by Kij Johnson
The wine splashed against Riker’s face, blinding him only seconds before his fists could complete their downward plunge. The harsh, stinging liquid caught him completely by surprise; he had no idea where it had come from or who had thrown it at him. He blinked and sputtered, shaking his head and flinging off tiny droplets of emerald-colored wine in every direction. The alcohol stung his eyes, its cloying, fruity flavor filling his mouth and nostrils. The lukewarm liquid ran down his cheeks and dripped from his beard. Damn, he cursed silently. When I get my hands on the joker who tossed that wine . . . !
Tu Fu stood up suddenly, sending Riker flying. He felt himself plummeting to the floor, then landed hard on his left side. His hip smacked against marble tiles, sending a jolt of agony shooting up his side. Still blinded by the wine in his eyes, he tried to roll away from Tu Fu but he didn’t move fast enough. A heavy foot stomped down on his back, driving his face into the floor and pinning him beneath Tu Fu’s elephantine tread. Riker blinked again, shaking his head violently in a vain attempt to rid himself of the last drops of the sticky, clinging liquid that obscured his vision, but still his eyes stung as if on fire, tearing up faster than he could wipe them away with the back of his hand. Very well then, he thought. He didn’t need his eyes to clobber this brute once and for all.
“You should have listened to me, outlander,” Tu Fu crowed. “I said I would grind you into the dirt like a bug and so I will.” He dug his heel into the base of Riker’s spine. “No foreign devil can stand against a true warrior of the Empire.”
Kan-hi disagreed. “Don’t just lie there!” he yelled at Riker. “Get up! Do something! Vanquish him this minute!”
“Once again you have wagered unwisely, my brother,” Chuan-chi said. Riker could readily imagine the smirk on his face. “No wonder you have so many gambling debts.”
Riker had heard enough. Tu Fu twisted his heel once more, but Riker did his best to ignore the excruciating pain in his back. Mentally, he removed himself from the harem, the palace, and Pai itself, placing himself instead on a gray, padded mat in an empty gymnasium somewhere in Alaska. He saw his father standing a few meters away. A reinforced red plastic helmet, its visor down, rendered Kyle Riker completely sightless, but that didn’t matter. Anbo-jyutsu was not about eyes, but motion. Controlled, efficient motion. “Trust your other senses, then let them go,” his father had told him over and over in countless training sessions just like this one. “Let your unconscious keep track of where you are in relation to your opponent. Concentrate on nothing except the moment and the motion. The moment is the motion.” With an effortless flip, Kyle Riker dropped his son face-forward onto the mat. He held him down with one foot, standing like an old-time safari hunter posing astride a fallen lion. The younger Riker fought back tears of frustration and anger. There was no possible escape from this humiliating position . . . or was there? Kyle Riker would not let his son give up. “There is a defense to every attack,” he repeated endlessly until Riker was sick of hearing it. “An escape to every trap.” Riker squirmed helplessly underneath the constant pressure of his father’s foot. “Anbo-jyutsu.” Kyle said in his memory. “Don’t think about it. Just move.”
Riker moved.
His legs snapped up behind Tu Fu, striking like twin cobras. He hooked his feet around Tu Fu’s legs, as wide around as small pillars, then straightened his own legs in one convulsive jerk. The huge Pai warrior was flung backward. Riker heard the man’s skull crack against the marble floor, followed by the sound of heavy, regular breathing. Riker recognized the reassuring rhythm of unconsciousness.
Applause and some jeers greeted Riker’s victory. Turning over and sitting up, he took a second or two to wipe his eyes thoroughly free of wine and tears. As his vision cleared, he saw Kan-hi standing nearby with a jubilant smile on his face. The two women who had been flanking him had vanished. Riker glanced around, looking for them, but was unable to locate either woman amid the assembled crowd of bachelors and serving maids. He still had his suspicions about his lost phaser, not to mention that sudden faceful of wine. “He okay?” he asked Kan-hi, nodding in the direction of Tu Fu’s collapsed form.
“I suppose so,” the Second Son said blithely. “I’m sure the women will summon a physician if there’s anything serious . . . but enough about that enormous fool! That was most impressive, friend Will.” He slapped Riker on the back. Riker winced. His back was still sore from where Tu Fu’s nails had gouged him.
“I’d like to give that guy a manicure,” he groused. Preferably with a phaser set on maximum.
Kan-hi inspected the lacerations on Riker’s back and the gashes in his uniform. He shook his head thoughtfully. “No, this just won’t do, Will. Your garment is quite ruined. Here, have one of my own robes.” Kan-hi undid the ties on his outermost gown and casually shucked the flowing, yellow robe. Riker saw that the prince still had several more layers of clothing beneath his top robe. Kan-hi held out the robe, offering it to Riker.
“That’s not at all necessary, sir,” Riker said. He carefully stood up, feeling a short stab of pain in his lower back as he straightened himself out.
“But I insist,” Kan-hi said. He laughed loudly. “With the money you just won for me, I will be able to afford a whole new wardrobe. Isn’t that so, brother.”
Standing not far away, his hands folded primly over his chest, Chuan-chi frowned at his younger sibling. “Have no fear. Unlike some others I might mention, I always repay my debts. All my debts,” he emphasized with an openly venomous look at Riker. I may have just saved your life, you stuck-up ass, Riker thought angrily about the Dragon-Heir. The more he contemplated the matter, the more he became convinced that his scuffle with Tu Fu was not just a random act of unpremeditated violence. Someone wanted him or Chuan-chi taken out of the picture. Perhaps they had both been targets. He made a mental note to discuss the incident with Captain Picard at the first opportunity that presented itself. He wondered how Deanna and the others were faring and if they were safe.
At the moment, though, he simply accepted the yellow robe from Kan-hi. One of the ever-present serving maids lightly wiped the blood from his face and shoulders before helping him don the expensive silk robe. “Well, if you insist,” he said amiably. “I guess my uniform has seen better days.” He took a gander at the Dragon-Heir’s lengthy fingernails and remembered the way Tu Fu’s nails had sliced through his flesh. “Are everybody’s nails that sharp?” he asked.
“Oh no,” Kan-hi told him. “Tu Fu belongs to the Sacred Order of the Extended Digits. Their nails are dipped daily from birth in a special solution that hardens the nails and increases their tensile strength.”
“Good Lord,” Riker said, both impressed and appalled. “Is this, er, a large order?” He certainly hoped not.
Kan-hi shook his head. Riker noted that the Second Son swayed slightly as he spoke, but seemed to have sobered up enough to stand without assistance. Perhaps he was not really as drunk as he’d appeared before. “Many are chosen, but few survive to adulthood. Most cannot resist the temptation to scratch an itch.”
Riker found himself rendered speechless for a moment. Probably best not to think about it too much, he decided. Instead he chose to conduct a quick survey of the party. His eyes scanned the chamber. Quickly and efficiently the remaining female servants were tidying up and restoring order to the outer harem. The perforated paper screen had already been dragged away and replaced with a new screen that served to hide the unconscious warrior from sight. A harp string was plucked somewhere in an adjoining compartment and the plaintive strains of soft music attempted to soothe the savage breasts of the hot-blooded young men. Fresh fruit and wine materialized in bountiful quantities, carried in on the slender arms of still more alluring young women.
Unfortunately, Riker observed, most of the men were paying little attention to the music, the refreshments, or the beautiful women. The bachelors milled about restlessly, some of them grouping around Kan-hi while the rest lingered in the vicinity of the Heir
. There was an air of expectancy in the chamber. Everyone seemed to be watching Riker and the two princes, and waiting for something to happen. Even the serving maids seemed on edge, despite their persistent smiles and demure behavior. Riker sensed that the potential for violence had not ended with his defeat of Tu Fu. If anything, his brief tussle with the Pai warrior might have actually whetted the party-goers’ appetite for a real, knock-down-drag-them-out brawl, which was the last thing Riker wanted to get going, especially with an assassin or two lurking somewhere among the decorative screens and plush divans. Think, Riker ordered himself. There had to be some way he could channel the aggression and competitiveness of these men into a less dangerous pursuit. But how?
A broad grin spread over Will Riker’s face as the solution presented itself to him.
“Tell me, gentlemen,” he asked, “have you ever heard of a game called poker?”
Chapter Seven
WORF LOOKED AROUND as he was led through the halls of the Imperial Palace. The servant who led him moved silently and very fast, so that even Worf’s long stride was barely able to keep up.
So far, the Klingon warrior did not think much of Pai. The lavishly decorated halls, the gaudy attire of the people they passed, even the scented smoke hanging in the air, struck him as decadent, soft. Any race who so elaborately and painstakingly carved even the very hinges of every door was obviously lost to all sense of proper discipline. Up ahead, Worf spotted an artisan of some sort lying on his back atop an anti-gravity platform several meters above the floor. The craftsman peered through thick magnifying lenses as he employed a laser-stylus to etch in details far too minute to be seen from the floor below. What a waste of time, Worf thought. A low growl escaped his lips as he walked under the floating platform.
Finally, and none too soon as far as Worf was concerned, the servant stopped smoothly in front of an ornate door inlaid with pale blue and pink enamel. Worf growled again, as the door slid open and he found himself face-to-face with a scowling Pai noble.
In true Klingon fashion, Worf automatically assessed the stranger’s potential as an adversary. The Pai was only a few centimeters shorter than Worf, and clad in armor from head to foot. The armor reminded Worf of illustrations he’d seen in his human stepfather’s history books, particularly the chapters concerning the old Asian empires on preindustrial Earth. The gold and silver beads covering the chestplate and helmet were a typically decadent touch, but otherwise the armor seemed sturdy enough. Only the Pai’s face was exposed, revealing a broad face and two glaring eyes beneath heavy black brows that met above a nose that looked as though it had been flattened, and broken at least once, in past battles. A scar running down the man’s right cheek also testified to its owner’s violent past. Worf nodded approvingly. The man’s battered-but-unbowed visage was the first thing he’d seen on this prettified jewelry box of a planet that he could identify with.
Most importantly, though, Worf noted the unsheathed swords the Pai warrior held in each of his hands.
“I am Chih-li, Imperial Grand Minister of Internal Security, First Rank,” the man barked. “Your very presence insults my honor.”
His words hit Worf like a slap across the face. “What do you know of honor?” he demanded.
Chih-li raised his chin proudly. “The safety of the Dragon, his family, his guests, and his property is my responsibility and mine alone. To suggest I require foreign assistance is to besmirch my honor in the most heinous manner imaginable.”
Worf’s steady gaze never left the blades in Chih-li’s hands. “Honor demands I obey the commands of my captain. I cannot do otherwise.”
“I see,” Chih-li said. He fixed Worf with a penetrating stare. “Then our course is set.” He raised both swords in front of him. Worf reached for his phaser. “Choose your weapon,” Chih-li said solemnly.
Worf’s hand came away from his phaser. Understanding dawned in his eyes and behind the ridges of his brow. “You challenge me?”
Chih-li nodded, thrusting the hilts of both blades toward Worf. “It is a matter of honor,” he declared.
That was good enough for Worf. He suspected that Captain Picard would not approve of this duel, but failed to see any alternative. He could think of no greater way to offend the Pai, and sour relations between the Federation and the Dragon Empire, than by refusing to respect their standards of honor. Honor, to his mind, was the only universal verity strong enough to unite such disparate peoples as the Pai and the various component races of the Federation, not to mention the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Honor, mutually accorded, was the cornerstone of the Klingon-Federation alliance, just as it was their shameless lack of honor that made accommodation with either the Cardassians or the accursed Romulans unthinkable.
Worf accepted a sword from Chih-li’s right hand. The long silver blade gleamed beneath the flickering light of the paper lanterns. He saw no nicks, scratches, or other defects upon its surface. Stepping back, he swung the sword experimentally, slicing through the foggy, incense-laden air. The sword was neither as heavy nor as versatile as a Klingon bat’telh, but it struck him as a good weapon nonetheless. “This will do,” he grunted.
No other words were necessary. Chih-li shifted his remaining sword to his now-empty right hand and extended the point toward Worf, who assumed a defensive pose. His lack of armor put him at a disadvantage, Worf realized, but only a coward would refuse a challenge on those grounds. Besides, he did not intend to grant first blood to the Pai.
Chih-li attacked ferociously, driving Worf farther back into the hall. Behind the Dragon’s Minister of Internal Security (First Rank), the enamel-covered door slid back into place, cutting off both combatants from the chamber beyond. Worf retreated only a few steps, however, before meeting the Pai’s assault with an attack of his own. Steel clanged against naked steel as they tried to force each other back through sheer force of arms. Their faces, only centimeters apart, met above crossed blades. Chih-li clenched his teeth. Sweat dripped from beneath the brim of his helmet. Worf could see the effort—and the determination—written on Chih-li’s face. His opinion of the Dragon Empire rose by the minute.
Back and forth, they tottered, neither warrior willing to yield one centimeter to the other. Worf would press forward for an instant, only to be pushed back a second later by Chih-li’s unrelenting exertion. The Minister of Internal Security was strong for a human . . . or a Pai. Changing tactics, Worf stopped pressing against his adversary’s sword and stepped abruptly to one side. Caught off guard, Chih-li stumbled forward, his own momentum carrying him onward into the space Worf had vacated. The flat of Worf’s blade struck Chih-li right below his ribs. The blow knocked the wind out of the Pai, who gasped out loud. Good, Worf thought. He didn’t want to kill Chih-li, and not just for the captain’s sake. The Pai had proven an honorable opponent. Worf raised his free hand, forming it into a fist, and prepared to strike Chih-li at the back of his neck, just below the rear of his helmet. With luck, one good blow would render the Pai unconscious and bring the duel to an honorable, yet bloodless, conclusion.
But Chih-li was not as stunned as Worf hoped, and much more acrobatic. Before Worf’s fist could lower the boom on him, Chih-li flipped headfirst over Worf’s sword, spinning through the air and landing on his feet several meters behind Worf, who barely had time to turn around before Chih-li came charging at him once more, shouting an incomprehensible battle cry at the top of his lungs. Worf quickly raised his sword to meet the razor-sharp blade descending toward his head.
Blue sparks flashed as the swords smashed together. The ring of steel echoed down the wide expanse of corridor. Worf’s sword searched for chinks in his opponent’s armor, but Chih-li’s skillful parries never let Worf’s sword get that close. Out of the corner of his eye, Worf saw a bevy of servant girls coming down the hall, clad in flowing robes of peach and lavender. High-pitched screams rose from the young women as they came upon the fierce struggle being waged in the hall. “A demon!” one of them shrieked. “The minis
ter is battling a demon from hell!” Worf felt mildly offended.
Yanking up the hems of their gowns, the women scurried away as fast as their lithe young legs could carry them. Worf barely noticed their departure; all his concentration was consumed by his unceasing duel with Chih-li. Their silver swords darted in and out of each other’s defenses like a pair of fighting fishes. Chih-li’s chestplate was scratched and dented around the abdomen, where moments earlier he had fallen headlong against Worf’s sword, but his armor had protected the warrior underneath. A handful of gold and silver pearls had been dislodged by the blow; they rolled about on the white tile floor, aggravating Worf, who had to struggle not to slip and fall on them. Despite his best intentions, he felt the fire in his heart growing hotter by the moment. He wanted to spill blood, not pearls.
Feint. Thrust. Parry. The duel carried them down the long hallway. Chih-li was the more accomplished fencer, technically, but Worf, unencumbered by heavy metal armor, was faster and more agile. This battle is taking too long, he thought, fighting to keep his berserker rage under control. He must not forget his true mission: to protect the Dragon and his followers. In time, perhaps, his superior stamina would wear the Pai down, but Worf did not have time to wait that long. Every second he spent dueling with Chih-li kept him away from his duty. He had to bring the combat to an end as quickly as possible. My mistake, he thought. I should have spent more time in Lieutenant Barclay’s “Three Musketeers” holodeck scenario.
Parrying Chih-li’s sword once more, Worf attempted a sudden riposte. The unexpected thrust took the Pai unawares; he had to jump backward to avoid being skewered between the eyes. Worf did not let up, keeping Chih-li on the defensive. His sword crashed down again and again upon the other man’s blade, forcing Chih-li to use his sword as a shield, not a weapon. Chih-li staggered backward until his back collided with a wall. Worf had him cornered now. A grim smile twisted the Klingon’s lips. He seemed to tower above Chih-li as the Imperial Minister of Internal Security ducked, his head hunched below his shoulders, beneath Worf’s savage blows. Worf wondered if disarming Chih-li would be enough, or would the Pai’s honor only be satisfied by being rendered wounded or unconscious? However, it would not be long now. Worf raised his weapon, ready to chop Chih-li’s sword in two with his very next blow.