Dragon's Honor

by Greg Cox

  The human snorted. “How should I know? The names of their ships are incomprehensible to me. Unlike The Heavenly Dream of the Crimson Dragon’s Eternal Life, my own royal yacht.”

  A familiar throbbing grew stronger in Kakkh’s forebrain. This human’s persistent idiocy made his head hurt. He had to impress upon the Pai the necessity of his murderous mission. “The Enterprise cannot act before the treaty is signed. Kill the Dragon and you will preserve the sacred honor of your Empire. Your courageous blow will be remembered for all eternity.”

  “Oh, yes,” the human said. Naked greed and ambition shone in his face.

  “Do your duty, Dragon-to-Be,” Kakkh coaxed. “Bring honor to your descendants for a thousand generations.”

  “For my sons,” the human agreed readily, “and the sons of my sons.” The human appeared convinced, at least for a moment. Then, to Kakkh’s dismay as he watched, doubt overtook enthusiasm upon the human’s pale, scaleless visage. His eyes shifted back and forth, as if suddenly fearful of observation. “I hope I do right to trust you,” he said hesitantly. “Please do not be offended if I express certain reservations. You cannot deny that, even more so than the outsiders from the Federation, you are very different from us.”

  Kakkh drew himself up regally. “Are we not the dragons of your ancient lore?” he asked. “Are we not the very symbols of your Empire’s honor?”

  “I do not mean to impugn your honor, friend dragon,” the human insisted. “I have no doubt that you are noble creatures, and have naught but the Empire’s best interests at heart. It is merely that we have enjoyed the comfort of our solitude for so long that is difficult to reach beyond our own realm even to such venerable allies as yourselves.”

  “We have no desire to disturb your sacred traditions,” Kakkh assured him. “Fear instead the wiles of the Federation, and strike now before they corrupt your Empire as they have contaminated so many other worlds before you. You must take action—for honor’s sake.”

  The human nodded gravely. Kakkh thought he perceived renewed determination in the human’s demeanor, but who could be sure where such worthless creatures were concerned? Nostrils flaring at the end of his snout, Kakkh sniffed the air, but smelled only the ordinary scents of a warship’s bridge. He looked forward to tasting the odors of Pai itself, after they had eliminated the unsuspecting mammals and terraformed the planet to suit their own needs.

  “I shall do as you say,” the human said, visibly squaring his shoulders beneath his flowing robes. He bowed again, more deeply this time, and the screen went blank.

  “Honorless dolt,” Gar said. The younger G’kkau eased partly up the mound. His green scales reflected the dim interior lights of the bridge.

  “When has any being not of the G’kkau ever shown honor?” Kakkh said. “They are all mere animals. Prey.”

  “What of the Federation?” Gar asked. “I have heard of this Picard. It is said he defeated the Borg, and more than once.”

  Kakkh had smelled the same reports, but was not overly concerned. Picard had a weakness: his precious Prime Directive. “He can do nothing until the treaty takes effect,” he explained. “With the Dragon dead, the wedding will not occur and the treaty will be invalid. And after the Dragon is gone, nothing can stop our puppet from seizing control of the Empire. Under his rule, the Pai will offer no resistance to our invasion and, in time, the traitor’s death will be but one drop in an ocean of blood. And the famous Captain Picard, conqueror of the Borg, will be powerless to stop us.”

  Kakkh sniffed the air again. This time he smelled victory.

  The turbolift door slid open and Beverly walked into Transporter Room One.

  No, Picard decided: walked was too pedestrian a word. Dr. Beverly Crusher glided in, as beautiful and as exotic as the illustrations from a centuries-old children’s book. She wore a full-length robe with huge sleeves that trailed on the ground as she entered. Beneath it were a series of other robes, their various iridescent fabrics showing at her neckline and at the openings of the sleeves. The outermost robe was pale peach and green, painted in an elaborate pattern of ribbon-entwined flowers and rings. Her thick red hair had been pulled back to the nape of her neck with a broad painted ribbon that fluttered as she moved. Her eyes were startlingly dark against her luminous skin. In one hand, she carried a small silk fan.

  Sometimes I forget just how attractive Beverly is, Picard thought ruefully. More fool I. He stepped forward and applauded quietly. “You look . . . enchanting,” he said. If they weren’t minutes away from beaming down, he would have offered her his arm.

  “Bravo,” Riker said. He stood waiting, along with Data, at the foot of the transporter platform. Ensign McKenna, a blue-skinned Bolian female, was posted at the transporter controls, ready to beam the away team down to Pai. “Doctor, you’ll outshine the bride herself. What gorgeous robes.”

  “Left over from my revival of The Mikado,” she explained. “Judging from my historical research, all this is quite an ordinary rig for a female guest at a royal wedding. I expect I’ll be solidly average down there.”

  “I had my doubts before,” Picard said, “but I have to admit I was mistaken. This is a lovely touch, and one which the Pai are bound to appreciate.”

  Beverly laughed. “Maybe if they wore burlap I wouldn’t have been so quick to volunteer.” She inspected Picard and the others. “You gentlemen don’t look so bad yourselves.”

  “Frankly,” Picard said, scowling, “I always dislike wearing this . . . folderol.” He gestured at his red-and-black dress uniform, his medals gleaming discreetly on a black shoulder.

  Riker nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean, sir. We’re all more comfortable in our duty uniforms. By the way, are you sure we should be carrying phasers? It seems odd for a diplomatic mission.”

  “Indeed,” Picard agreed. “However, the Pai insisted on dealing with warriors. According to our admittedly sketchy knowledge of Pai customs, a man of quality is expected to carry weapons at all times.”

  “If you say so,” Riker said, shrugging.

  “You think you’re feeling awkward,” Beverly said with a grin. “Wait until you see Deanna.”

  “She’s on her way?” Riker asked.

  “She’s coming down with Worf, but she keeps tripping on her robes. Fortunately, Worf’s there to assist her.”

  “That is . . . fortunate,” Riker said. Picard heard the edge in his first officer’s voice, despite Riker’s best efforts to conceal it. The slowly simmering romantic triangle between Will, Worf, and Deanna was a source of private concern to Picard. So far the fledgling relationship between the Klingon and the counselor, along with her deep ties to Will Riker, had not interfered with the smooth running of the Enterprise. Picard hoped he’d never have to intervene in any of his officers’ private lives, but he remained acutely aware of the potential for friction.

  But that was a problem for another day. Right now, another union took priority, namely the crucial wedding of the Green Pearl and the Dragon-Heir. “They’re going to have to be a little more brisk,” he said a tad impatiently.

  “Don’t look so sour, Jean-Luc,” Beverly said. “Weddings are supposed to be happy occasions, remember?”

  “I will enjoy myself after the wedding,” he said.

  “Until then, I am simply concerned that everything go well.”

  “Before every wedding everywhere,” Beverly reassured him, “someone says that, and they mostly come off all right. There’s rather more at stake here, but it’s still just a wedding, after all.” The transporter-room door opened behind her, making a slight whishing noise. “Oh, here they are,” she said, turning gracefully to see the newcomers.

  Worf had elected to stay aboard to insure the security of the ship and to watch for the reappearance of the G’kkau warship, so he still wore his regular duty uniform with the broad metallic sash glittering over one shoulder, but Troi was as spectacular as Beverly had promised. Her robes were styled similarly to the doctor’s, but the
fabrics shimmered slightly and were colored deep blues and purples. She curtsied to the applause of the others.

  “Thank you all,” Troi said, still kneeling, then muttered something under her breath. Picard distinctly heard the word “hell” escape the counselor’s lips.

  “Something the matter?” Riker asked.

  “You can stand back up now, Deanna,” Beverly said simultaneously.

  “I would if I hadn’t stepped on my hem as I went down. Now I’ll fall over if I try.” Troi shifted slightly, and put out a hand to rebalance herself. “Damn,” she swore again.

  “Fascinating,” Data observed. Picard wondered if he was intrigued by Deanna’s costume, her language, or the physics involved.

  Riker stepped forward to assist Troi, but Worf was already closer to her. “Allow me, Counselor,” the Klingon said. He caught her arms and lifted her bodily, causing her feet to clear the floor by a couple of centimeters, before he set her upright.

  “Thank you, Worf,” she said. Riker stood by stiffly.

  Picard decided to defuse any tension even before it began. “Mr. Worf,” he said, all business. “Please report to the bridge. If anything resembling a G’kkau vessel shows up on our sensors, I want to know about it immediately.”

  “Understood,” Worf said. The door whished open and he marched out of the transporter room. Picard and the rest of the away team took their places on the platform. Troi stumbled slightly stepping onto the cell. She tugged up the hem of her robes with obvious exasperation.

  “The more I try to navigate in this thing,” she commented, “the more I appreciate nude weddings.”

  This mission is not getting off to a good start, Picard thought grimly. “Ensign McKenna, energize.”

  Chapter Three

  RIKER BLINKED HARD. Even though he had successfully materialized on Pai, the shimmer of the transporter beam was still affecting his eyes. The large chamber in which he found himself glittered and twinkled with complex patterns of colored sparks that made his head swim.

  “Oh, my,” Beverly said. “I should have dressed up.”

  No, Riker realized suddenly, it wasn’t the transporter; it was the room. Every available surface had decorative patterns carved or painted or embossed or enameled onto it. White satin hangings adorned with brightly painted images of birds and flowers covered the walls. Polished porcelain tiles, elaborately embellished, covered the floor, which was impeccably clean and pristine; Riker could not see a single scuff mark marring its shining surface. Glancing up at the ceiling, he saw the coils of a dragon, at least ten meters long, apparently carved from a single, gigantic piece of solid ivory. They had to have used a replicator to generate that much ivory, he thought. No living creature has a tusk that huge. At least I hope not. Every whisker, scale, and claw of the mythical beast had been executed in minute detail. Riker tore his gaze away from the dragon on the ceiling and looked around. Small pedestals made of dark, heavily lacquered wood rested in the corners of the chamber, supporting colorful china vases brimming over with roses, peach blossoms, and other floral arrangements. Even the air was suffused with rainbow-colored smoke from a series of paper lanterns that hung from the ceiling like chandeliers. The lanterns were painted with intricate designs, and the heavy scent of incense assaulted his nostrils, mingling with the odor of fresh flowers; for a second, Riker felt as though he’d been walled up inside a perfume factory.

  The rich, layered look of the chamber was furthered by the solitary individual waiting for the delegation from the Enterprise: a man as gaudy as the room itself, dressed in brightly dyed silk robes that reached almost to the floor. He also wore a black, lacquered cap tied to his head. Riker noticed that the man did not appear startled by the away team’s sudden materialization; he was evidently familiar with transporter technology, if only by reputation. He regarded the Pai official evenly, determined to make a good first impression. He hoped the robed man hadn’t caught him gawking like a tourist; still, all this extravagantly ornamented elegance was hard to ignore. His eyes were still reeling from the instant sensory overload.

  The Pai stepped toward them and bowed from the waist. He was a small, pudgy man almost lost in voluminous robes of emerald green trimmed with copper and pink. His face was Asian in appearance and clean-shaven except for a long, thin black mustache that dangled before both sides of his jaw. A thick ponytail hung, Manchu-style, from the back of his skull. He gripped a folded paper fan in one hand and wore, oddly enough, a monocle over his right eye. Both eyes held the anxious expression of a man whose life depended on catering to another’s whims. “Welcome,” he said. His voice was surprisingly high-pitched; Riker recalled that eunuchs had often served in high posts in imperial China. Frankly, Riker didn’t want to know if the same applied on Pai.

  Riker waited for the Pai to continue speaking, but, after a few moments, it became obvious that the man, whoever he was, had said all he was going to say.

  Picard stepped past Riker, toward the little man. “Greetings. I am—” he began.

  Unexpectedly, the man raised his hand in a gesture enjoining silence, and bowed again. The Pai’s fingernails, Riker observed, were easily as long as the fingers they were attached to. Picard stepped back into the midst of the away team, saying softly over his shoulder, “What is this about, Data?”

  The android’s response was pitched low. “Little reliable information regarding the Dragon Empire’s rules of etiquette is available, Captain. Nevertheless, a few conclusions might be drawn—”

  “Try to be brief, Mr. Data,” Picard interrupted him. “This gentleman doesn’t seem to mind the pause in proceedings, but it’s hardly necessary to extend it.”

  “I think I may have the answer,” Beverly whispered from under the cover of her fan. “Initially at least, equivalent ranks might be expected to deliver formal greetings only to each other, which means you can’t address a subordinate directly. Assuming, that is, that you are being held the equal in rank of the Dragon himself.”

  “Then who is supposed to speak to this gentleman?” Picard asked her.

  “My best guess would be Will,” she said.

  “Me?” Riker said softly. “I didn’t plan on giving a speech.”

  “Then you will have to improvise, Number One.”

  Riker gazed at the Pai official, who now exhibited the worried expression of a rabbit. He wondered momentarily how the man had deduced the captain’s rank prior to any introductions. Then he realized that Picard’s age and demeanor had no doubt quickly identified him as the leader of their party.

  Back straight, head held high, and feeling only a little foolish, Riker walked toward the other man. The official bowed once more. Trusting his instincts, Riker bowed back, then began to speak. “Sir. I am Commander William Riker of the Starship Enterprise. In the name of the United Federation of Planets, and on behalf of Captain Jean-Luc Picard—” He paused, and Picard nodded at the Pai.“—I greet you and thank you for inviting us to join your festivities.”

  The man looked visibly relieved that the awkward social impasse had been overcome. “Welcome, welcome,” he said effusively. “This humble one is privileged to extend the Dragon’s hospitality to all the honorable and esteemed officers of the Enterprise . . . and to the ladies as well. This insignificant one is the Dragon’s Grand Chamberlain, who has the small honor to go by the name Mu, granted to his grandfather a hundred summers ago after the unfortunate incident involving the tan shui. Please convey to your exalted captain my lowly salutations and devout wishes for his pleasure and satisfaction on Pai, Throneworld of the Empire, Jewel of the Solar System, Pride of the Nebula, Heavenly Treasure of the Universe, Principality of the Dragon-Heir, and Divine First Residence of the Revered and Illustrious Dragon.”

  Riker had to shut his eyes for a second. With all the ornate patterns covering the Pai’s clothing, every move the man made seemed to strobe gently. Listening to the chamberlain’s seemingly endless recitation of superlatives didn’t help his disorientation; in fact, Rike
r couldn’t help being reminded of Deanna’s mother, Lwaxana Troi, Daughter of the Fifth House, Holder of the Sacred Chalice of Rixx, and Heir to the Holy Rings of Betazed. Lwaxana would fit right in here, he thought, considering the garish decor and ostentatious ceremony. Besides, he’d always figured her for something of a dragon lady.

  “These are my fellow officers,” Riker said, pointing out his companions. “Lieutenant Commander Data, Dr. Beverly Crusher, and Ship’s Counselor Deanna Troi.” The chamberlain regarded Data curiously, then raised his eyebrows at the titles of both female officers. Rather than bowing, he gave both Troi and Crusher a hasty and rather embarrassed-looking tip of the head. Looks like Beverly was on target, Riker surmised, regarding sex roles on this planet. Mu didn’t seem to know what to make of the two women; he swiftly turned his attention to Riker and Picard.

  “Please grant me the honor of guiding you to the divine presence of the Dragon,” he said, bowing deeply. Mu continued to bow while backing toward a wide, gilded arch at the far end of the chamber. Riker took the lead as the Starfleet officers followed Mu toward the door. The spacious chamber was wide enough for ten to walk abreast, but the crew fell into pairs to make a stately and disciplined entrance. Picard walked beside Riker.

  “Is he going to back all the way to the arch?” Deanna whispered from behind Riker. “Still bowing?”

  It appeared so. The chamberlain appeared to be engrossed in studying the porcelain floor tiles as he led them across the room. Approaching the arch, Riker heard music coming from a short distance away. The tinkle of copper bells mingled with the twang of some sort of string instrument to produce an exotic melody that reminded him of a traditional Chinese restaurant he’d once visited on Deep Space Six. As a rule, Riker preferred classic Earth jazz and blues, but he had to admit that this music fit the colorful Oriental decor.

  Looking around, he found it easy to imagine that he had somehow been transported through time and space to the Forbidden City in Peking during the height of the Ming or Manchu dynasties. Riker had to remind himself that the historical feel of his surroundings did not rule out the presence of advanced technology; many cultures chose to keep their high-tech hardware unobtrusive and out of sight. Even in the twenty-fourth century, not every locale resembled the bridge of a starship.