Dragon's Honor

by Greg Cox

  “I find that very hard to believe,” Troi said. “You are the Dragon, after all.”

  “Well, nobody new anyway,” he said shamelessly, unfazed by the stern and disapproving expression that came over Picard’s face. “Perhaps, if your captain would be so generous as to do without your company tonight, you would care to inspect the Imperial Bedchamber, also known as the Nocturnal Temple of One Thousand Concupiscent Delights?” He rubbed his hands together eagerly.

  That’s it, Picard thought angrily. “Excellence,” he said firmly, rising to his feet. “I must object to—”

  To his surprise, Troi interrupted him. “I would be happy to accompany you, Most Excellent and Exalted One, provided that is acceptable to my lord and master Captain Picard.” She winked at Picard, who found himself momentarily speechless. He thought he knew what Troi had in mind, but still . . .

  “Deanna,” he said quietly, too low for the Dragon to hear, “you don’t have to do this.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Captain. I can take care of myself—and the Dragon.”

  Troi was volunteering, he realized, to watch over the Dragon for the night and keep him safe from lurking assassins, but Picard couldn’t see how she would be able to do that without exposing herself to a compromising situation. “Is there anything I can do to help make your mission . . . well, less eventful?”

  “Actually, there is,” Troi said brightly. “Perhaps you can arrange to have a bottle of Romulan ale beamed directly to the Dragon’s quarters?” She treated the Dragon to a captivating smile. “It’s a wonderful potion, Exalted One, perfect for romantic evenings.”

  And likely to knock the Dragon off his feet, Picard deduced, on top of all the wine the Emperor has already consumed. He had to admire Deanna’s ingenuity, even though he still felt distinctly uncomfortable about allowing her to pursue this plan. I should probably not mention this turn of events, he thought, to either Worf or Riker.

  Chapter Eleven

  “THEY MUST BE AWARE we are still here,” Lieutenant Melilli said. “Even without knowing how good their sensors are, we are a large ship and making no secret of our presence.”

  Aboard the bridge of the Enterprise, Data continued to monitor the relentless progress of the G’kkau fleet toward Pai. Any probability that the mere existence of the Enterprise in orbit around Pai would serve to deter the G’kkau invasion was rapidly sinking below .0001. “They do not appear concerned by our presence,” he concluded.

  “Why wouldn’t they be, sir?” Melilli asked. “We are a Federation starship, hardly a negligible threat.”

  “Either they are overconfident, due to their superiority in numbers, or they are fully aware of the political factors limiting our responses.” Data recalled his most recent conversation with the captain. The current prognosis for the treaty was not encouraging.

  “Which way could it be?” Melilli wondered aloud. The distinctive creases on the bridge of her nose seemed to wrinkle together as she pondered the possibilities.

  “There is one possible way of finding out,” Data stated calmly. “Ensign Kamis, hail the G’kkau fleet.”

  Melilli looked quizzical. Data was not surprised that Melilli appeared puzzled by his command. As a former Bajoran freedom fighter, her first instincts were usually to shoot first and talk later. Much later.

  “They know we are here,” he explained. “Perhaps we can convince them not to proceed further.” Data maintained a serene, inscrutable expression. “It is what is known in poker, Lieutenant, as a bluff.”

  “A color-blind unicorn finds the left-handed virgin,” commented the Speaker of Aphorisms, “as the crescent moon dips twice in the same soup.”

  “Er, exactly,” Riker said. Meng Chiao seemed to have a million ancient sayings lodged in his head, and none of them made a bit of sense. Riker shuffled the cards while glancing around the crowded harem for the Dragon-Heir. Chuan-chi had stepped away from the game momentarily to “rearrange my robes,” which Riker had discovered to be a common euphemism for answering the call of nature. Riker would feel better when he had the Heir in sight; bad enough that Kan-hi had remained missing ever since storming out a short time before. He wondered what had become of the Dragon’s younger and more wayward son.

  Then, to his relief, the mob of bachelors parted to let Chuan-chi back to the historic site of Pai’s first genuine poker game. “My apologies,” he said curtly as, with much show of dignity, he slowly lowered himself onto a waiting cushion. “You may resume,” he instructed Riker.

  A few more players, all young lords of the Empire, had taken the Second Son’s place in the game. The rest of the bachelors huddled around them in a circle, watching the game idly—and betting on the outcome—when they weren’t pawing the serving girls or passing out from drinking too much wine. So far, there had been no further violence, which made the poker game something of a success, even though the Pai still seemed to be having trouble with some of the fundamentals of the game. “Okay,” he said. “Ante up, gentlemen.”

  The various nobles drew forth tiny embroidered purses from the interior of their robes. Each removed a heavy golden coin from his purse and tossed it into the center of the playing area. Riker contributed a golden piece from his own supply, dealt the cards, then checked his hand. He had three jacks. Not great, but not too bad either. He might even win this hand. Not that he wanted to win necessarily. He just wanted to keep the Heir and the other bachelors amused and intact until the wedding. This was hardly the usual cutthroat Friday game on the Enterprise. No, he thought, we’ll just strive for enjoyable mediocrity.

  The betting proved unexpectedly daring, going two entire rounds with nobody folding. The kitty had grown from splashes of gold on the white tile floor to a small pile of gold coins. When his turn came around again, Riker considered his hand. His three jacks were good, but not so strong that he wanted to throw any more gold at it. He started to fold, and then an idea occurred to him. He looked at the grim, determined faces of other players. “Gentlemen, I’m sorry, but I have to ask: You don’t all believe you’re going to win this hand, do you?”

  “Oh, no,” the Heir said. “I have very little here, and will almost certainly lose what I am putting in.”

  “Then why don’t you fold?” Riker asked.

  “Fold?” Chuan-chi said. “I don’t believe you explained this.”

  I thought I had, Riker mused. “Perhaps I did not make myself clear. Depending on how good your hand is, you must all make a judgment as to whether it is strong enough to merit throwing more money after the money you have already bet.”

  “We must?” the Heir said with hauteur.

  “It is not required, no,” Riker said hastily. “But it is a part of poker. When a hand is no longer worth investing in, one folds.”

  A long, tense silence greeted Riker’s explanation. “What?” Riker asked finally.

  “There is no honor in folding,” the Heir said.

  “The higher the mountain, the wetter the avalanche,” Meng Chiao added.

  Riker sighed. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

  Another bachelor, one Lord Li Po, spoke up. “It is to admit one’s inferiority to others. While I am willing to admit this to the Dragon-Heir, or even as a courtesy to yourself—” He bowed to both of them as gracefully as his voluminous robes and cross-legged posture permitted. “—it would be a dishonor to fold to any of my other noble compatriots, although I say this with no intention of offending anyone.” He bowed to the rest of the players.

  “That is quite understood,” Chuan-chi said. “Indeed, I cannot imagine folding to anyone at this table.” He spoke as though he was simply stating a matter of fact, comparable to the law of gravity or the half-life of dilithium crystals.

  “But you need to fold in poker!” Riker protested.

  “Then it is hardly an honorable game,” the Heir said, “and I am unsure why you wished us to play this.”

  Riker suddenly saw his brilliant plan backfiring on him. “Certainly not to
offend or cast doubts on the honor of anyone present,” he insisted. “Wait, let me explain it this way. You say there is no honor in folding, correct?”

  The other men murmured and nodded. “The light dims when the oyster swallows its pearl,” Meng Chiao intoned.

  “Whatever,” Riker said. “If no one folds, the bidding will go on and on until each of you runs out of coins.”

  “Then we will also wager our properties, slaves, serfs, and women,” one of the younger nobles said. Riker thought his name was Li Shang-yin, or was it Li Yin-shang?

  “But at some point,” Riker persisted, “each of you will run out of possessions, which means he who started with the most assets will win everything else.”

  Everyone turned to look at Chuan-chi, who was contemplating his cards with a typically sour expression on his face. “The Dragon-Heir owns Pai itself,” Lord Li Po explained, “so the Heir would win, as indeed he should.”

  Chuan-chi shook his head. “There is nothing honorable about this. I might as well buy them outright.”

  “That is where chance and skill come in,” Riker said, hoping he wasn’t digging himself in deeper. “Folding is entirely honorable. It is like retreating in war, to fight again another day.”

  “But we don’t do that,” Lord Li Po said. “It is a warrior’s duty to fight on until he is stopped by death.”

  Riker began to wonder if the Pai could possibly be related to the Klingons. Too bad they weren’t more like the Ferengi, he thought. Then the only problem would be stopping them from cheating each other. “Look, it is a general’s duty to determine the best use of his warriors, right?”

  “That is true,” the Heir conceded.

  “So your cards are your warriors, and you are their general. You alone determine whether they are simply to be sacrifices, or whether they can turn the tide of battle.”

  There was another long pause while the Heir and his fellow nobles mulled over Riker’s words. Riker tugged at the collar of his recently acquired silk robe. The harem seemed much warmer and stuffier all of a sudden. He prayed that he had not completely soured relations between the Federation and the Dragon Empire.

  Suddenly, Meng Chiao’s eyes lit up. He slapped his knee loudly. “Of course,” he said. “I see it now. The purple peacock crowns the hill of the scarlet ants!”

  “Ah,” the Heir said knowingly. All the other Pai were nodding now, comprehension dawning for everyone except Riker. “You were right, Commander. That does make sense.” Chuan-chi threw down his cards. “I fold.”

  “And I.”

  “And I.”

  One by one, the nobles folded, leaving a befuddled Will Riker to claim his winnings. Riker shook his head as he pulled the gleaming, golden pile toward him. This may be tricker than I thought. . . .

  “One minute we were standing guard, glaring at the Pai soldiers, who were glaring at us. The next thing I remember was waking up on the floor while Dr. Selar asked me if I could recall what my name was.” Lieutenant Nanci Atherton shrugged her broad, muscular shoulders. “I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, sir.”

  “This attack caught us all off guard, Lieutenant,” Worf growled. “You’re dismissed. Report to sickbay for a full examination.”

  Atherton walked away toward the transport site, leaving Worf and Chih-li alone in the now-spacious emptiness of the High Hall of Ceremonial Grandeur. Her footsteps echoed throughout the vacant chamber. Worf remained amazed at the sheer audacity of the unknown thieves. How had they managed to steal a roomful of treasures from the very heart of the Imperial Palace?

  “We must search every room in the palace,” he said. “The thieves cannot have gone far.” It was not the first time he had reached this conclusion in the last half hour.

  “That is impossible,” Chih-li said for probably the twentieth time. “The Dragon’s guests are men of great honor. It would be an enormous insult to even suggest that one of them might be a thief.”

  “But one of them most certainly is!” Worf snarled.

  “Sadly, that appears to be the case,” Chih-li admitted. The Minister of Internal Security paced unhappily across the bare marble floor. “And yet, we cannot dishonor the rest of our guests by searching their quarters. Each and every one of them would feel obliged to challenge us to a duel for even contemplating such a search.”

  Ordinarily, that prospect would have appealed to Worf, but time was running out. The wedding was now only hours away. Worf gave the problem serious thought. Upon reflection, it seemed to him that there were subtle differences between Klingon and Pai codes of honor. The Pai apparently placed great stock in appearances, while a Klingon’s honor was based on his deeds, or so it seemed to him. He wondered if there was any way to turn that distinction to his advantage.

  “We must search every room,” Worf repeated. Chih-li began to object on principle, but the Klingon shushed him with a wave of his hand. “It should be possible, however, to ask in such a way as not to impugn the honor of any of your guests, perhaps by asking if someone else might have basely planted the stolen items in their quarters?”

  The minister stopped pacing. A crafty smile appeared on his face. “You are both honorable and cunning, friend Worf. It may be that what you suggest is possible indeed. All we required was a polite fiction to allow all concerned to maintain the vestige of honor.”

  “Including the guilty party?” Worf asked.

  “We shall deal with that problem after we have recovered the gifts. It is my sincere hope that an honorable suicide can be arranged . . . one way or another.” The bloodthirsty gleam in the warrior’s eyes faded as yet another thought occurred to Chih-li. “Our task is still a formidable one. There are over five hundred chambers in the main palace alone. A proper search could take days, if not weeks.”

  “Then we had best begin promptly,” Worf said.

  The Green Pearl’s hysterical tears had given way to softer, more subdued sobbing, but that didn’t make Beverly feel any better. Yao Hu’s unexpected revelation had left Beverly feeling more than a little conflicted. Every maternal instinct in her body resisted the idea of forcing a young woman to marry a man she did not love; on the other hand, the future of the entire Dragon Empire depended on the wedding going off as planned. Beverly didn’t know what to do—or think.

  Currently, the bride-to-be was wrapped in the solicitous embrace of her future daughter-in-law, who appeared genuinely distressed by the other girl’s plight. To Beverly’s surprise, and considerable relief, Hsiao Har had proven both helpful and sympathetic during the ongoing crisis; apparently, there was a good heart beneath the girl’s bratty mannerisms. Neither Beverly’s gentle questioning nor Hsiao Har’s heartfelt entreaties, however, had succeeded in persuading the Green Pearl to divulge the name of her true love. In fact, the Pearl had not really said anything at all since confessing her true feelings about the wedding; she had simply curled herself up into a tight little ball amid one of the many piles of pillows spread about the chamber. She looked like a tiny green figure lost amid a sea of pink. Her quiet sobs broke Beverly’s heart.

  To be honest, Beverly wasn’t sure she really wanted to know the name of the girl’s secret sweetheart. There had to be terrible penalties involved no matter how innocent their relationship had been—and, judging from the Pearl’s obvious sexual naïveté, their romance had to have been pretty darn innocent. Even still, Beverly had enough on her mind already without having to worry about getting some foolhardy young man exiled or worse. But how was she going to get to the bottom of this without exposing the man’s identity? And should she be probing this issue? Hadn’t she done enough harm already?

  It was all too much for her. She couldn’t divorce the big picture—the treaty and the G’kkau—from the heartrending spectacle of the anguished girl among the pink pillows. She knew what Jean-Luc would say: The Prime Directive prevents us from imposing our own views of love and romance on another culture’s marital customs. Besides, the greater good of the entire Dragon Empire depended on the
Green Pearl’s marriage to the Dragon-Heir; even discounting the all-too-real threat of the G’kkau, the marriage would also bring peace to the Empire after decades of civil war. How did the heartbreak of one young woman stack up against all of that?

  Still, she was a doctor first and a Starfleet diplomat second; was she supposed to just ignore Yao Hu’s suffering? “Damnit, Jean-Luc,” she muttered angrily. “This is more than I bargained for.” She needed advice from someone she trusted, someone who would be sure to take the girl’s feelings into consideration, someone who could counsel her through this tangled emotional mess.

  She needed Deanna.

  “Hsiao Har?” Beverly crossed over to where the two girls sat hugging each other. Yao Hu was still lost in her grief, but the Heir’s daughter looked up in response to Beverly’s voice. “I need to have a private conversation with someone. Do you think you can manage on your own for a few minutes?”

  Confusion marked the older girl’s features. “But you cannot leave the harem,” she said. “The Eyes of the Dragon guard the only exit.”

  “No, no,” Beverly explained. “I’m not going anywhere. I just need to talk to somebody via my communicator. Do you understand?”

  Hsiao Har nodded. The Green Pearl appeared completely oblivious of the rest of the world. Content that the situation had at least stabilized for the time being, Beverly left the girls and located the entrance to a private bathroom adjacent to the larger chamber. Like all of the Green Pearl’s domain, the walls and furnishings were bright, pink, and generously decorated with her pearly namesakes. Beverly leaned against a counter of rose-colored marble and tapped her comm badge urgently. “Deanna? Hailing Deanna Troi?”

  The comm established a link immediately; the harem was not as shielded as Lu Tung probably believed. “Beverly?” Deanna’s voice came over the comm clearly. “Wha—what is it?” She sounded rushed and out of breath, almost as though she was being chased. Beverly wondered exactly where Deanna was at the moment.