Dragon's Honor

by Greg Cox

  “I’ve run into a little problem,” Beverly said hesi tantly. Could the Pai be monitoring their communications? Could the G’kkau? “I was hoping I could talk to you about it.”

  “Now is not a good time, Beverly,” Troi gasped. Beverly heard snatches of conversation—and ribald laughter—in the background. “Exalted One, please! Not now! . . . I’m sorry, Beverly, did you say something?”

  It sounded to Beverly like Deanna had problems of her own. “Are you okay?” she asked. “Is anything wrong?”

  “The Emperor,” Deanna said breathlessly, “has an enormous capacity for Romulan ale—among other things.”

  “What’s that?” Beverly didn’t understand. “Do you want me to notify Security?”

  “No!” Deanna practically shouted through the comm; the vibration literally rattled the badge pinned beneath her Oriental robes. “I mean, thank you, Beverly, but that’s not necessary. I can manage . . . I think.”

  Beverly still couldn’t tell exactly what going on at the other end of the line, but she decided that Deanna sounded more embarrassed than endangered. If Deanna was really in serious trouble, she would have said so. Obviously, though, the Betazoid counselor was in no position to help Beverly wrestle with her own moral dilemmas. “Sorry to bother you. We’ll talk later.”

  “Okay,” Troi’s voice answered. “Exalted One, wait! . . . That is, Troi out!”

  So much for that, Beverly thought ruefully. Deanna would have a lot to explain the next time they shared an exercise session on the Enterprise, although it sure sounded like Deanna was getting plenty of exercise, of one sort or another, on Pai. That still left Beverly to face the reluctant bride on her own, something she wasn’t looking forward to. Stalling for time, she contemplated her reflection in the full-length mirror mounted on one of the bright pink walls of the Green Pearl’s private bathroom. Scores of gleaming pearls, uniform in their sheer lustrousness, framed the mirror; Lord Lu Tung must have raided every oyster in the Dragon Empire to decorate his daughter’s chambers. Beverly thought she looked tired; it had been a long night, with only a few more hours to go before the (she hoped) inevitable wedding. Her elaborate green gown, that had once seemed so elegant, now hung on her weary body like last week’s laundry strung out to dry. This mission was a hard one—and much more grueling than it looked.

  In the end, she realized, there was no decision to make here. The Green Pearl had to marry the Dragon-Heir; there was no other way to bind the Dragon Empire together and save it from the untender mercies of the savage G’kkau. Foolishly, she had hoped that Deanna would somehow manage to pull another alternative out of the ether, but the fate of Yao Hu was locked in stone long before the Enterprise came within transporter range of Pai. Beverly just prayed that the Pearl would come to find peace in the life that had been chosen for her—and that future histories of the Dragon Empire would never forget the sacrifice this one young girl made for her people.

  Beverly dabbed a tear from the corner of her eye, straightened her shoulders, and walked back into the plush, lush pinkness of the harem chamber. She stepped past a menagerie of discarded stuffed animals, heartbreaking mementos of Yao Hu’s swiftly departing girlhood, and felt her throat choke up. Get a hold of yourself, she thought silently. Bad enough the bride is crying her eyes out. I’m not going to be able to do anyone any good if I get all weepy myself.

  She stepped briskly across the harem floor, then froze in her tracks, stopped dead by an unexpected sight. Her jaw dropped. Her eyes grew wide. “Oh, no!” she breathed.

  Hsiao Har stood sheepishly amid the Pearl’s pink pillows. The girl stared at her feet, unable to meet Beverly’s eyes. The chief medical officer of the Enterprise scanned the entire room from where she stood, but her quick inspection only confirmed the awful truth: Hsiao Har was alone.

  The Green Pearl was gone.

  Chapter Twelve

  “THE SLOVENLY GARDENER grows more fruit than two hundred vegetarians,” Meng Chiao recited. “Energetic is the goblin that fears the turquoise wallpaper.”

  “If you say so,” Riker said. He threw his cards facedown onto the floor, then leaned forward to rake a large stack of gold coins toward him, adding them to an already impressive pile of Pai currency. He had been doing well tonight, perhaps too well; it was starting to get awkward and a bit embarrassing. “Thank you, gentlemen.”

  His hand brushed against his cards, flipping them over. Lord Li Po, whose deal it was, picked up the cards, then paused. “Hold!” he said indignantly.

  “What is it?” Riker asked.

  “These cards were no good,” Li Po declared. He spread them faceup on the floor, revealing nothing more than a paltry pair of threes.

  “They weren’t, were they?” Riker grinned. “But you bought it.”

  “You lied?” the Heir said. “You took our gold on a falsity?”

  “Ah,” Riker said, abruptly catching on to the mood of the party. The other players no longer looked amused; in fact, he became acutely conscious of the fact that he was currently surrounded by over a dozen Pai warriors who had each had too much to drink. For the first time in hours, he wondered what had happened to his phaser. “It’s not a lie in poker,” he insisted. “It’s called bluffing.”

  “It looks like a lie to me,” Li Po said. He had seemed like an amiable sort before, but now Riker saw the cold steel beneath the man’s pleasant exterior. Li Po was, after all, undoubtedly a veteran and survivor of the recent civil wars, as were all the other men in the Heir’s outer harem.

  “A pickled skunk is not so black as the cat of a dissolute scribe,” Meng Chiao added grimly. Riker still didn’t know what he meant, but he got the tone easily enough. Meng Chiao was ticked off.

  “I said nothing to you about the value of my hand,” Riker explained. “I only continued to bid until each of you folded. You drew the conclusion that my hand was worthwhile.”

  “But,” Chuan-chi said, fixing an icy gaze upon Riker, “you made no effort to disabuse us of the notion you knew we would be forming.”

  Riker shrugged in what he hoped was a disarming manner. “It is one of the tools of the game.”

  “It is hardly honorable,” Li Po said. “Only a landless peasant would bluff.”

  “Trapped in a tunnel, a copper bell never rings,” Meng Chiao agreed.

  Riker was starting to wish he’d left with the Second Son. “That is not precisely the case,” he said, thinking furiously. “To bluff is to permit the other person’s errors to defeat them, just as you would not inform an opposing general of his mistakes when setting out his forces for battle—”

  “That has happened several times!” Li Po protested. “Two thousand years ago, Lord Shen Fu did precisely that, preferring to win against his opponent’s best attempt.”

  I don’t believe this, Riker thought. “Did the general take his opponent’s advice?”

  “Certainly not,” the Heir informed him. “It would have been dishonorable to go back on his battle plans at that late date, merely because of an adverse opinion. He was quite utterly destroyed.”

  “Seven thousand perished,” Lord Li Po added.

  “A nightingale’s footprints are deeper than the ghost of a star,” Meng Chiao explained.

  Despite the anti-intoxicating effects of Dr. Crusher’s infusion, Riker felt his head spinning. A man could go crazy, he decided, trying to sort out the Pai’s confusing codes of honor. They seemed to take honor as seriously as a Vulcan regarded logic, and to just as absurd an extreme. “Look,” he said. “What about this then? If you have an inferior force, would you wish to announce it to your opponent?”

  “That would be quite unnecessary,” Chuan-chi said. “There is no dishonor in not flaunting one’s disadvantages. Indeed, one is obliged to put up a respectable appearance no matter how deficient one’s forces.”

  “That is what a bluff is all about!” Riker said. “You have an inferior force—your cards—and you conceal it so that your opponent may commit himself to battle. Once
he has done so, you are merely allowing him to continue to a greater or lesser extent.”

  “Hmmm,” the Heir said dubiously. “It still smacks of deception.”

  “It is deception,” Riker said. “But you allow your opponent no honor if you don’t provide him with the opportunity to discern it.” I hope that makes sense, he thought, at least according to Pai standards.

  “True,” Li Po said at last. “The commander is quite right. I myself must win honor by piercing the challenging illusion of a bluff. Deal the cards!”

  Riker congratulated himself silently. Either I’m finally learning to think like a Pai, or I’m just getting better at faking it. As the other players anted up, he glanced down at his conspicuously large pile of winnings. The captain won’t thank me if I take everyone’s money. Better to avoid another potential blowup. “Tell you what, why don’t I sit the next couple of hands out.”

  “You can’t!” Lord Li Po said. “Not without offering us the chance to win back our gold.”

  Uh-oh, Riker thought. He looked at the other players’ dwindling stacks of coins. At the rate they were mastering the game, he could probably empty their entire treasury before any of them really developed the skills to beat him. There was only one way he could manage not to clean them out.

  Lose.

  “Enterprise to G’kkau flagship. Repeat: Enterprise to G’kkau flagship.”

  “Any luck, Lieutenant Melilli?” Data asked. Hailing the oncoming fleet had proven more difficult than anticipated, yet Data had discovered that persistence was often rewarded by positive results.

  The Bajoran officer grimaced at the sound of static coming through the communications channels. “It’s hard getting through the nebular cloud, but I think we’ve finally punched our way through.” She listened carefully to the harsh buzz of the static. “Yes, we’re receiving a response.”

  The viewscreen at the front of the bridge flickered. A dark, murky, roiling image began to seethe across it. “Sorry that’s so unclear, sir,” she said. “Let me—”

  “There is no need for further adjustments, Lieutenant,” Data said, recalling Captain Picard’s earlier confrontation with the commander of the Fang. “That is an accurate representation of the interior of a G’kkau ship.”

  Thick clouds of inky smoke billowed upon the viewer, and Data discerned a dim, reptilian shape half lost in the gloom. “This is the Fang,” a voice hissed across the subspace radio. “I am Gar; you are not deemed worthy of speaking with the leader of our glorious fleet, Master Kakkh. Speak.”

  Interesting, Data thought. During their earlier encounter with the G’kkau, Master Kakkh had responded directly to the captain’s hails. This change in behavior suggested that the G’kkau knew that Captain Picard and the other senior officers were currently on Pai and not aboard the Enterprise. He speculated about how the G’kkau had acquired this information even as he addressed Gar. “I am Lieutenant Commander Data of the Starship Enterprise,” he began.

  “Why do you bother us with your hails? We will speak only to your commanding officer.” Gar’s voice rose to a squeaky hiss, like an old-fashioned teakettle coming to a boil.

  “I am currently the officer in command of the Enterprise,” Data stated calmly. He did not consider this a dangerous admission, since logic suggested that the G’kkau were already in possession of this information. “I might also point out that I am not speaking with your commanding officer.”

  “That is completely different,” Gar said. “We are inherently superior; you are scum.”

  “Webster’s defines ‘scum’ as a thin layer of impurities which forms on the top of liquids or bodies of water,” Data replied. “Clearly, this term does not apply to me. In any event, I have contacted you on behalf of the Dragon Empire and the United Federation of Planets to insist that you cease your approach to Pai.”

  “Scum,” Gar said again. “You are a fool to warn us thus, and honorless.”

  Data ignored the insult. “Please clarify your remark.”

  “Your own Federation law,” Gar sneered, “insures our safety once we are in Imperial space.”

  Data judged that this was the correct moment at which to attempt his bluff; he hoped Lieutenant Melilli was paying close attention. “The Federation and the Dragon Empire have entered into a treaty which permits us to defend Imperial territories from hostile approaches.”

  “Hah,” Gar snorted. Steam rose from his nostrils, joining the other murky fumes suffusing the bridge of the Fang. “We know all about this treaty, and we know that it has not yet been ratified.”

  “It shall be,” Data said. “Do you wish to take the chance, knowing that Captain Picard and the Dragon might be signing the agreement even as we speak?”

  “Even so,” Gar gloated, “you can do nothing until the wedding is complete. Pai will be a smoking ruin by then, and your precious treaty with it.”

  “I must again insist that you do not approach Pai,” Data said.

  “And how will you prevent us?” The reptile laughed, producing a wet, sloppy sound like a soaked carpet slapped against a stone floor. Then he cut off the transmission before Data could even begin to reply. The android found himself staring at a view of Pai itself. The blue-green sphere, filigreed with intricate patterns of swirling clouds, reminded him of the ornate decoration of the Imperial Palace. He resolved to conduct a comparative analysis of astronomical scenery versus humanoid interior decoration at the next convenient opportunity.

  “He called your bluff,” Lieutenant Melilli said.

  “Perhaps,” Data stated. “Still, we have succeeded in ascertaining the extent of G’kkau intelligence regarding activities upon Pai itself, which is apparently considerable. This strongly implies that the G’kkau have a humanoid confederate at the palace itself, establishing a probable link between the approaching G’kkau invasion force and the attempted assassination of the Dragon.”

  “So there is a traitor on Pai,” Melilli said. “But, sir, the fleet is still going to reach Pai before we can do anything at all.”

  “Your analysis is correct,” Data conceded. “Therefore, we must delay the fleet’s arrival.”

  “But how?” she asked. Like most Bajorans, he noted, Lieutenant Melilli was quick to question authority.

  “I have an idea,” he said. “Please ask Lieutenant La Forge to report to the bridge.”

  The search for the wedding gifts was going slowly. Even though many of the Pai nobles were away at the Heir’s bachelor party, their servants remained to guard their respective quarters, and, without exception, these servants required considerable persuasion before they would permit a search party to inspect their masters’ accommodations. It was necessary for Chih-li to explain each time, in painstaking detail, why the search was not a violation of anyone’s honor. Worf found himself growing more frustrated by the moment. Honor was a matter of vital importance, true, but so was the necessity for direct action, something the Pai seemed to make little allowance for.

  “Tell me again,” a frail, gray-bearded Pai manservant inquired of the Minister of Internal Security. “Why does your base invasion of these premises in pursuit of stolen goods not reflect badly on the honor of the distinguished gentleman whom I have the honor to serve?”

  The aged Pai, whom Worf could have blown aside with one breath, stood between the search party and the entrance to a large suite of rooms currently being occupied by one Lord Li Po, who was apparently attending the Heir’s bachelor party and so could not (or so the old man insisted) be disturbed until the morning of the wedding itself. Worf growled impatiently; time was slipping away and they had searched less than one-quarter of the Imperial Palace. Not for the first time, he wished they could simply scan the entire palace from on board the Enterprise and locate the missing gifts that way; unfortunately, the same shields that protected the palace from unauthorized transporter beams also blocked the Enterprise’s sensors. They would have to conduct the search the old-fashioned way, door by door.

  Chih-li bowed
his head toward the elderly servant. His dark hair hung down his back, since he had left his helmet behind in the High Hall of Ceremonial Grandeur. “Your laudable concern for your master’s honor does you great honor as well,” he said. “And yet, if a dishonorable scoundrel conceals his ill-gotten goods within your honorable master’s rooms, then your master is dishonored if the goods go undiscovered.”

  The old man scratched his head, visibly puzzled. “But if they are undiscovered, how can my master be dishonored?” he asked. “And what honor is derived by defending the honor of a master whose honor is not in question?”

  Worf’s sharpened canines ground together in exasperation. He clenched his fists so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. His forehead throbbed beneath his bony ridges. This is ridiculous, he thought angrily. At this rate, they would not uncover the location of the stolen gifts until after the wedding of the Green Pearl’s great-grandchildren. “I must go,” he stated gruffly, stalking away from the old man and Chih-li. If I remain another minute, I will eviscerate them all.

  “Honorable Worf,” the minister called out. “Where are you going?”

  “To investigate the scene of the crime!” he snapped, making his decision even as he announced it. Why not? he thought. Searching the palace, and debating the finer nuances of Pai honor with every lowly menial they met, was not getting him anywhere. Perhaps he had missed some vital clue at the High Hall of Ceremonial Grandeur. The more he thought about it, in fact, the more convinced he became that there was something not quite right about this entire scenario. Even allowing for a huge retinue of servants to handle the heavy lifting, how could anyone remove such a staggering accumulation of physical artifacts from the chamber without attracting attention?

  As Worf strode down the wide, capacious corridors of the Dragon’s palace, he passed clusters of male and female Pai going about their business. The palace never slept, apparently; despite the lateness of the hour, he could see servants and attendants scurrying down the long halls, carrying laundry, mops, washrags, sonic polishers, and last-minute decorations for the coming wedding. Worf’s presence, as he marched determinedly along, his dark eyes glowering, his clenched fists pumping at his sides, never failed to alarm the timid Pai servants. They went out of their way to avoid him, often cowering against the nearest wall until he passed, then whispering excitedly in his wake. Worf was not offended by their reactions; rather, he expected just such a response, and would have been disappointed with himself had the Pai behaved otherwise. They did well, be thought, to fear an angry Klingon.