like he’d transported into some bad bedroom farce, except that the homicidal behemoth charging him was not a figment of any playwright’s imagination.

  Was the Heir likely to intervene? Riker half expected Chuan-chi to halt his attacker with a single firm command, but heard nothing from either the Heir or Kan-hi. Reluctantly, he reached for his phaser, ready to stun the charging man into submission. There was no point trying to reason with the man; Riker knew berserker rage when he saw it. His fingers searched for the phaser, coming up empty. What the hell? he thought. Where did my phaser go?

  The dragon’s eyes sparkled.

  Refracted light glinted off the polished surface of the rubies as they rolled in their sockets, inspecting first Lu Tung and then Beverly herself. She thought she heard a low, mechanical hum coming from the interior of the door. The rubies’ gaze returned to Lu Tung. He held his upraised hand still, and Beverly noted, for the first time, a matching ruby on one of Lu Tung’s many golden rings. Two thin red beams of coherent light jumped across the centimeters separating his hand from the door, linking the three rubies. Then the beams vanished, and a deep, guttural voice came from the mouth of the dragon: “Admittance is granted, Honored Lord. This humble guardian greets you and your honored guest.”

  Beverly expected the door to recede into floor or the adjoining walls. Instead, it simply blinked out of existence, leaving her wondering about the technology involved. Had the massive door and its watchful dragon been a hologram all along, or had some sort of transporter/replicator equipment dissolved the doorway? The trappings of the Dragon Empire were so archaic by Federation standards that it was easy to forget that they were not really a medieval society. Beverly considered herself duly reminded of the Pai’s scientific capabilities. “Very impressive,” she complimented Lu Tung.

  “More than you know,” he said proudly. “In the event of an unwelcome incursion, the Eyes of the Dragon are more than capable of disintegrating any unwanted caller.”

  “Oh,” Beverly said. “It is reassuring to know that your daughter is so well protected.”

  “The Green Pearl is the treasure of my existence,” he said, his voice growing even more solemn than usual, “and the price of ultimate peace.”

  Beverly thought she detected a note of reluctance in his tone. How did he really feel, she wondered, about marrying off his “treasure” to the Dragon-Heir? She had not had much of an opportunity to observe the prince back at the banquet, but what she had seen had hardly looked impressive. Certainly, both Will and Jean-Luc seemed to have formed a low opinion of Chuan-chi.

  The dragon door reappeared mere seconds after she followed Lu Tung into the room. A momentary chill passed through her, as though a prison door had slammed shut behind her. There was no turning back now . . . or was there? She resisted the temptation to tap the comm badge concealed within the overlapping folds of her robes. Could she beam out if necessary, or was the harem shielded against transporter technology as well? She couldn’t figure out a diplomatic way to ask Lu Tung.

  The walls of the inner chamber were bright, inlaid with many silvery pearls, as were the many overstuffed pillows that seemed to be the room’s only furnishings. Beverly spotted a pile of stuffed dragons and unicorns resting in one corner; the chamber seemed to be very much the private lair of an adolescent girl. She doubted if Lu Tung spent much time here.

  “Father?” A light voice rose from a heap of cushions in the room’s center. Its possessor rose and bowed in a perfunctory fashion to Lord Lu Tung. “This one is honored and delighted that her honored ancestor has deigned to notice her existence.” The words were delivered so rapidly that they almost blurred into one long continuous syllable. The greeting was obviously a formality that the young woman recited automatically and with great haste, eager to get it over with.

  The girl lifted her head, and Beverly beheld the Green Pearl.

  His phaser was gone, Riker realized.

  No time to figure it out. The huge warrior was almost upon him, his massive legs scattering the trays and dishes laid out before Riker. Crystal and fine china shattered beneath the man’s heavy tread. The man wore only a pair of sandals, but his lumbering steps shook the floor as if he was shod in gravity boots. “Spawn of a dung beetle!” he roared. “Prepare to be squashed like the insect you are!”

  Riker was not intimidated by the warrior’s invective or by his size; he’d faced larger monsters in Worf’s calisthenics programs. The bigger they are, he thought, et cetera, et cetera. Clenching
his fists, he drew back to deliver a knockout punch. The sooner he wrapped up this fight, the better. Riker smiled grimly. The big bruiser was probably so drunk he’d never know what hit him.

  Riker aimed for the man’s chin, and was caught by surprise when his opponent deftly blocked the blow by raising his right forearm in front of his face. “Hah, well done, Tu Fu, well done!” Kan-hi cheered Riker’s adversary. The man lunged for Riker, who ducked beneath the giant’s outstretched arms, then butted his head into the man’s enormous stomach. Tu Fu staggered backward, smashing another porcelain plate beneath his feet. “Oh ho!” Kan-hi enthused cheerfully; he was clearly an equal-opportunity spectator. “Five hundred cycee on the outworlder!”

  “I’ll take that wager, brother,” Chuan-chi said. “Five hundred cycee—and fifteen concubines—on the valiant Tu Fu.”

  Other male voices chimed in, betting for or against the Starfleet officer, but Riker was too busy to figure out which way the odds were running. He glanced about hastily for his missing phaser, but could spot no sign of the weapon. All of a sudden he remembered the two handmaiden’s hands crawling over his body a few moments ago. Could one of them have lifted the phaser during the confusion? Suspicion wrinkled his brow. Maybe this was more than a drunken brawl. Tu Fu’s sudden attack, immediately following the theft of his phaser, smacked of premeditation and conspiracy. Kicking his feet free of the surrounding pillows and cushions, Riker reevaluated his foe. Tu Fu was obviously more sober than he looked and a good deal faster.

  The warrior came at Riker again, this time slashing out with an open palm. Riker yanked the upper half of his body backward, away from the blow, but the sharpened tips of Tu Fu’s elongated fingernails grazed the front of Riker’s dress uniform, tearing five long gashes in the sturdy red fabric. Riker’s eyes widened in surprise. He hadn’t realized the Pai’s long nails were more than decorative. I’ll have to keep one eye on those nails, he thought, or risking losing both of my eyes. He threw another punch at Tu Fu, but his fist once again collided with one of Tu Fu’s meaty arms.