by Greg Cox
Then his comm badge beeped, distracting him. “What?” he exclaimed, glancing down at his chest. Chih-li seized the opportunity, springing upward with the speed of a stampeding targ. The tip of his sword sliced between the pommel of Worf’s weapon and the hand that held it. Worf grunted in pain as his sword went flying through the air, clattering to the ground several meters away from where he now stood.
“Lieutenant Worf?” Data’s voice emerged from Worf’s badge. “Ensign Craigie has detected some unusual signals from the Dragon Nebula. I thought you should be notified, although the readings are within the parameters of what might be expected from a trigol-type nebula under conditions of . . .”
“Tell me later,” Worf barked, backing away from the point of Chih-li’s sword. “Worf out.” Dark Klingon blood dripped from his palm, staining the golden surface of his badge when he tapped it. Chih-li advanced toward Worf, a triumphant grin transforming his features. Worf felt the swordpoint against his chest, pricking him through his yellow Starfleet uniform. His hand drifted toward his phaser, then halted. No, he concluded, that would not be honorable.
“You fought well, outlander,” Chih-li conceded. “If I required assistance, which I categorically do not, you would be a welcome ally.” Beneath the rim of his helmet, his forehead wrinkled in puzzlement. “I confess, I am unfamiliar with your customs. Do you prefer death or surrender?”
Sitting in the captain’s chair on the bridge of the Enterprise, Data found it odd that Worf cut off his transmission so abruptly. He hoped that he had not interrupted Worf at an inconvenient moment.
Although most of the senior officers had beamed down to Pai, the bridge was fully staffed. Lieutenant Tor remained stationed at the conn, while Lieutenant Melilli Mera, a tall Bajoran woman, sat at Data’s usual post. Data could hear her silver earring chime whenever she moved her head; he suspected the sound was too soft to be detected by the ears of most humanoids. Ensign Cameron Craigie, a recent graduate of the Gibson Science Institute in Montreal, monitored the science station. It was Craigie who had detected the anomalous readings coming from the Dragon Nebula.
“Any further information, Ensign Craigie?” Data asked.
“No, sir, the concentration of ionized plasma in the nebula is higher than one would expect, but it’s holding steady. It could indicate the presence of a sizable number of starships within the nebula, or it could just be a statistical glitch. The nebula itself makes obtaining reliable readings difficult.”
“Understood,” Data said. “Continue to monitor the nebula and alert me if the situation changes.” Data assimilated the ensign’s report, adding it to the list of variables operative at this time. He considered informing the captain, but swiftly decided to wait until more information was available. As he had attempted to explain to Worf, the current readings, while unexpected, did fall within the outer parameters established for a trigol-type nebula of this variety.
The turbolift doors opened behind Data, and Geordi La Forge stepped onto the bridge. “I hate dress uniforms,” he said, tugging at the neat standing collar of the formal uniform. “And what’s all this about a guided tour anyway? I have enough to do finalizing the wedding fireworks without this sort of thing.”
“I am sorry, Geordi,” Data said, rising from the command seat. “The Lord High Celestial Mechanic of the First Rank and the Grand Astronomical Savant have both expressed an interest in Federation starship technology. It seemed politic to offer them a firsthand look at the Enterprise’s engines.”
“Isn’t this a violation of the Prime Directive,” La Forge said hopefully, “showing them Federation technology?”
“Apparently, the Dragon Empire already has star travel, although it seems a little cumbersome to us, being based on nebular-sail dynamics rather than warp and impulse drives. Besides, the Empire will shortly be a part of the Federation.”
“That’s not what I heard,” La Forge said. “Rumor has it the Dragon is giving the captain a rough time about the treaty.”
“That is correct,” Data confirmed, “but I can assure you that the Dragon will almost certainly not sign the treaty if we treat his scientists with anything less than respect.” Everything he had observed about the Pai supported the proposition that they placed great importance on matters of propriety and personal honor. In that manner, they resembled many of the 6,726 humanoid species Data had studied and committed to memory.
“Oh, I’ll be perfectly charming,” La Forge said grumpily. “I’ll show them every bolt and fuse-scar on the fuselage if they want to see them. I just hope they’re on time. I still have half the remote phaser programmables to charge.”
A soft tone punctuated La Forge’s complaints, coming from Lieutenant Melilli’s console. She silenced the deadman’s warning and was keying rapidly.
“Commander Data,” she said. “We have intercepted a transmission sent from somewhere in the nebula.”
“Thank you, Lieutenant.” Data crossed to her station and looked over her shoulder as she continued running a computer check. “Can you pinpoint the source?”
“I’m working on it, sir,” she said. “It won’t be easy in this Prophet-cursed gas cloud.”
“What about the content of the transmission?” Data inquired.
“It’s encrypted,” Melilli said. “The computer is attempting to break the code, but it may take a while.”
“I see,” Data said. “Please call up the digital breakdown of the transmission so I can see it for myself.”
Melilli complied, and a stream of numerical information raced across her screen, faster than a human mind could absorb. “Thank you,” Data said a few heartbeats later. He assigned 36.89% of his reasoning faculties the task of deciphering the coded transmission. Fortunately, he was more than capable of addressing several tasks at once.
Data stepped away from Melilli’s station and joined La Forge by the command chair. “The G’kkau?” La Forge asked quietly.
“Most likely,” Data affirmed. “In what quantities and to what purpose we can only speculate.”
La Forge shook his head. “I sure hope the captain and the others are straightening everything out down there. I have a feeling our time is running out.”
“I have no feelings to rely on,” Data said, “but the probability of an imminent G’kkau invasion grows more likely. We must be prepared for any eventuality.”
Ensign Kamis, a Benzite, looked up from the communications console. “Commander Data? Commander La Forge? The Imperial scientists are on board.” Puffs of methane and ammonia rose from the breathing apparatus positioned under his mouth.
“Damn,” La Forge swore. “I meant to be there when they arrived.”
“Please inform the transporter room that Commander La Forge is on his way,” Data informed Ensign Kamis. “Geordi, please say nothing about the G’kkau to the our guests. There’s no point in alarming them until the captain manages to bring Pai under Federation protection.”
“Don’t worry, Data,” La Forge said as he hurried toward the turbolift. “I can be alarmed enough for all of us.”
Data assumed Geordi was joking, but he could not be sure. Humor remained a difficult concept to grasp. He regained his seat in the captain’s chair and consulted his internal chronometer. The Imperial wedding of the Dragon-Heir and the Green Pearl of Lu Tung was to be held at sunrise, approximately 10.5782 hours from now. He hoped that his fellow officers could keep the participants alive until then.
Chapter Eight
A KLINGON NEVER SURRENDERS, Worf thought. Chih-li’s sword dug into his chest. He retreated a few steps more, and a dark, rectangular shadow fell over him. The shadow of death, he thought fatalistically. He looked upward and saw the bottom of a man-sized, metal platform hovering about four meters above his head. A youthful Pai peered over the edge of the platform, gazing at Worf through thick plastic lenses. Of course, Worf recalled. The artist decorating the ceiling.
“Well?” Chih-li inquired. “Death or surrender? I’m afraid I don’t hav
e all day. The Dragon’s security, you know.”
Worf did not respond. Instead, without warning, he bent at the knees, then jumped straight up. Chih-li’s jaw dropped, and the artisan gasped in fright, as Worf’s hands caught onto two sides of the floating rectangle. As he’d hoped, the platform did not buckle or totter under his weight but indeed held him aloft. Hanging on to the platform, he kicked out at Chih-li with both legs. The soles of his boots smashed into the Pai’s jaw, sending his helmet soaring through the air. The gold-and-silver artifact tore through a paper lantern, ricocheted off the ceiling, then rattled noisily across the floor before finally coming to a halt not far from where Worf’s sword had landed. Meanwhile, the force of Worf’s kick upset the platform’s equilibrium. Before the antigravity stabilizers could compensate, one end of the platform tipped toward the floor, spilling the young craftsman onto Chih-li himself. Sliding headfirst off the platform, the youth knocked the Imperial Minister of Internal Security to the ground, where the two Pai lay sprawled in a confused and angry tangle of limbs. By the time Chih-li, cursing loudly, managed to extricate himself from the panicked artist, Worf stood before him, holding both swords in his dark Klingon hands.
“Your choice, Minister,” Worf said gruffly, offering Chih-li his sword back. “Do we continue, or do we halt this conflict in order to better serve my captain and your emperor?”
Eyes wide with surprise, Chih-li contemplated the Klingon facing him. Like Worf, the Pai’s black hair was bound up in a ponytail at the back of his skull. Blood, red as a human’s, flowed from his nose and lips where Worf’s boots had kicked him. Chih-li wiped the blood away with the back of one armored glove while he rubbed his chin with his other hand. The Klingon warrior in Worf hoped the Pai would choose to resume battle, but the Starfleet officer longed for a more sensible decision.
“A most honorable gesture,” Chih-li said, accepting his sword from Worf. “Perhaps you are correct. Our duty to our respective superiors must supersede our private dispute. I suggest we postpone this matter until we have seen to the security of the wedding gifts. For now, I will gladly value your assistance, although it must undoubtedly be considered superfluous.”
“Agreed,” Worf growled. His blood still burned with the fire of battle. He struggled to restrain his fury.
“You understand, of course,” Chih-li insisted, “honor demands that we resolve this matter at the earliest possible convenience. After the wedding, that is.”
“I look forward to it,” Worf said.
“As do I,” Chih-li replied.
The Green Pearl stood patiently among the scattered cushions of Lu Tung’s harem while Beverly ran her medical tricorder up and down the girl’s frame. This physical checkup had merely been an excuse to get Beverly into the harem, but she saw no reason not to genuinely treat the bride to a physical while she was here. Besides, it gave the Pearl something to do besides fight with Hsiao Har. So far, the readings were all in order; Yao Hu appeared in perfect health. That spoke well, Beverly thought, for Pai medicine. “Exactly how old are you?” she asked the Pearl.
“I was born in the Year of the Ascending Phoenix, seventeen summers ago.”
“Baby,” Hsiao Har taunted her. The Heir’s daughter stood on her head a few meters away, her scarlet robe falling down around her waist, revealing a pair of violet silk trousers underneath. She insisted she was exercising, but Beverly suspected she just resented all the attention being paid to the bride-to-be. Beverly wondered if it bothered Hsiao Har that the younger girl was getting married first.
Frankly, Beverly thought that, by Federation standards, they were both far too young to be even thinking of marriage. Seventeen years old . . . my God, she mused. They’re mere children. Beverly herself had married earlier than most of her colleagues on the Enterprise; even still, she’d been halfway through medical school, with a firm grasp of what she wanted to do with her life, when she wedded Jack Crusher. Sheltered behind harem walls, how could Yao Hu possibly know enough about herself to make any sort of lifelong commitment? Different cultures, different standards, Beverly reminded herself. Yet she knew how she’d react if Wesley suddenly announced that he wanted to get married: “Not until you’re much older, young man!”
Granted, Wesley’s first serious crush had been on a shapechanging alien princess who occasionally transformed into a furry, eight-feet-tall, bug-eyed monster. At least the Dragon-Heir belonged to the same species as the Pearl. (Says the woman, she chided herself, who fell for an intelligent slug, not to mention the family ghost!) Who said love had to make sense? She just hoped Yao Hu would be as happy in her marriage as she had been with Jack.
“Dr. Crusher?” the Pearl asked softly, interrupting Beverly’s nostalgic musings.
“Call me Beverly,” she insisted, putting away her tricorder. “You can sit down now.”
“Thank you, Doc . . . Beverly.” The Pearl knelt upon a plush, satin pillow embroidered with golden thread. The soles of her tiny slippers poked out from behind the back of her sea green gown. “My honorable father suggested that you were a woman of great wisdom and experience.”
“Your father is most kind.” Beverly shrugged casually. “I suppose I’ve learned a thing or two over the years.”Good Lord, she thought, I sound like my grandmother. This particular mission was making her feel older by the minute.
The Pearl lowered her gaze, unable to meet Beverly’s eyes. “Before my wedding,” she began hesitantly, “there are matters I would discuss with you.”
Uh-oh, Beverly thought. Now what? Something was obviously troubling Yao Hu, Beverly could tell that much. “What sort of matters?” she asked.
Still upside down, Hsiao Har snickered loudly.
“I would prefer to discuss them in private,” the Pearl said, casting a venomous glance in her future stepdaughter’s direction.
“She wants to know about men and women,” Hsiao Har called out. The Pearl flushed bright red, whether out of fury or embarrassment Beverly couldn’t tell. “The baby wants you to tell her all the secrets of the marriage bed.”
Good Lord, Beverly thought, comprehension blooming suddenly. No one has told the bride the facts of life. She wondered if this was what Lord Lu Tung had intended all along; no wonder he was so eager to accept her services. Her cheeks still burning, Yao Hu looked up at Beverly with desperate, pleading eyes of emerald, while Hsiao Har grinned maliciously not far away. Both girls watched her expectantly, waiting for her to speak.
Oh, dear, Beverly thought. This is rather more than I bargained for.
Six Starfleet security officers stood posted around the wedding gifts, accompanied by an equal complement of Pai warriors in full armor. Worf nodded in approval. Ideally, of course, a battalion of Klingon warriors would provide real security; unfortunately, there were not yet enough Klingons in Starfleet to fill out even one security roster. Thus far, Worf’s example had not inspired many of his fellow Klingons to follow in his footsteps; this troubled him sometimes, although he would never admit it, not even to Deanna.
In any event, a dozen guards seemed more than enough to stand watch over the vast collection of treasures and trinkets assembled in the so-called High Hall of Ceremonial Grandeur. In truth, Worf found this ostentatious display of wealth and luxury rather distasteful—and further evidence of the Dragon Empire’s misplaced priorities. All this pomp and circumstance for a mere wedding? Worf was unimpressed. A Klingon wedding, by contrast, was short, direct, and admirably uncomplicated, requiring little more than an exchange of vows between a warrior and his (or her) chosen mate. On the Homeworld, he thought, this wedding would have been concluded hours ago. Entire wars could be fought and won, however, in the time it took to marry off a pair of Pai. Worf shook his head in disbelief.
“Is something wrong?” Chih-li asked. The Imperial Minister of Internal Security stood beside Worf, holding his gilded helmet against his chest.
“No,” Worf said. His gaze swept over the guards standing attentively at their posts. “It is well.”
>
“Indeed,” Chih-li agreed. “Not that your people are in any way necessary.”
“I have my orders,” Worf reminded him.
“Yes, well. We do what we must, I suppose.”
Chih-li talked too much, Worf thought, like all the rest of the Pai. Still, he had come to respect the stalwart Pai warrior, who clearly took his duty and his honor very seriously. But how did that honor apply when it came to the safety of Dragon himself? In a very real sense, Worf recalled, the security of the wedding gifts was just a blind; Captain Picard wanted him on hand to protect the Emperor and his guests. Could he now suggest as much to Chih-li without provoking another duel? Worf eyed his new ally very carefully.
“There is another matter,” Worf said slowly, lowering his voice so he could not be overheard. “The captain has informed me that an attempt has been made on the Dragon’s life.”
“Yes,” Chih-li conceded. He looked more mournful than offended. His voice held a note of resignation when he spoke. “The Dragon has refused to permit any measures to protect him. It is a matter of honor.”
“Yet an assassin almost succeeded mere hours ago,” Worf said.
The minister lowered his head. His chin sank onto his chest. “I should have protected him, despite his direct orders. He would have had me killed when he found out, but still—”
“If there is one attempt,” Worf emphasized, “there may be others.”
“I have already offered to kill myself in atonement for my failure at the banquet,” Chih-li said, “and the Dragon denied me that privilege.”
Worf sympathized. “It is understood among my people that such a thing could best be atoned for only by death.”
“Really?” Chih-li cocked an eyebrow. “Are your people truly so similar to our own?”