“Soon.” Leskit tried to sound reassuring, but he could tell it wasn’t working. Luckily, the restaurant was only another eighth of a qelI’qam away. “I grew up in Kopf’s Cliff, and my mate and child still live there.”
“I’ve never been there. The Palkar estate is just outside the First City, along the Qam-Chee River, and I’ve only lived there on Qo’noS.” She smiled. “I also left the homeworld as fast as I could once I reached the Age of Ascension.”
“No surprise there.” Leskit knew that Kurak had been working with the legendary engineer Makros at the Science Institute on Mempa V before she was conscripted by her father. “The Cliff is a wondrous city. The center of town has almost entirely cylindrical buildings. That style was actually pilfered from the Phebens after we conquered them. In fact, most of the Cliff is built in the style of species we’ve conquered.” He smiled. “The architects of our city have always been experimental, and the city administrators have always approved, as it made the city unique.”
“I suppose ‘unique’ is one word for it,” Kurak muttered. “How do you know all this?”
“My mother. She was an administrator for an architect. She loved the art, though she had no talent for it herself. So instead she went to work for one, so she could indulge her passion by proxy. Supper-table conversations were almost always about this building or that building, and my sister and I—”
“You have a sister?”
“Am I not permitted siblings?” Leskit asked with a huge smile.
“Leskit, we’ve been sleeping with each other for months now. We’ve had plenty of conversations, and typically you’ve done most of the talking. Indeed, you’ve done most of the talking for the entire crew. How is it that in all the inane conversations you’ve subjected me to, you’ve never discussed your family?”
Shrugging, Leskit said, “Simply your good fortune.”
“I’m surprised your mother worked at all. Was she not the Lady of the House?”
Chuckling, Leskit said, “Our House is not quite on the same level as that of Palkar, I’m afraid. Being Lady of the House of Graf is not a luxury we could afford, particularly once my father died. In any event, Mother loved to discourse about this, and she railed against the First City every third night. You see, after Praxis blew up—”
“What? Oh.” Kurak shook her head. “Of course, the moon.”
Leskit grinned. The orbital station where the Gorkon was being repaired had been named Praxis Station after the moon of Qo’noS that had blown up eighty-three years previous. That was where Kurak was going to be spending most of her time for the next several weeks, so Leskit wasn’t surprised at her initial confusion.
“The damage done to the First City from Praxis’s fallout was considerable,” Leskit said. “Many buildings had to be condemned and the Great Hall had to be rebuilt. That was a time of great change in the empire—an alliance with the Federation, a woman in the chancellor’s chair—and so, probably in reaction to that, Chancellor Azetbur decreed that all new construction follow that of the Great Hall, to make the First City look as it did in Sompek’s time. Many of the buildings still have weapons emplacements, too—disruptor cannons rather than the projectiles of old—though I can’t imagine why they’d be used now, when the First City has far more useful defensive measures.”
Kurak stared up at him as they walked. “You told me all this to distract me from the fact that we’re lost, haven’t you?”
“Not at all.” He stopped walking, having sighted their goal several paces back. “Here we are.”
Looking around, Kurak said, “Where?”
Leskit chortled to himself. He had been expecting this reaction, since there was only one eatery in sight.
“We are at our destination.”
She looked up at that one eatery, which had the words VULCAN CUISINE in austere Klingon script over the door. “Is it behind the Vulcan restaurant?”
“It is the Vulcan restaurant.”
Kurak stared up at Leskit, and took a step back, as if suddenly afraid to be close enough to touch him. She gripped her right wrist with her left arm, a sure sign that she was extremely angry. “What?”
Holding up a finger, Leskit said, “Before you pass judgment—”
“You expect me to eat Vulcan food?”
“Have you ever had Vulcan food?”
Eyes ablaze, Kurak said, “No. Nor have I ever dove naked into a vat of hungry taknar. Neither is an experience I am eager to undertake.”
Pausing long enough to enjoy the mental image Kurak just gave him, Leskit said, “I thought much the same thing when my sister dragged me here years ago, shortly after it opened. Then I tasted the food. Nothing to make you swear off meat, but quite edifying.”
“Please tell me you’re joking.”
Putting his hand over his heart, Leskit said, “Have you ever known me to jest?”
Kurak just stared at him.
“All right, have you ever known me to jest about food? I was the one who thanked whatever deceased deity was responsible for bringing Vall on board as your assistant, since he fine-tuned the replicators to make edible food, remember?”
“Leskit—”
“Very well,” he said quickly, holding out his hands. “I shall make a wager with you. You will try the food here. If it is not to your liking, then you may make any request of me, and I will fulfill it, or die trying.”
Regarding him with obvious suspicion, Kurak said, “Any request?”
“Anything.”
“No conditions?”
“None.”
Finally, Kurak let go of her wrist. Leskit viewed that as a good sign. “I look forward to your doing my bidding, Lieutenant.”
Grinning, Leskit indicated the door. “Never assume, Commander.”
The front door slid aside quietly at their approach. That set the tone for the inside. No matter how many times Leskit returned to Vulcan Cuisine—the owners, T’Lisik and Syruk, had never seen the need to use more distinctive nomenclature, since that name alone made it unique on Qo’noS—he never quite got used to how quiet it was inside.
Kurak’s eyes went wide, and Leskit suspected she had the same sense of foreboding that he had felt when K’dot, his sister, had taken him here for the first time right before he went off on his first assignment for the Defense Force. “You’re going into space,” K’dot had said. “You’ll be encountering many different species. You should know how they eat.”
Leskit had never quite followed that logic, but he had been surprised by how well prepared the Vulcan food was. Unlike humans, who cooked all the flavor out of their food, Vulcans generally cooked it only enough to remove potential viruses and germs. They also had an appreciation for spice that had surprised Leskit. K’dot, who was an anthropologist, had said that it was a hold-over from the Vulcans’ days as desert nomads, where spices were necessary to preserve food.
The front door opened to a small receiving area where spare couches and sand paintings were all that lay against the walls. An open entryway to the restaurant proper was flanked by a podium, behind which stood a Vulcan woman with long, dark hair, wearing a loose red robe etched with the lettering of her people. This was T’Lisik, one of the two proprietors, and the one who seated the customers.
“This,” Kurak whispered, “is an obscenity.”
“There’s no need to whisper,” Leskit said, though he still spoke in a subdued tone. “Greetings, T’Lisik.”
Bowing her head, T’Lisik spoke the Klingon language flawlessly. “It has been some time since your last visit to our establishment, Lieutenant.” She then turned to Kurak. “Commander, welcome. On behalf of he who is my husband and myself, we hope you find the meal satisfactory.”
“I would not count on that,” Kurak said darkly.
T’Lisik bowed her head again and then led them into the main part of the restaurant. Wood was at a premium on Vulcan, and to maintain authenticity, the tables were made of stone, even though Qo’noS suffered from no such shor
tage. The decorations were spare and modest. About two-thirds of the tables were filled. The patrons appeared to be a quarter Klingons, three-quarters outsiders, the bulk of the latter being Vulcanoids of some form. Leskit knew that many Romulans lived on Qo’noS, though few in the First City, and many of them patronized this place. Syruk had told him once that if it weren’t for the Romulans, the restaurant would not be able to stay in business.
As she sat opposite Leskit, Kurak stared at him. “And you come here on purpose?”
“Why shouldn’t I? I’m as Klingon as the next person, Kurak. I can debauch with the best of them. But sometimes, it is good to be calm and relaxed and enjoy food of a different type in quiet and solitude.”
“I dislike quiet and solitude,” she said as she peered at the display on the table that provided the menu options. “They are usually a prelude to disaster.”
Leskit chuckled. “Would you like me to order for you?”
“I’m not a child, Leskit. I’m capable of choosing my own meal.”
“I do not doubt it, but I know the cuisine somewhat better than you, and—”
Now Kurak grinned. “You assume much, Leskit. I never said I’ve never eaten Vulcan food.”
That brought the pilot up short. “Oh?”
“Father entertained some Vulcan diplomats when I was a girl. Moloj went to great lengths to obtain proper Vulcan food, since he knew they had that ridiculous taboo against meat.” She shook her head. “I remember that old toDSaH whining like a Ferengi when he couldn’t get the right leaves for the salad—especially when the houseboy who usually did the shopping threw up his hands and said, ‘We cannot have this in our house! This isn’t food, it’s what food eats!’ ”
Both of them shared a laugh at that. Kurak perused the menu for a bit more, then ordered a vranto salad, t’mirak rice, and ulan soup. Leskit was silently impressed that Kurak knew the order of dishes—soup always came last.
For his part, he knew better than to have anything but Syruk’s plomeek to finish; he began with lirs, a grain dish.
The first course came in fairly short order, along with utensils. Kurak frowned in annoyance, but Leskit smiled. He recalled the first time K’dot brought him here, and Leskit had asked why weapons were provided with the food. In later years, Syruk had admitted that when the restaurant first opened, they hadn’t bothered providing utensils because they assumed the Klingon patrons wouldn’t use them anyhow, but enough complaints from the assorted Vulcanoids led to them providing such for all.
Lirs was a specialty of the house. Leskit had been told by experts that Syruk’s lirs was far superior to what one got on Vulcan; for his part, he’d never had Vulcan food anywhere else and so could not judge. Kurak ate her food silently and without complaint—though without compliment, either.
That ended when the soups arrived. Kurak stared at it, leaned in and smelled it, then finally picked up the spoon.
Leskit had already taken two sips of his plomeek, and it was as magnificent as ever. Vulcan soups were usually palate cleansers, washing down the meal, and also providing a distinctive, if not overwhelming, flavor.
The ulan did likewise but had more flavor than the plomeek. Apparently, that flavor was to Kurak’s liking, as she wore an expression of pleasure. Leskit recognized it mainly by virtue of being the only person in the empire who’d ever seen such an expression on her face.
“It would seem,” Kurak said with a smile, “that you win the bet, Leskit. Once again, you have proved me wrong about something. This is rapidly becoming a habit.”
“One I’m more than happy to maintain.”
“Do you mean that?” Kurak asked.
Leskit frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, Leskit, that we have been sleeping together, eating together, being together for months now. You’ve seen me through some of the worst times of my life. We have been acting as mates do.”
Not sure he liked where this was going, Leskit said, “My dear Kurak—you forget that I am already mated.”
“Divorce is a simple enough procedure,” Kurak said with a shrug.
“True, but I would not leave my son Houseless.”
“What do you mean?”
Pausing to finish his own soup, Leskit then set the bowl aside. “I said earlier that my House was as nothing to that of the mighty Palkar.”
Kurak snorted at that.
“However, it is a great and noble House compared to Karreka’s. Before we were mated, she belonged to the House of Krolt.”
“I do not know that House.”
Smiling wryly, Leskit said, “No reason you should. It was never much of a House even before it was dissolved.”
Now Kurak nodded in understanding. “If you divorce her, she will be left destitute.”
“As will my son.”
“You could petition the High Council for custody. You are a member of the crew that just won the war against the Elabrej. I can’t imagine you would be refused.”
Leskit shook his head. He’d thought this all through months ago. “And then what? Karreka should have custody. I have no skills in child rearing. Nor do I have any desire to see her left Houseless and childless.”
That seemed to render Kurak mute. She silently slurped the rest of her ulan. Leskit did not like the implications of the silence.
Finally, when she had finished the soup, she looked up at him. “Then where does that leave us?”
“In a Vulcan restaurant enjoying each other’s company. What more is required?”
“Perhaps nothing.” She got to her feet. “I must return to Praxis Station. There is much to be done.”
Also rising, Leskit said, “Kurak—”
She held up her hands. “You are correct, of course, Leskit. It would be dishonorable of you to abandon your mate and child to such a fate simply to please me. It was wrong of me to even ask it of you.” Then she smiled, which came to Leskit as something of a relief. “We will dine again tomorrow night.”
“Yes,” Leskit said. “This time, you may pick the eatery.”
“Then we shall return here.”
With that, Kurak left the restaurant. Leskit thought with amusement that this obviously meant that he was paying for the meal.
He wished Kurak hadn’t brought up the subject of mating. All things being equal, Leskit would gladly mate with Kurak—particularly this new improved version that wasn’t drunk all the time and smiled a lot and ate Vulcan food. But things were not equal. For starters, their relationship primarily worked because they served on the same vessel. But what would happen if one of them were transferred? It had already happened once—after the mission to taD, Leskit had been rotated back to the Rotarran, not returning to the Gorkon until their Kavrot sector exploration months later.
Plus, a year from now she would be resigning her commission. Her nephew would reach the Age of Ascension and she would go back to being a civilian engineer, far away from the fools and incompetents of the Defense Force.
And finally, there was Karreka and young Ch’kan. It was neither of their faults that their mate and father was a reprobate who was unfit for either job. He could not abandon them so callously. As Kurak had said, it would be the height of dishonor, and Leskit’s honor was weak enough without doing that to erode it.
He ordered a bread dish called saffir for dessert. Perhaps tomorrow night, I will try the ulan.
Three
Command Headquarters
First City, Qo’noS
Klag refused to look at his brother.
Eight of the twelve captains who had been assigned to vessels of the Chancellor class were present in General Kriz’s office. Of the remaining four, three of them—the commanders of the Gowron, Kravokh, and Azetbur—had died in battle. The fourth was Captain Kvaad of the Kesh, who had remained behind with General Goluk at Elabrej.
Dorrek, son of M’Raq, former member of M’Raq’s House and current captain of the K’mpec, stood on the far side of the large office from Klag, which certain
ly made it easier for Klag to avoid eye contact.
Kriz had been asking the captains in turn for their reports on the conquests they’d made in the Kavrot sector. To Klag’s relief, the general did not ask him first, nor did he ask Dorrek. Instead, Captain Vikagh told of the Ditagh’s accomplishments, finding three uninhabited but quite habitable worlds.
When he finished, Kriz nodded at Vikagh, then turned to Captain Gatrell of the Sturka. Kriz was a tall, wiry Klingon with a pockmarked crest and small eyes. Gatrell, who stood to Klag’s left, was much shorter, with broad shoulders, a boxy build, and a very simple crest. He’d been shifting his weight from foot to foot throughout Vikagh’s entire report, showing a lack of discipline that Klag found surprising in the captain of one of the fleet’s finest.
Then again, they gave Dorrek a command, he thought uncharitably, then added with wry amusement, not to mention giving one to me, so perhaps the standards are not as high as one might hope.
After staring down at a padd for a second, Kriz looked back up at Gatrell. “Captain, you reported finding several inhabitable worlds in the system designated Kavrot javmaH jav. Your report to General Goluk indicated that its conquest was imminent, so much so that you were unable to participate in the battle against the Elabrej.”
Angrily, Gatrell said, “We were too distant to join in that war! Even had we broken off our attempted conquest, we would not have arrived until long after the battle had ceased!”
“Yes,” Kriz said in a low, menacing tone, “your ‘attempted’ conquest. That same report said that you would plant the flag in that system within the week. Yet when the summons to return to Qo’noS was given, you returned to the homeworld with no conquests in your record of battle. What happened?”
Again, Gatrell started shifting uncomfortably. “Our scans were…misleading. My second officer insisted that the world had no technology, but he misunderstood the readings. The natives of the planet had biological tools, spaceships—and weapons. They were quite effective. We were unable to defend ourselves against their living spaceships with their bioelectric weapons. I put the second officer to death and returned to Qo’noS as ordered.”
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