by John M. Ford
The Humans all found seats. Admiral van Diemen stepped onto the dais, looking the very image of heroism in his full-dress uniform and weapon with gilded hilt. “Good afternoon, fellow officers ... and our honored guests. It is a Human custom to provide something special at a guest’s departure, so they may carry with them an enduring memory.
“Now, through the latest breakthrough in Federation scientific research, we wish to present to you something very special indeed. Lights.”
The room darkened. “Another gagny hologram show?” Akhil muttered.
There was an electronic squeal, a rising, oscillating hum. On the dais, three columns of light appeared, took shapes.
Three armed soldiers were transporting onto the stage.
Krenn went for his pistol. It was, he thought, a crude trap, but deadly enough; but there were many targets behind him, and he would die spitting challenge at them, and not all of them would live to hear his last words.
His arm would not move. He turned his head. Akhil had three fingers tight on Krenn’s arm, pinching the nerves, blocking the muscle. “No,” he said, not loud but urgently. “Not yet.”
“What are you doing?”
“If I’m wrong,” Akhil said coolly, “kill me first.”
The armed Humans solidified; the mechanical noise died away. The soldiers did not move, nor did their weapons come to bear on the Klingons; Krenn saw they were frozen in a sort of heroic tableau.
The lights came up. Krenn winced. No one was moving yet.
“The most important development in translator applications in fifty years,” Admiral van Diemen was [166] saying. “Thirty years in development, and now certified safe for intelligent life.”
The Humans were applauding. Krenn looked at Akhil. Akhil released Krenn’s arm, said very quietly, “Now we know.”
As the clapping subsided, Admiral van Diemen said, in a completely friendly tone, “I hope, Captain, that you and your Science officer will take word of this breakthrough to your own physicists.”
“Of course I will, Admiral,” Krenn said. He took out his communicator, glanced at Akhil; the Specialist nodded.
“Captain to Fencer.”
Kelly responded. Krenn snapped a line of Battle Language.
“Captain, are you—”
“The situation is stable, Kelly. Action.”
“Acting.”
Akhil stood, muttering, “Don’t want to land on my butt,” and flickered golden, and evaporated without a sound.
Around Krenn, there was a silence like the silence of vacuum. Then there was a single sound of applause: Krenn turned to see Dr. Tagore clapping furiously, the fluid called tears rolling down his cheeks as he laughed.
“Our physicists will indeed be interested,” Krenn said to Admiral van Diemen, who stood gripping the podium with both hands. “They will want very much to know why your system makes that terrible noise.”
“All right, why?” Krenn said.
“Specialist Antaan worked it out,” Akhil said. He seemed extremely pleased, and Krenn could hardly argue: they were bringing back a major piece of scientific intelligence, and they could hardly be accused of having pirated it.
“Antaan got a sensor lock on the corona leakage from the Feds’ ‘demonstration’.” Akhil pushed a key, [167] and a multicolored trace appeared on the display of Akhil’s Bridge station. “Do you see this line?”
“You’re pointing to it, I see it,” Krenn said patiently. He was thinking that since they had this data, Fencer had indeed had sensors trained on them the whole time. Just like home.
“Antaan calls it a super-carrier wave, polarized in three dimensions plus warp-time. They’re overlaying it on the ordinary transporter signal. At reassembly, it superheterodynes with the main signal; the heterodyning produces a set of parasitic sound frequencies. Like the fact that a disrupter beam is blue, even though the disrupting wave itself is invisible.”
“So it’s noisy,” Krenn said, wondering if ’Khil might secretly be a Vulcan fusion. “Is it better?”
“I can’t see how,” Akhil said flatly. “The super-carrier repeats the main signal information, but the reduction in assembly error is trivial, maybe one percent. And the power cost is twenty percent higher, not to mention the cost of extra equipment. Plus being able to hear a boarding party a boom’s-length away.”
Krenn leaned against one of the main ceiling struts. He looked at the main display, just past his empty Chair, at the stars passing at Warp 4 and the Federation ships surrounding Fencer. They had only three escorts for the voyage from Earth, all of them the new-model cruisers with the saucer hulls and outriggered warp engines. There was Glasgow, that had led them in, and Savannah, and Hokkaido. Admiral van Diemen had said with quickly recovered pride that they were of the Baton Rouge class, and they also were on Starfleet’s leading edge of technology. And all of them did have transporters, Krenn was told.
“One percent, you say?”
“One percent of the error rate, Captain, not the number of transports.”
“Yes ... I’d thought that was what you meant.” Krenn looked at Kelly. She had been watching him; [168] quickly she turned away. “Still,” Krenn said, “they seem to have a powerful desire for personal safety.”
“Humans?” Akhil said, disbelieving. “Most of them weren’t even armed.”
“Maybe their idea of danger isn’t the same as ours.”
Amused, Akhil said, “How many things are there to fear?”
“I don’t know,” Krenn said. “That’s what scares me.”
Akhil took it as a joke, as Krenn had intended.
“The room is comfortable?” Maktai said.
“Very much so,” Dr. Tagore said, looking around, at the clearprints on the walls, the newly installed furniture, and his still-sealed baggage. “Much larger than I had expected. This isn’t normally a stateroom?”
“It’s my office,” Krenn said. “I’ll be using the Exec’s office down the corridor.”
“I hadn’t meant such an inconvenience.”
Krenn said, “An advantage of this cruise is that there isn’t much office work. Anyway, we had to put you somewhere; this has its own washroom, and an individual lock code. There aren’t any regular passenger facilities, and you can’t have expected us to give you Marine quarters.” Krenn noticed Maktai watching him; as casual as Mak was, he had not expected the informality between his superior officers and the alien.
Dr. Tagore said, “Starfleet has done just that, on occasion.” He turned to Maktai. “And I have had my bags examined by a number of Federation member worlds, including Earth. I’ll gladly assist your crew in a search, Commander Maktai.”
The Security chief scratched his forehead. Krenn was amused, and interested: if Mak’s style aboard were really only a mask, this cruise might put some wrinkles in it.
Maktai said, “We do not search others’ property without cause.”
“I hadn’t meant to suggest you would. Many cultures [169] consider my profession itself not only sufficient cause, but necessary.”
“We ... do not,” Maktai said. “You’re aware that you will be the only resident of this deck ... besides this office, and the Executive’s, there are only the forward transporter rooms at the corridor ends. And the ship’s computers ... but I must advise you not to enter those compartments.”
“The doors to the computer room are secured, I assume?”
“This ... need not be said.”
“Then it need not be said that I shall not enter. The same for the transporter rooms; I find it a fascinating invention, much pleasanter than shuttlecraft rides, but I should not like to accidentally disassemble myself.”
“It is good that you understand.”
“Commander, that is the reason I am here.”
Krenn said, “Mak and Akhil and I are three decks below. You’re not alone in the pod.” He gestured at the wall. “We’ve disabled the priority call on your communicator, but it’ll call any open location. And we’l
l have a computer screen in here in a day.”
Dr. Tagore said gently, “What you may have heard is true: my kind die if we are isolated. But you need not worry.” He pressed the seal on one of his cases, and it folded itself open. Within were books, more than a hundred of them, and a case of crystal slides with a reader. In the bottom of the case was a flat black plane, like a computer terminal, but with very different controls that Krenn recognized at once: he had played a thousand games of klin zha on just such an electronic game grid.
“You see,” Dr. Tagore said, selecting a book, “I am not isolated.”
Maktai said, “There is one security matter ...”
“Of course, Commander.”
“Your weapon.”
“Weapon?” Dr. Tagore said, sounding slightly distressed.
[170] “Of course you may keep your personal arms. But I must know their type, for the record. So that if an incident occurs, yours may be ... eliminated from consideration.”
“Commander ... Captain ... I have not carried a weapon in forty-four years. Since I would not use one, I would not tell the lie of wearing one.”
“On Earth,” Krenn said, startled, “I saw your people with dress arms—” He had assumed the Ambassador carried his weapon well concealed.
“It is permitted,” the Human said, “though many of us hope it ceases to be the fashion.”
“I may,” Maktai said slowly, “be forced to search your bags, to confirm this ...”
“My offer to assist you still stands.”
“I think that’s all for now,” Krenn said. “I would be pleased if you would join me for dinner, Dr. Tagore.”
“Honored of course, Captain.”
In the lift, Krenn said to Maktai, “As strange as it sounds, Mak ... I don’t think he has a weapon.”
Maktai shook his head, plucked at his hair. “I know he doesn’t. We scanned his equipment for weapons, routine, you know the drill. Nothing. G’dayt, I’d been thinking he had something that our scanners couldn’t pick up.”
Krenn could see how Mak felt: he felt silly.
“So tell me, Captain, why doesn’t he have a weapon?” Maktai spread his hands. “He’s not kuve ... Kagga’s crown, he’s not kuve. So what is he, Captain?”
It was the late watch, and Fencer was quiet; quieter now than in a long time. The ship was ten days across the Zone, in Klingon space again.
Krenn moved a pawn upward one space. “Do all Humans play chess?”
“No,” Dr. Tagore said. “Actually very few play, though everyone knows the pieces, and most have an idea of the moves. There is a common belief that truly exceptional chessplayers, grandmasters, must also [171] be ...” He touched a rook, moved it downward. “... insane.”
Krenn took a bite from a gel pastry,, washed it back with kafei. “Is this belief true?”
“I don’t know. At least partially, I suppose. Certainly some grandmasters were mad, or went mad. But so have any number of people who never touched a pawn. ... The other factor is that computers play chess. In solitaire mode, this unit—” he tapped the game grid—“plays so well I cannot beat it. And one of the new duotronic computers cannot be beaten at all, not even by a Vulcan.”
“What difference does that make?” Krenn said. “What honor is there in playing a machine whose only function is to win?” Krenn shifted a sub-board, the projected pieces descending through his fingers.
Dr. Tagore looked up, pleased. Krenn stared at the position again.
“Oh, don’t worry, I’m mated in two or so,” the Human said. “I’m just delighted to hear you say that. Not even Vulcans seem to be able to see that it is not the game, but the player.”
The checkmate actually took five moves. At least the Ambassador never tried to resign, Krenn thought.
Dr. Tagore blanked the board. “Another? Or would you like to give me another lesson in klin zha?”
“I would like to have another lesson in pokher.”
“Gladly.” Dr. Tagore went to his library, returned with two decks of cards and a rack of tokens. “You realize that I’ve still got nothing of value to play for, and I doubt that Strip would be of more than academic interest.”
“It is important that the stakes be real,” Krenn said. He had been waiting for this, trying to perfect his strategy for the moment when it came.
“As I’ve said, Chess and Poker between them sum up the Human psyche. And Chess is the supreme game for itself, just as Poker is the supreme game for stakes.”
Krenn stood up, went to the library shelves, pulled [172] out one of the thin, plastic-covered books. “There are these,” he said.
Dr. Tagore laughed. “Krenn, if I’ve ever grudged the loan of a book, may the spirit of Ben Franklin choke me with a kitestring. You’re welcome to any of those.”
“No,” Krenn said, and walked to the services wall. He tapped the book against the spring doors of the disposal slot.
Dr. Tagore said, “One of the hardest parts of xenoculture is understanding humor. ... Are you joking, Krenn?”
Krenn started to put the book through the slot. It would have taken only a snap of the wrist, but he looked down, and read the title on the cover, and his hand did not move. After a moment he said, “No, Emanuel. I am not joking.”
Dr. Tagore nodded. He said, “And what will be your stake, Krenn?”
“The books are my stake,” Krenn said. “I already hold them; you may win them back.”
“Despite that they have no value to you?” The Human’s calm was like an unexpected cold wind.
“It was you, was it not, who told me one might trade for hostages, that also have no value.”
“Very well. Cut for first deal, Krenn.”
Krenn said, “If you were armed, you could fight me for this.”
Dr. Tagore paused in his shuffling; then he resumed. “But I am not.” He split the deck. “Jack of spades. Your cut.”
“Perhaps I have selected one that means nothing to you. I shall destroy it and select another.” The book seemed to twist in Krenn’s hand, and would not enter the slot. Krenn resisted looking at the title again.
“That one is as precious as the rest, as I imagine you know. Take your cut, so we may begin.”
Krenn went to the table. He put the book face down, picked up a block of cards, turned them.
[173] “Nine of diamonds,” Dr. Tagore said. “Dealer chooses five-card draw, nothing wild.”
“Is that what you will say to the Imperial Council?” Krenn said. “When they ask you why you go unarmed like a kuve, when they ask you what the Federation can be worth to you, since you will not fight for it—” He had not meant to shout, but he was shouting. “When they ask why they should deal with you, will you tell them it is because you have drawn a higher card?”
“If that is the game we are playing.”
Perhaps this one was insane, Krenn thought. Perhaps he went into the Empire like a Romulan, to find his death close to the enemy’s heart. “The game they play is the komerex zha,” Krenn said, “and if you lose, it will not be your books that burn, but yourself.”
Dr. Tagore reached for the book.
(Kethas reached for the dead green hand.)
The Human said “There is no difference.” He picked up the book, held it out to Krenn. “Here. It’s yours. Read it or destroy it; but if you destroy it, you will never know what it had to say to you.”
Krenn took it. He did not even look at the disposal slot. He knew he had been beaten, by one unarmed. He read the book’s title; Space Cadet, it said. The book could say nothing to him; how could it? He was no longer a cadet.
And still he knew he would have to read it.
Dr. Tagore was casing the decks of cards. “Pleasant rest, Krenn,” he said.
Now Krenn was being ordered out of his office. “It was ... a good game, Emanuel.”
“An excellent game, Krenn. Teskas tal’tai-kleon.”
Krenn took the lift down to his cabin. He put the book on the bedside table
, unfastened his vest and was about to slip out of his tunic when there was a tap at the door. Krenn looked at the communicator panel; the idle lights were on. He went to the door.
Akhil was in the corridor, his portable terminal [174] under his arm. Krenn was about to ask if whatever it was could wait, but the expression on the Exec’s face said it would not. Then Krenn saw that Akhil was wearing, not his usual duty arms, but a heavy disrupter pistol.
“What is it, ’Khil?”
“Not here. Get something to shoot with and come with me.”
“Where’s Mak?” Krenn said, but the suspicion was already rising.
“Mak’s asleep. At least, I hope he is. Now come.”
They took the lift aft, down the boom to the cargo hold. The deck was lit only by small directional lights; indicators flickered in the darkness.
Akhil said, “Wait.” He paused by a communicator panel, put a key into the access lock. Krenn held the terminal as Akhil swung the wall panel open, exposing a maze of components. Akhil took a rectangle of green circuit board from his sash, slipped it between two junction blocks. He said, “Now if one of Maktai’s crew takes a look down here, they’ll get noise. It’ll look like normal circuit transients for a little while, but not long. Over here.”
They stopped again at one of the cargo modules, an insulated food box. Akhil took his terminal, opened the black case, and uncoiled the cord of a coding wand. He ran it over the cargo module’s invoice plate. “This is the one.” He stood, gave the terminal to Krenn. “Better read it for yourself.”
Krenn wiped the wand over the code lines, and read the terminal screen;
“Cold-sleep capsules?” he said, and looked automatically toward the invisible ceiling, the invisible monitors.
“Should be fifty Marines, if this is the only one,” Akhil said. “Instant mutiny. Just thaw and serve.”
“How did you find this?”
“Checking the cargo manifest.” Akhil gave a toneless laugh. “The Feds consider zentaars an intelligent species. I thought it might bother our passenger if a [175] zentaar haunch showed up on his dinner tray. ... I suppose it’s an honorable debt we owe him, for this.”
