by John M. Ford
“I did not fight,” Dr. Tagore said calmly. “I simply did not allow myself to be too easily killed.”
And Krenn laughed, not because it was absurd but because he saw the reason of it. “Emanuel…are you psionic?”
“No, Krenn. I have been tested, on Vulcan. I am not.”
“Then Akhil was right,” Krenn said, feeling his senses fading, as in a warm bath. “The Imperial Council must beware. Now that their Imperial Intelligence has failed to protect them…”
“Akhil did not act for II,” Krenn heard, and though he could no longer see, the voice could not be anyone’s but Kelly’s.
“I do.”
Krenn and Dr. Tagore were playing klin zha, with Krenn’s set, when the call came to announce that Akhil’s body had been transported into space at maximum beam divergence. Krenn acknowledged and made his next move.
Dr. Tagore said, “I believe I once told you I had a theory, about the Klingon observance of death.”
“You did not say what it was.”
“Well, it isn’t popular among my colleagues…. At any rate, whenone of our race dies, we hold a ceremony, sometimes simple, sometimes very elaborate.”
“You celebrate a death?”
“Commemorate, rather.”
“And the one dead appreciates this.”
Dr. Tagore smiled thinly, said, “That depends on the culture. But the practical function is to allow the survivors a vent for their grief, a time when emotion may be released, shared.”
“Sharing diminishes the…grief?”
“Such is our experience.”
Krenn said, “We do not do this.”
“I know. And I wonder what happens to the energy, the stress…. I think it helps to drive your culture. To expand…to conquer, if you like.”
“Nal komerex, khesterex,” Krenn said, distracted from the game, annoyed to have even such a small reminder of Maxwell GrandissonIII.
“I know that, too. And your environment is hostile, and your life-cycle is short and rapid. As I say, my hypothesis is not popular.”
Krenn massaged his jaw.
“Klingons do not weep, as many races do,” Dr. Tagore said idly. “A different set of facial nerves is stimulated by stress. The Klingon in deep emotion bares his teeth, as if to say ‘stay away, until this feeling is past.’
“The isolation that results is…not unknown among Humans.”
Krenn won the game, congratulated Dr. Tagore on his growing skill at klin zha, and went out.
He found Kelly in the Officer’s Mess; she was alone, her plate empty, watching the naked stars flow past.
She did not turn as he approached, and he knew she was being politely deaf; twenty days after the incident there was still a plastic splint on his hip, and he made a good deal of noise in motion.
He understood, now, why her movements had become deliberate, un-Swift-like: she had been imprisoned in her body for far longer than he would be.
Now there was a sheathing of surgical plastic on her shoulder, where Fencer’s Surgeon had again replaced the joint with a new metal one. This time it was minor, though. Only the changing-out of a part.
Krenn sat down. She greeted him.
Neither of them spoke for a while.
“I wonder,” Krenn said finally, “what Meth of Imperial Intelligence will say about this whole affair?”
“Operations Master Meth is never concerned with methods,” Kelly said. “Only results.”
Krenn nodded, watching her: the curve of her throat, the slant of her white eyes. He reached over and touched her arm, carefully avoiding the nerves.
She stood, looked at him. Her face was quite empty, though never so dead as Meth’s. “You are the founder of a line,” she said. “I can be no part of that; I am a fusion, and I do not even know what manner of fusion, so that children might be created.”
Krenn said, “Does Meth have that information?”
She said, “You know that Meth only uses those he controls. I have been part of injury and death to your crew. And…you are injured; I would cause you…pain.”
“I know that,” Krenn said.
She began to walk away. He caught her hand, held it; she shook at the movement of her shoulder. She said, “I cannot be trusted, and I am not Klingon.”
“Akhil was Klingon.”
“What do you want?”
“I want you to tell me,” Krenn said, “something that I do not already know.”
He released her hand. She looked at the stars racing by, and nodded, and went out, walking again slowly, each movement carefully chosen.
But if one knew how to look, Krenn thought, she was dancing.
He followed in her steps.
Part Three
The Falling Tower
Only a fool fights in a burning house.
—KLINGON PROVERB
Seven: Mirrors
Twenty-six select members of the Imperial Council sat and reclined facing Krenn. There was a large Navy faction, some Marine officers, several political Specialists, and two Imperial Planetary Governors.
The Audience Chamber was an enormous, multisided room. Random panels of colored and reflective glass dissected the space near the ceiling, bouncing and diffusing soft light. The air was pleasant, though not so warm and damp as to induce sleep. Woven into the carpeting was an Imperial trefoil some ten meters long: Krenn stood behind a narrow glass podium at the figure’s center.
“Supply of arms to the worlds Tcholin III and Wilda’s Planet has caused the dominant factions to favor the Empire as a partner in development,” Krenn said. He had no notes to read from: he was allowed none. He watched the audience. Admiral Kezhke was there, aging and still overindulgent. And there was Admiral Kodon, the hero of the Romulan Frontier. Krenn did not look directly into Kodon’s face.
“These arms are of course all inexpensive sonics. No translator technology has been supplied. The sale is aided by the fact that Federation machines translate all vird’dakaasei as disruptor, regardless of their actual operating mode….”
There were half a dozen tharavul standing like sculpture behind the Klingons they served-observed. A few servitors carried trays with food, drink, and incenses: they were tharkuve, deaf in a more literal sense than the Vulcans.
“Four more worlds along the Alshanai Rift have made advances of peace. They will not commit to abandoning the Federation, but they have been made to understand that the Federation cannot protect them from Orion pirates.
“If this technique is to be expanded, it will be necessary to simulate Orion attacks, as the cost of purchasing actual pirate raids will become unacceptable.”
There was a throne in the Chamber, but it was empty. A crown rested on it, in token of the Emperor’s presence. Kadrya had chosen iron as the substance for his crown. It was generally a free choice by each Emperor, though none since Keth the Centenarian had presumed to wear imperishable gold. And none had imitated General Kagga, who despite that he was under sentence of death for rebellion had been granted the accession, allowed to reign for the twentieth part of one day, and executed upon the throne: a grand end move of the komerex zha. Kagga’s crown had been branded, on the flesh around his skull.
“The Federation authorities propose to convene one of the meetings of all members they call Babels, to discuss their terms of union. Such meetings require roughly one year to assemble all delegates, because of travel time.
“That concludes this report of the Imperial Contacts Branch, Captain Krenn sutai-Rustazh reporting.”
There were polite nods. Krenn saluted and went out of the Chamber. There was a transporter link to his hotel; he nodded to the operator and stepped onto a disc.
Krenn found himself standing on the smallest transporter stage he had ever seen: there was only a single disc, which was enormously wasteful of control equipment; even home stations had three. The only other things in the room were an unattended control console for the transporter, and a blank metal door.
The door r
eceded a few centimeters, then slid aside. It was a good fifth of a meter thick. Supposing his presence was either invited or commanded, Krenn went through.
He entered a small, dim room. The only furnishing was a desk, with a computer and a flask of pale liquid on its top. The far wall was all glass, tilted slightly outward. A tall, broad-shouldered Klingon, dressed entirely in black, stood looking out the window, his back to Krenn.
Without turning around, Operations Master Meth said, “Do join me, Captain Krenn.”
Krenn took a step; the door closed behind him, and he heard it seal. He went to the window.
He was looking down on the Audience Chamber he had just left. The Council members had changed slightly; more Administrators were present, fewer Navy. Approaching the podium was Dr. Emanuel Tagore, dressed in a straight-lined white gown with a dark red sash.
They were hidden among the glass panels of the ceiling, Krenn understood; how they could be here, he did not know.
Dr. Tagore bowed, began to speak. His words were inaudible.
Meth held out a wireless earphone to Krenn. He took and inserted it, noticing that Meth did not wear one. Krenn wondered if he had a direct implant. Klingons rarely had such things, wary of taps, of mind control, of feedback signals to set the mechanism burning. But Meth…
“The exchange of athletes between the Year Games and the Pan-Federation Olympics,” Dr. Tagore was saying, “would reduce the need for prizes to fight in the Games, and allow trials other than deadly combat. There are already many such events in the Year Games, and they are honorable.
“As for the passage of damaging medical data, the required screenings could be conducted entirely by medical tricorder, the machines’ recording function being disabled: even if a contestant were to be disqualified, none would know the exact reason. Dr. T’Riri, tharavul to Thought Master Ankhisek, tells me this is easily possible for Vulcan technicians…”
Meth said, “It is remarkable to watch him. Given only a little more time, the Council would approve this proposal…. After four years, most of them believe he has taken their part. When in fact they have taken his.” Meth’s lips curled in his plastic smile.
Krenn said, “Does he know he’s been called back to Earth?”
“Oh, yes. Since you were so readily available, there was no need to delay the message….” Meth looked down again. “He knows, and still he delivers the speech, as if there were still a Federation united behind him. One could almost believe the one believes in his proposals for their own sake.”
“Perhaps the one does.”
“Ah, I had forgotten you were close,” Meth said. Krenn knew he had done no such thing. “No, I don’t think so. That technique is useful, on the lower levels. The assassin’s gun may believe it is a surgeon’s laser. But the assassin must know the task.” Meth gestured toward Dr. Tagore with a disguised hand. “I have become very respectful of this Human, Captain, and I think he is a craftsman, not a tool…. His reaction, when he received his message of recall, was interesting to watch. If you would care to see it, a tape may be arranged.”
“No,” Krenn said. “Is the ship ready?”
“Quite ready. Kezhke was most helpful, again…. He has strong beliefs about you, sutai-Rustazh.” There had been no change in Meth’s tone. Krenn realized, for the first time, that he had never heard the Intelligence chief’s linename.
Before he could say something dangerous to himself, Krenn said, “And the ones requested?”
“Commander Maktai and Lieutenant Commander Kelly are of course yours, and excellent choices.”
“Commander Kelly?”
“As of tonight, yes. Ranks are not difficult to obtain. Authority is rather more so…but that, of course, is your problem. As for the other, it has been arranged. You understand the limitations?”
“Thought Master Ankhisek himself explained them.”
“And you understood him? Kai the thought, Captain.” It was almost a joke: Thought Captain. Krenn wondered if it were meant as one.
Meth said, “I’m certain that you understand the mission, so I suppose you are ready for cruise. The Red File will be transferred aboard just before you depart.”
“I will be ready whenever the Ambassador is.”
“He is already. He is leaving all his effects, except for some clothing and his library. He explained that he is only traveling to a conference; the Embassy remains in existence.” Meth looked down at Dr. Tagore, as did Krenn. Krenn found that even from the high angle, the Human did not seem diminished. Krenn turned, a very slight movement, to watch Meth, but Meth’s face gave away nothing, his eyes might as well have been glass behind holes in the plastic, even his powerful body—or was that another concealment?—was neutrally posed.
Meth was a black hole of information: he drew it in from everywhere, with a reach as infinite as gravity, but nothing ever escaped the event horizon around him.
There was, in theory at least, one way to get information out of a black hole. It involved high energies just at the event horizon, and for every particle that escaped one of equal value must be lost.
Akhil had told Krenn that.
Meth said, “I shall regret the departure of the epetai-Tagore.” There did not seem to be any irony in the honorific. “Like myself, he is absolutely loyal to his Empire, and will do anything at all to protect it.”
“Perhaps not anything,” Krenn said.
“A natural error, sutai-Rustazh. You do not understand, because you are not absolutely loyal.”
“I am—”
“It is not an accusation, Captain. Only the truth. You serve the Empire, and very well. But some of your loyalty is always reserved for yourself…. This is true of all Klingons but I. It is true of the Emperor.” He pointed downward. “I suspect that it is also true of all Humans. Except this one.”
Krenn recalled what Meth had said about the Council, wondered if the Intelligence Master had also come to see himself reflected in the Ambassador. He said, “Still, I have come to believe that the one would use no weapon.”
Meth smiled, and Krenn thought there was somehow amusement in it. “Have you ever seen my weapon, Captain?”
Krenn was too startled to answer.
“You think there is a komerex zha,” Meth said calmly, “but there is only the komerex.” He indicated the throne, the iron crown upon it. “Kadrya is nearly sixty now, and Kadrya is no Keth. Though it may be criminal now to speak of rust on iron, in time he will die, and the Council will fight for the crown, and I will fight for the Empire.
“And if the Federation should choose to war with itself, then it must occur while there is an Emperor, and we may take advantages.”
Meth filled two glasses from the bottle of pale liquid. There was a strong scent of herbs. “Speaking of loyalty…I noticed that the Contacts Branch did not tell the Council their next speaker had been recalled?…
“And you know your mission, and it is not my habit to repeat myself. Pleasant voyage, Captain.”
Kelly moved the levers, and Dr. Tagore silently flickered in. Krenn thought perhaps the Human’s hair had become whiter, but there was no great outward change.
The Ambassador stepped off the disc, nodded to them all. “Honored again, Captain Krenn. I was pleased to hear it would be you taking me home. And Kelly…full Commander, now? Kai. And Maktai. Good to see you all. I’m in need of good signs, this cruise.”
Then Krenn saw the tiredness—but it was a small thing, where Krenn had expected a greater.
“This is a new ship, isn’t it?” Dr. Tagore said, and while he spoke the small tiredness was not visible. “Mirror, they said. Is Fencer, then…”
“Fencer still exists, still mine,” Krenn said. “She is in the docks. Mirror is new, a Class D-5, though the changes are mostly not visible. The interior is the same, with only small exceptions…one being that we have a stateroom for a passenger, on the officers’ deck.”
“With a private bath,” Maktai said. There was a moment’s cool silence,
and then Dr. Tagore began to laugh, and then they were all laughing.
“You see,” the Human said, “I have learned to know when you are joking.”
“The reason I was recalled?” Dr. Tagore said. “To…now what was the exact phrase…‘reevaluate the mission, and expose the Ambassador to the mood, as well as the decisions, of the Babel Conference.’ How many cards?”
Krenn took three cards. He adjusted his hand: a four, a King, and three nines. Maktai tapped his three-fingered hand on the table and took one card. Mak caught his tongue between his teeth and let his cards fall, facedown. Krenn looked at him; it had taken a long time to teach Mak that folding was not the same as resignation: that the courage of the game was not in throwing resources into a pot already lost. Still, they were losing to the Human.
Dr. Tagore said, “The gentleman drops. And dealer takes two. Bet?”
“Check,” Krenn said.
“You’ve stayed in practice.”
Maktai said, “I paid for it.”
Dr. Tagore said, “All right. Dealer bets three.” He separated three fruit drops from a pile near his elbow, pushed them into the pile at the center of the table. “Of course, the actual reason for the recall is that many UFP members do not want a single negotiator to represent them to the Empire. They want to make their own deals.”
“Call, raise two,” Krenn said. “As I understand it, you have won the Federation a number of points.”
“Thank you, Krenn. I’ll see that, raise you five. But of course the Federation is a coalition, not a super-government, though sometimes it forgets that…if the members do not wish the Federation to act for them, then it must not do so.”
Krenn looked at his three of a kind, at Dr. Tagore’s face. He was wondering what the Operations Master of Imperial Intelligence would have said to that.
He let his cards fall. Maktai looked sidewise.
Dr. Tagore put his hand facedown. Maktai reached out; Dr. Tagore’s finger came down on top of the cards. “You didn’t pay to see those,” he said.
