Dragon's Honor

by Greg Cox

  “We will do what we can,” he stated. He tapped his comm badge, opening a line to the planet below. “Enterprise to Captain Picard.”

  “Have another glazed cornea,” the Dragon said. “Captain, you are far too thin.”

  “Thank you,” Picard said. “I would be delighted.”

  He was not, in fact, delighted in any way whatsoever. For several hours now, he had been consuming dishes composed almost entirely of various sorts of animal effluvia. He had always prided himself on his strong stomach, trained by decades of Starfleet service to accept the exotic cuisines of dozens of starfaring races, but on Pai he had finally met his match. There had been so much of it, and so much of it foul, that he felt more than a little queasy. An avid historian, he could not help remembering a twentieth-century American president who once disgorged the contents of a sick stomach at a conference with his Asian counterpart. Picard prayed that history would not repeat itself on Pai.

  Additionally, the game of ch’i was not over yet. He had thought the Dragon had won when all of Picard’s pieces were taken, and he’d congratulated him on his victory with a genuine enthusiasm that had nothing to do with the quality of his playing; but the Dragon assured him that this was only the first phase of the game, that now Picard was obligated to attempt to free all the warrior-pieces and marry off the dishonored women-pieces.

  Troi brought him a goblet containing some clear liquid. “Have a sip,” she whispered.

  “What is it?” he asked warily, looking into its transparent depths. Nothing vile was floating in it, but he would not be surprised to find out it was some loathsome insect’s saliva. He contemplated his reflection in the fluid, and hoped he didn’t really look that green.

  “Water,” she said. “You could use some. If Beverly were here, I’m sure this is what she’d prescribe.” Grinning weakly, she stepped back toward the fireplace. By now, only a few glowing red coals remained in the oven. Picard wondered if Deanna’s empathic senses had forced her to share his nausea. If so, she deserved a commendation.

  Picard started to sip the water. Then Mu arrived once more to whisper something into the Emperor’s ear. A huge smile broke over the Dragon’s jovial features. He gestured expansively toward the servants now converging from every corner of the kitchen. Picard observed the servants murmuring among themselves in an excited, possibly even agitated manner. Something is definitely up, he concluded. What now?

  “At last,” the Dragon chortled. “The final triumph of our culinary odyssey: ma erh tsai mao tan ch’ing!”

  A half-dozen servants approached the bench in a solemn procession, headed by the master chef himself (identifiable by his vast bulk), holding a single tiny dish high over his head.

  “This seems a lot to servants to serve one dish,” Picard observed.

  “This delicacy has not been prepared in a thousand years,” the Dragon informed him. “Each of these peasants had some small part in its production, so they’re eager to see it consumed; it will be something to tell their children and grandchildren. I have chosen to indulge them in this matter, provided you have no objections?”

  “No, of course not.” Picard found himself torn between relief and apprehension. If this was indeed to be the final item on tonight’s menu, then it was truly a consumption devoutly to be wished. On the other hand, the earlier repasts had been so dreadful that he shuddered to contemplate what the Dragon might consider the pièce de résistance.

  The chef awkwardly lowered his meaty frame until he was lying facedown on the floor before his Emperor. One hand still held the dish up high; Picard could spy only a covered serving tray seemingly sculpted from solid gold. Emeralds and rubies studded the gleaming lid, each one larger and more radiant than the one before it. Picard had not seen such shameless ostentation since the last time he dined with a successful Ferengi.

  The chamberlain himself took the dish from the chef’s hand. He gulped and swallowed nervously, clearly terrified that he might spill a drop of the precious comestible. Mu placed it carefully on the playing board between the Dragon and Picard, then slowly removed the intricately filigreed top. Picard eyed the contents of the dish for the first time.

  Even by Pai standards, it looked sickening and smelled even worse. Gnarled objects that might have been talons floated in a murky fluid that showed oily swirls of dark clotted red and a viscous pale green. The concoction boiled and bubbled like a witch’s cauldron; Picard spotted a speckled worm of some sort writhing within one of the bubbles seconds before it popped, dropping the wriggling creature back into the gangrenous depths of the broth. The acrid fumes rising from the frothing liquid made Picard’s eyes water, and the noxious aroma—like a Klingon locker room right after a particularly frenzied battle—caused his gorge to rise.

  “I am sorry,” Picard said, choosing the lesser of two evils. “But I’m afraid it will be quite impossible to taste this.”

  “Why?” the Dragon said with a frown. His cherubic face grew petulant. “Do you mean it isn’t satisfactory?”

  “I mean it would be quite impossible,” Picard repeated. Better to decline the meal, he decided, than to be rendered physically ill by it.

  Scowling, the Dragon peered at the noisome mess in the gilded tray. He plucked free a talon from the stew; it came loose with a sticky, sucking sound. Filmy strands of semidissolved fiber clung to the talon; they might have been spiderwebs. The smell that rose from the talon was strong enough to tarnish the golden tray. The Dragon sniffed the claw. “Perhaps you are right,” he said at last. “This is an old recipe; the cooks may have prepared it incorrectly.”

  A whimpering noise arose from the prostrate chef. The Dragon ignored it. He called out to one of the squat, pug-faced dogs prowling the kitchen. The animal trotted over eagerly. It gobbled the rancid talon in the Dragon’s outstretched hand. The Emperor watched the dog warily. At first it seemed delighted by the snack. Within seconds, however, the dog was gripped by convulsions. It shuddered, coughed once, than collapsed onto its side. Mu hastily examined the dog. “I fear it is dead, Exalted One,” he announced. Picard’s back stiffened in alarm.

  “Definitely prepared incorrectly,” the Dragon said blandly. “Mu, have all who touched this dish incarcerated.”

  “Your Excellence . . . no!” the terrified chef protested. All over the kitchen cries of distress arose from the cooks and servers.

  “Wait,” Picard said, speaking loudly to be heard over the din. “Excellence, this may be more than a simple error in preparation. Consider: an attempt has been made to poison you once already.”

  “And you think this is another?” the Dragon said. The thought had obviously not occurred to him. “What a bother. And I was so looking forward to sharing this culinary treat with you.”

  Frustrated by the Dragon’s apparent lack of concern for his own well-being, Picard struggled to maintain his composure. “Counselor?” he asked Troi. “What’s your reading on the room? Anything incriminating?”

  Troi shook her head. “I’m not detecting any sense of guilt or deception. If this was another assassination attempt, then the assassin is no longer present. That, or the assassin feels no guilt whatsoever.”

  A chilling thought, Picard reflected. He needed to get to the bottom of this latest incident as soon as possible. “Excellence,” he said, “with your permission, I would like this dish and the dog examined by my people.”

  “You want a dead dog?” the Dragon said, somewhat taken aback.

  “To examine for signs of poison,” Picard explained. The Dragon shrugged. “My palace is yours, although surely there must be better prizes we can grant you than a dead animal and a poorly cooked meal?”

  “The dog will do, Excellence,” Picard insisted. Poison or no poison, he was glad he’d been spared a taste of the foul concoction. Saved by a failed assassination attempt, he mused. His hand hovered above his comm badge; he was ready to contact the Enterprise and request that both specimens be beamed directly to sickbay for analysis.

 
To his surprise, Data contacted him first.

  “I regret that I have some bad news, Captain,” the android’s voice came over the comm. “We have reason to believe that a G’kkau fleet is heading for Pai—and should be there within twelve hours.”

  Chapter Ten

  “YOU MEAN HE DOES WHAT?” the Green Pearl exclaimed. “It sounds dreadful!”

  The future bride sat face-to-face with Beverly within the sealed harem chamber. Plush velvet cushions were strewn around them. At the far end of the room, Hsiao Har practiced somersaults and did her best to pretend she had no interest in Beverly and Yao Hu’s conversation. Beverly suspected she was hanging on every word.

  Knowing little about the sexual mores of the Pai had placed Beverly in a delicate position. If she told the Pearl too little, the poor girl would go to her marriage bed ill prepared for what was expected of her; yet if she told her too much, the girl might end up seeming far more worldly than a sheltered virgin should be, resulting in heaven knows what sort of scandal or repercussions. Beverly could just imagine the Pearl being stoned or exiled because Beverly revealed some forbidden Federation love secret. Faced with this thorny dilemma, Beverly had chosen to stick to the basics; fortunately, her exam of Yao Hu had proved the Pai to be just as humanoid as they appeared.

  “It can be quite pleasant,” Beverly said, hoping to reassure the girl.

  The Pearl still looked aghast. “Surely you have never done this?”

  “A number of times, my dear.” Surely, Beverly thought, there could be no harm in alleviating the girl’s fears. A happy honeymoon was in everyone’s best interests.

  “But you have no children,” the Pearl protested, possibly because Beverly was not at home caring for them.

  “I do have a son. He’s about your age now.” She wondered where Wesley was now. Off exploring the universe with the Traveler, presumably. She hoped she had prepared Wesley better for his journeys than Lord Lu Tung had coached the Pearl.

  “And you still permitted this . . . act? Even though you had already done your duty to his father?”

  “Well, yes, I did.”

  “Why?”

  “It can be very enjoyable,” Beverly said slowly, not wanting to say any more.

  “How can it be?” the Pearl said, looking more distressed by the minute. “It all sounds so . . . undignified.”

  Off in the corner, Hsiao Har snickered loudly, but Yao Hu was too anxious to even give her future stepdaughter another dirty look.

  Beverly’s heart went out to the Pearl. This is no way for her to go to her wedding night. “I assure you, it sounds more intimidating than it is. One’s body has a say in this, and one’s body often likes it quite a lot.” Judging from the wary expression on Pearl’s face, she remained unconvinced. Beverly took a deep breath and tried again. “Besides,” she said, “then there is love.”

  “Love?” Yao Hu suddenly looked utterly crestfallen, as though the word itself had driven a dagger through her heart. Beverly hoped she hadn’t made a terrible mistake. Remember, she told herself, this is an arranged marriage. Love probably has very little to do with it.

  Still, she was in too deep to get out now. “Yes,” she said softly. “Do your people speak of love?”

  The Pearl nodded, biting her lower lip.

  “When a man and a woman love each other,” Beverly continued, “the act of making love becomes a very beautiful, tender experience. It’s about sharing, really.” She watched the Pearl’s face avidly, worried about the effect of her words. “Do you understand what I mean, Yao Hu?”

  Instead of replying, the Green Pearl burst into tears. Water streamed from her large emerald eyes. Her breaths turned into wet, rasping sobs that shook her entire body. Letting out a cry of anguish, she buried her face in her hands.

  What have I done? Beverly thought, horrified. Even Hsiao Har seemed stunned by the depth of the Pearl’s despair. The young tomboy stopped tumbling and hurried to Yao Hu’s side. Kneeling beside the stricken girl, Hsiao Har appeared, for the first time that evening, at a loss for words. Her eyes accused Beverly at the same time that they silently beseeched the Federation doctor to do something about the other girl’s unhappiness. But Beverly didn’t need Hsiao Har’s demanding stare to feel guilty. This is all my fault, she thought. Now what do I do?

  “Now, now,” she cooed reassuringly, patting the crying girl’s back. “I’m sure that in time you and the Heir will come to love each other.”

  “No,” Yao Hu moaned. She raised her head from her hands. Her once-pale face was now flushed and red. Tears streaked her cheeks. “That is impossible!” she howled so loudly that Beverly prayed the room was soundproofed. What would Lu Tung think if he found his daughter like this? What would Jean-Luc say?

  “No it isn’t,” she said. Unlikely perhaps, she thought, recalling the sour-faced older man she’d glimpsed during the banquet, but not impossible. “I’m sure the Heir is a wonderful man. Isn’t that so, Hsiao Har? Tell the Pearl what a fine and caring man your father is.”

  The other girl shrugged. “I’m not sure I’d go that far,” she said hesitantly. Thanks a lot, Beverly thought angrily, glaring at Hsiao Har as another burst of sobs rattled the Pearl’s delicate frame. Beverly held on to the Pearl tightly, and felt Yao Hu leaning against her for support. Never mind the treaty and the politics, she thought. I have to do something for this poor, heartbroken girl. “The Heir will have to fall in love with you,” she promised. “How could he not? You’re the Green Pearl, after all.”

  “No, no,” Yao Hu cried, shaking her head violently. “You don’t understand. I can’t love Chuan-chi. It’s impossible!”

  “But why not, dear?” Beverly asked. She stroked the Pearl’s long, ebony hair.

  “Because I love another!” the Pearl confessed. She buried her face against Beverly’s robes.

  Beverly’s jaw dropped. So did Hsiao Har’s. The doctor and the Heir’s daughter stared at each other. Neither of them had any idea what to say now.

  “Are you quite positive, Data?” Picard asked. He had removed himself to a quiet corner of the imperial kitchen in order to have a private conference with the Enterprise. From where he now stood, in the shadow of an enormous oak cupboard, he could see Troi busily entertaining the Dragon with what was no doubt sparkling conversation. The Emperor seemed to be having rather too good a time, in fact; Picard did not approve of the way the Dragon’s hand kept finding Deanna’s knee. Still, the counselor would have to fend for herself for the time being. Judging from what Data had just reported, more than Deanna’s virtue was at stake.

  “I am afraid so, Captain,” the android said via Picard’s comm badge. “Our sensors now confirm that a fleet of nearly one hundred G’kkau warships are en route for Pai, with an estimated time of arrival of two point seven-six hours before the wedding. We are unable to take aggressive action against the fleet, since they are largely concealed within the nebula; and we would be unable to do so in any case, since such action would be seen as an affront to the Dragon Empire.”

  “I am aware of the issues involved, Data.”

  “I did not doubt that, sir. What are your recommendations, Captain?”

  “You will need to find a means of stalling the fleet or preventing their approach to Pai without actively engaging them.”

  “Understood, sir. If there were a single ship, I would interpose the Enterprise between the G’kkau vessel and the planet. Sadly, that is not feasible in this case.”

  “You will need to find something that is feasible,” Picard instructed. A chef passed by him, carrying a pot of boiling water. A thought occurred to Picard. “By the way, Data, have you managed to test the food that was beamed up a few minutes ago, along with the dead animal?”

  “Yes, Captain,” Data replied. “Dr. Selar examined the specimens immediately. She reports that the toxin looked to be natural, possibly derived from some native snake or reptile.”

  “I see,” Picard said grimly. Then the fatal dish was no accident after
all. He felt a chill when realized how close the unknown assassin came to killing both the Dragon and himself. Thank goodness, he thought, the stuff was too vile to eat. His queasy stomach had saved both their lives. “Thank you, Data. Please keep me informed. Picard out.”

  He glanced over at the Dragon, who was moving steadily closer to Troi, a lecherous grin upon his face. Time to go rescue Deanna, he thought, striding across the kitchen. If only it were so easy to save the Dragon Empire. . . .

  Worf and Chih-li strolled through the opulent corridors of the Imperial Palace. Worf had found the palace’s external defenses more than adequate, if hardly sufficient to repel a full-scale G’kkau invasion. Now, as they headed back toward the High Hall of Ceremonial Grandeur to check once more on the safety of the wedding gifts, they continued their discussion of Pai, Klingon, and Federation codes of honor.

  “Here is another question,” the Minister of Internal Security said. The metal links of his armor made chinking noises as he marched beside Worf. “What would happen if your fu t’ou was gored by your neighbor’s fu t’ou?”

  “That would depend,” Worf said gruffly, “on what a fu t’ou was.”

  “A sort of herbivore,” Chih-li explained, “good for pulling wagons.”

  “Ah,” Worf said. “A sark. In the Federation, it would depend on whether the beast had been goaded, and whether the goading had been consciously effected, at which point the individual responsible would be fined and sent into therapy for treatment of the instability that would cause one to deliberately hurt an animal. If convicted of the accusation, that is.”

  Chih-li scowled. “Not a very interesting penalty.”“In the Klingon Empire,” Worf said proudly, “such an event would require the death of the offending sark, and a payment of five thousand Huch.”

  “Only five thousand?” the minister asked. “We would cut off the offending neighbor’s hand as well.”