Текст книги "Storming Heaven"
Автор книги: David Mack
Жанр:
Научная фантастика
сообщить о нарушении
Текущая страница: 1 (всего у книги 21 страниц)
Storming
Heaven
by David Mack
“SUBCOMMANDER, DESTROY THAT SHIP.”
“Yes, sir.” Dimetris lifted her voice and began belting out orders. “Helm, set intercept course, maximum warp. Weapons, stand by for a snap shot. Target their center mass. Centurion, stand by to drop the cloak on my mark.”
Curt acknowledgments came back to her in quick succession, and Centurion Akhisar nodded once to indicate he was ready. Commander H’kaan watched the tactical display in front of him and felt his pulse quicken with anticipation as the Valkaya closed to attack position on the Sagittarius. When they reached optimal firing range for torpedoes, he said simply, “Now.”
Akhisar dropped the bird-of-prey’s cloak, and the weapons officer unleashed a burst of charged plasma that slammed into the small Starfleet scout ship and knocked it out of warp.
“Helm,” Dimetris called out, “come about and drop to impulse. Sublieutenant Pelor, charge disruptors and ready another plasma charge. Centurion, raise shields.”
Pelor replied, “Weapons locked!”
Dimetris crowed, “Fire!”
In the scant moments between the order and the action, H’kaan glimpsed the sparking, smoldering mass of the Sagittarius on the bridge’s main viewscreen. Looks like we scored a direct hit with the first shot, he observed with pride. All those battle drills finally paid off.
Then a pair of disruptor beams lanced through the smoldering husk of the Sagittarius, and the ship erupted in a massive fireball that quickly dissipated, vanishing into the insatiable vacuum of deep space. When the afterglow faded, all that remained was glowing debris.
“Secure from general quarters,” H’kaan said. “Well done, all of you.” Much as he tried to remain detached and professional, H’kaan could not resist the urge to gloat over his victory. “Kiris! Send to Admiral Inaros, ‘Starfleet vessel Sagittarius destroyed.’”
Historian’s Note
The prologue and epilogue of this story are set in April 2270. The rest of the narrative transpires in 2268, coinciding with the events of the latter half of Star Trek’s third season.
Wisdom begins at the end.
–John Webster, The Duchess of Malfi (1623)
PROLOGUE
THE SENSE OF RECKONING
APRIL 2270
CALDOS II
Diego Reyes stared through the amber lens of a short glass of whiskey in his hand. “How long did you stay on the station after I left?”
Tim Pennington’s answer was low and fraught with grim remembrance. “I was there till the end, mate. The bitter, bloody end.”
The two men sat in reclining chairs that faced the gradually rekindling embers in Reyes’s stone fireplace. A silence yawned between them, broken only by random pops from fresh logs splintering atop the banked fire and tossing short-lived sparks across the broad hearth. Reyes tilted his head back, splaying his shoulder-length black-and-gray hair across his headrest, and enjoyed the quietude. They had been conversing for hours, ever since the journalist’s unannounced arrival on the shore of Reyes’s private island, just before sundown. The former Starfleet commodore had done most of the talking, of course, filling in gaps and illuminating secrets of what had gone on behind closed doors during his final days at Starbase 47, which had become better known, within Starfleet and to the public, as Vanguard. Now it was late, and the air in the room felt heavy from the surfeit of conversation.
Pennington tucked in his chair’s footrest and pulled himself to his feet. The lean, fair-haired Scotsman straightened and stretched his arms toward the high, open-frame ceiling, whose rough-hewn beams gave off a fragrance reminiscent of fresh cedar. As the writer lowered his arms, he paused to massage his right shoulder, where his cybernetic prosthetic met his torso. He had been plagued with a persistent ache, he’d confided, ever since losing his arm in a furious Starfleet-Orion crossfire on Starbase 47 a couple of years earlier.
Reyes watched him pick up his glass and carry it to a frost-bordered window that overlooked the lake. Dappled by wind and moonlight, the black water seemed to stretch away forever into the night. There were no lights along the lake’s shore—at least, none visible from Reyes’s home—so at night the heavily wooded mainland became a distant memory, swallowed by darkness until the stars wheeled away to their daytime hiding places.
The younger man nursed his drink and stared out the window. “I’m not sure how much I’m really allowed to say about what I saw.”
Another sip from his own glass rewarded Reyes with a mouthful of smoky warmth and a complex sweetness that mingled notes of caramel, cherry, and oak. He savored the pleasant burn of the small-batch whiskey as he swallowed, then he fixed his gaze on a pair of dueling flames inside the fireplace. “If it helps, you were never here, and we never spoke.”
“I’d figured as much.” He spent a moment looking into his glass. In the ruddy firelight and dancing shadows, he looked much older to Reyes than he had just two years earlier. Reyes imagined that whatever events Pennington had lived through since then were to blame for the crow’s-feet that framed his blue eyes and the worry lines that creased his high forehead.
Poor bastard, Reyes reflected with dark humor. He’s starting to look like me.
Pennington turned away from the window and drifted back to the empty recliner. He stood beside it and watched sparks float from the fire and disappear up the chimney. “What was the last thing you heard from Vanguard before the news blackout?”
“I seem to recall something about a civilian shipping accident.”
That drew a crooked, wry grimace from Pennington. “Ah, yes. The warp-core breach on the Omari-Ekon.” He shook his head, then looked askance at Reyes. “I’d always wondered why it was allowed to leave the station, after what happened.”
Reyes avoided his guest’s accusatory stare. “I didn’t.” He recalled his escape from the Orion merchantman—the same incident that had cost Pennington his arm. With a little help from Starfleet Intelligence officer Lieutenant T’Prynn, Reyes had hacked the Orion ship’s navigational records and stolen the coordinates for the source of an artifact that Starfleet had learned could be used as a weapon against the Shedai, an ancient race that possessed fearsome power and mysterious abilities. Although his and T’Prynn’s exit from the ship had resulted in a bloodbath, the Federation had defused the ensuing political fallout by exonerating the ship’s owner, Neera, of culpability for the firefight and sending her and her crew on their way.
What none of the admirals at Starfleet Command had said aloud was that there was no way they were going to permit the Omari-Ekon to leave Vanguard’s jurisdiction with that kind of intel aboard as a lure for the Klingons, the Romulans, the Tholians, and whoever else might be vying for control over the Taurus Reach and its terrible secrets. Consequently, shortly after moving beyond the station’s patrol zone, the Omari-Ekon had suffered a sudden, disastrous mechanical failure, and, just as Reyes had suspected, the first ship to reach its smoldering wreckage had reported there were no survivors.
He scratched an itch on his chin through his neatly trimmed salt-and-pepper beard and cast a wary look at Pennington. “So, what now?”
“Fair’s fair, right? You told me your secrets, so now I tell you mine?”
“Only if you’re planning on drinking any more of my whiskey.”
Pennington looked at his glass for a moment, or perhaps he was staring through it while his thoughts roamed light-years away; Reyes couldn’t tell for certain. The man pursed his lips. “There are some things I know only secondhand. Some of it’s from witnesses, some’s nothing more than hearsay. I’ve got signal intercepts and transcripts, sensor logs and declassified reports. But a few of the holes I had to fill in with educated guesswork. I’m pretty sure what I’m about to tell you is the truth, but I can’t be a hundred percent certain that some of it’s not spun from cobwebs. You get what I’m telling you?”
Reyes nodded. “I take your meaning.”
“Good.” Pennington settled back onto the empty recliner with a tired grunt. He leaned over, grabbed the bottle of whiskey, uncorked it, and refilled his glass. Then he nudged the open bottle across the small table toward Reyes. “I’d top off if I were you, mate. When you hear the story I’m about to tell . . . you’re gonna need it.”
PART 1
MORTAL INSTRUMENTS
2268
1
The Telinaruul have wronged us for the last time.
The Shedai Wanderer made her telepathic declaration of war to the thousands of her kin who surrounded her atop a basalt mountain on a world of fire. All around them, a sea of molten rock churned and belched superheated gases into the tenuous atmosphere of the newly formed planet. Overhead, a penumbral moon blazed with its own inner fires and dominated the black sky, its infernal glow blotting out the cold sparks of starlight around its edges.
They have stolen what is ours, as if they had any right to our legacy. She shared with her fellow members of the Serrataal her memories of the crystalline prison in which she had recently been snared. Now they arm themselves with the weapons of our old enemies, the Tkon. Waves of antipathy surged from the host gathered below her when they heard the name of their long-extinct foes. If they master this instrument of terror, none of us will be safe. Even now, the Telinaruul hold captive none other than the Progenitor himself.
Shock and dismay coursed through the shared mindspace of their ad hoc Colloquium. Ripples of disbelief shimmered back to the Wanderer, and the Warden’s protesting response was steeped in shades of incredulity. The Progenitor was a myth! A piece of lore to explain our forgotten origins.
He exists, the Wanderer insisted, offering up her memory of fleeting contact with the creator of their race of interstellar dynasts . The first and greatest of our kind lies yoked to the weapon our enemies would turn against us. We must punish these impudent upstarts who would call themselves our peers.
Resistance surged upward from the Adjudicator. Do not be so quick to pit us against these new Telinaruul, he cautioned. They grew mighty while we slept. Have you already forgotten the culling of our numbers on Avainenoran? Or the losses inflicted upon us by the Apostate’s treachery?
The Wanderer seethed. I have forgotten nothing. But even alone, I cut through their so-called fortress with ease. Our numbers are more than sufficient to lay waste all the worlds they control and make their peoples ours to command.
Her declaration was met with hues of doubt, most profoundly from the Avenger. He elevated his essence above the throng to address the Wanderer. Tell us, youngling: How would you have us face this new foe that dwells in deep space, light-years from the nearest Conduit? Should we permit them to capture us all and hope for a moment of providence such as the one that liberated you?
His question sparked a storm of panic. Fear washed over the Wanderer like a tide of poison and left her reeling and sickened. This was not the way of the Shedai, not the voice of the people she had known for hundreds of centuries. What had become of them? Had the Apostate been right to condemn them? Had the Shedai become moribund and degenerate? She refused to accept that. Marshaling her strength, she quelled the others’ rising tide of anxiety with an overpowering exhortation: Silence! The chaotic clamor fell away, and she continued. We waged war against distant powers in ages past, and we will do so again. Our folly in the age before the Grim Awakening was that we contented ourselves with fighting through proxies. No more. I will see justice done upon the Telinaruul by my own touch. I will hear their wailing pleas for mercy, their desperate cries of surrender, and ignore them all as they perish in darkness and silence, in the cold void they should never have dared to cross.
Many of the Serrataal reflected the Wanderer’s aura, signaling their support for the war she was committed to wage. Yet islands of defiance remained. Radiating skepticism of her rhetoric were the Herald and the Sage—persons of consequence, former members of the Maker’s inner circle, the elite corps within the elder caste of named Shedai, the Enumerated Ones.
Exuding rich tones of disdain, the Sage asked, Why should we follow you to war? We pledged our loyalty to the Maker, not to you.
I, too, swore fealty to the Maker, but she is gone now, lost beyond the farthest Conduit. And the Telinaruul ’s error that set me free also made me stronger than I have ever been. Perhaps even stronger than you, Old One.
The Sage’s essence darkened with resentment. I will not give my oath to a youngling—not even one so obviously powerful as you.
His rebuff enraged the Wanderer. Do you mean to lead us, then?
Seniority has always been our way, the Herald interjected. The Warden is the oldest of us who remain.
Taking the Herald’s cue, the Wanderer aimed her fury at the Warden. And what say you? Will you sanction war for the sake of preserving order? Or counsel a galactic cycle of sleep while the Telinaruul turn our secrets against us and one another?
Anticipation swelled as the assembled minds focused themselves upon the Warden. Perhaps sensing the terrible gravity of the moment, he remained silent for a long moment while pondering his answer. If the decision is mine to make, he told the Wanderer, I would have your answer to the Avenger’s question. How are we to strike at these new enemies? Do you propose we lure them into reach?
She mustered her confidence to lend her words the force of authority. No. We will take our fight to the Telinaruul and slay them where they think themselves safest and most secure. We will crush their puny starships and rend their vaunted starbase into scrap. Then we shall free the Progenitor and let him show us how to cleanse the galaxy of these vermin—starting with the ones who call themselves the Federation.
Massed on the black slope, the last of the Shedai hegemons waited for the Warden’s pronouncement, for the declaration that would define the fate of their race, their legacy, and the galaxy at large. High above, the dark moon passed the midheaven in slow degrees; far below, a sea of magma and fire roiled beneath a Stygian sky. A distant eruption trembled the planet from its molten core to its obsidian crust. Then came the moment of decision.
The Warden was incandescent with pride.
To war.
2
Admiral Heihachiro Nogura stood alone, looking down through a pane of transparent aluminum that sloped outward, affording him an unobstructed view of a wide arc of Starbase 47’s main docking bay. Dozens of meters directly beneath his vantage point, the Starfleet scout vessel Sagittarius was tethered at the airlock for Bay 2. Its pristine hull was a testament to the skills of its chief engineer and the starbase’s repair personnel, who had expertly removed all trace of the many and varied horrors the fast little ship had endured in the past few years.
All so I can send it back out to get mauled again.
Sending the ship and its crew into danger didn’t bother Nogura. If he’d had his way, the Archer-class starship would have been deployed weeks earlier. What made him livid was that, for reasons beyond his control, it was still here instead of on its way to one of the most vital missions it had ever been assigned, and that he had no other vessels suited to assume its role.
Distant footsteps echoed in the empty corridor and slowly drew closer. He glanced to his right, but the source of the footfalls was not yet visible, still somewhere beyond the long curve of the passageway that ringed the station’s core, one level above the cathedral-like main concourse of the docking level. Nogura preferred to admire the ships under his command from this more isolated location, a service level free of the random pedestrian traffic and bustling activity of the main level’s gangways. The service level was rarely visited by more than a handful of station personnel. Most of its interior sections were sealed off to serve as airspace above the cavernous repair bays that occupied more than a dozen decks inside the main core adjacent to the docking bay, which occupied the lower half of the station’s massive saucer.
The footsteps were close now, snapping crisply on the gleaming duranium floor, which reeked of pine and ammonia, thanks to a recent pass by a crewman with a mop, a bucket, and punishment-detail work orders. Nogura’s visitor cleared the bend in the corridor, and he noted with a sidelong glance that it was Lieutenant T’Prynn, the station’s acting liaison to Starfleet Intelligence. The tall, athletically trim Vulcan woman wore a red minidress uniform and knee-high black boots, and her insignia bore the emblem for the security division. Her straight sable hair reached to the middle of her back and was cinched in a simple ponytail above her shoulders. She carried a data slate tucked close at her side, and walked with her chin up, her bearing proud.
Nogura turned his attention back to the Sagittarius until T’Prynn stepped up beside him. She waited until he acknowledged her arrival by making eye contact with her reflection in the transparent aluminum window, and then she said simply, “Admiral.”
The diminutive, square-jawed flag officer’s voice was as deep as the sea and had a rasping growl like a power saw. “What’s the excuse this time?”
His brusque query seemed to surprise T’Prynn, and for a brief moment she appeared to be formulating a response steeped in classic Vulcan dry sarcasm. Then she answered him plainly. “The Romulans and the Klingons have both increased their patrols in the sectors surrounding Vanguard, and they appear to be coordinating their activities.”
“In other words, the same excuse as last time.” He shook his head, frustrated by the prospect of another indefinite delay. “We can’t just sit and wait for the Klingons and the Romulans to let their guard down. That escaped Shedai could come back at any time—and if it brings friends, we’ll be in real trouble.”
T’Prynn relaxed her pose. “I agree. If Eremar is the source of the Mirdonyae Artifacts, it’s imperative we investigate it before anyone else finds it.”
“Exactly,” Nogura said. “But it won’t do us any good if the Klingons or the Romulans follow the Sagittarius to that pulsar. Best-case scenario, they’d swoop in and steal the artifacts out from under us. Worst-case scenario, they’d destroy the Sagittarius in the process. It’s not enough to get Nassir and his ship there. We also need to bring them home with the prize.”
She proffered the data slate to Nogura. “I have a plan that may accomplish the first part of our mission objective.”
He took the slate and skimmed its contents. “Just the high points, if you please.”
“An act of subterfuge. First, we disguise a small craft as a replica of the Sagittarius, one capable of high-warp speed. Then we launch it as a decoy on a heading away from Eremar.”
Nogura scowled at the Vulcan. “And where, exactly, will we find the spare duranium, fuel, and warp nacelles to make this drone?”
“We already have them. They’re in Repair Bay One, awaiting assembly.”
Getting the sense that he was being read into a plan already set in motion, he harrumphed and resumed perusing the slate’s contents. “Go on.”
“We conceal the Sagittarius’s deployment by hiding it inside the main cargo bay of a larger vessel, which will carry it to the Iremal Cluster, a stellar phenomenon known for scrambling short– and long-range sensors. Once the ship reaches the cluster, the Sagittarius deploys on a new course while its transport continues on its original heading. There is a high probability the Sagittarius will reach Eremar undetected if it can reach Iremal without incident.”
Nogura exhaled slowly; it was not so much a sigh as a prolonged huff of irritation. “I see several things wrong with your plan, Lieutenant.”
T’Prynn cocked her head, and her face betrayed a hint of curiosity. “Could you be more specific, Admiral?”
“For starters, whatever ship you dress up as your decoy will have a dozen Klingon and Romulan warships hunting it from the moment it leaves our patrol zone.”
She pointed at the slate in his hand. “I’ve accounted for that, sir. The decoy will, in fact, be an unmanned drone, equipped with sensor feedback systems to create the illusion of a living crew. As noted on page six of my proposal.”
He paged forward in her briefing and saw that she was telling the truth. “Very well. Now maybe you can tell me how you plan to fit the Sagittarius inside another ship’s cargo hold. Don’t most ships usually leave here packed stem to stern?”
“Under normal circumstances, yes. We would need to take the extraordinary measure of commandeering a civilian vessel of sufficient capacity to execute the ruse. As a result, whatever ship we select would be deprived of its cargo and civilian passengers.”
Nogura regarded her with naked suspicion. “I presume the ship of ‘sufficient capacity’ you have in mind is the freighter Ephialtes?”
“In fact it is.”
“I trust you know Captain Alodae won’t go along without a fight.” He waited for T’Prynn to reply, but she said nothing. Despite all her claims of having rededicated herself to logic devoid of emotion during her long recovery from a mental breakdown, he suspected that on some level she was enjoying this at his expense. “All we need is for him to go crying to the JAG Office.”
She lowered her chin, lending her mien a conspiratorial air. “I don’t claim to be a legal expert, but I sincerely doubt Captain Alodae would prevail in such a dispute.”
“You have an answer for everything, don’t you?”
“I strive to be prepared, sir.”
Unable to shake off his skepticism, he pored over a few more paragraphs of T’Prynn’s mission plan. “Let’s say we proceed with this scheme of yours, whether Captain Alodae likes it or not. Sending one of our ships out of here as luggage on a superfreighter, straight into a sensor blind spot that has ‘ambush’ written all over it, might be just as dangerous as letting the Sagittarius leave here undisguised. And even if this absurd ruse works, I don’t see anything in your plan for how to bring our people home safely from Eremar.”
A grudging half nod. “I admit, I’m still working to resolve a few details.”
His thick, graying brows knit together as he glowered up at the statuesque Vulcan. “This is one of the most reckless, dangerous mission plans I’ve ever seen, in all my years in Starfleet.”
She met his hard, scathing gaze with one eyebrow arched in elegant mockery. “Is that a ‘yes,’ Admiral?”
He handed back the data slate. “Make it happen.”
3
There were few luxuries that were as sorely underappreciated as that of a good meal, in the opinion of Captain Kutal. He sat alone at the officers’ table in the mess hall of the I.K.S. Zin’za, savoring a mouthful of succulent gagh. The tiny worms were young and fresh, having just been stocked into the ship’s larder a few days earlier, during a brief port call at Tythor, just over the border inside the Empire. He always made a point of enjoying such delicacies while they lasted. Before long, the gagh would grow large and tough, until not even the hardiest Klingon warrior could chew them, and then they would be useless, just more raw mass consigned to the ship’s waste-processing system.
We must take our pleasures where we can, he reminded himself as he downed a long draught from his stein of warnog, a potent alcohol with a bracing kick and a sharp aftertaste.
A knot of enlisted crewmen sat on the other side of the compartment, hunched over their trays slopped with second-rate blood pies, saying little but filling the air with wet smacks of mastication. Kutal could tell they were behaving self-consciously because he was there, refraining from whatever conversation would normally fill the spaces in their midday meal. The reason for their discomfort was of no interest to Kutal. He simply enjoyed the silence.
He plucked a generous pinch of gagh from his dull gray bowl and stuffed the wriggling delicacy into his sharp-toothed maw. Biting down, he was rewarded with their frantic dying squirms and a delectable squirt of warm blood rich with salt and minerals. The delight it brought him verged on the religious, and he shut his eyes to drink in the moment free of distraction. Then he heard the heavy footfalls of his first officer, BelHoQ, and Kutal knew even before the man spoke that his perfect lunch was about to be ruined.
“We have new orders from the High Command, Captain.”
The captain shot a murderous look over his shoulder at his black-bearded, wild-maned brute of a first officer. “I’m eating, damn you!”
BelHoQ stepped around the table and sat across from Kutal. “Priority orders.”
Kutal shoved aside his tray. “If you knew good gagh from kesh, you’d have waited for me to come to the bridge.” He reached out and demanded with twitching fingers, “Give it to me.” The second-in-command reached under a fold in his tunic and pulled out a data tablet, then shoved it into Kutal’s waiting hand. Just as the captain had expected, it contained nothing but bad news. “When did this come in?”
“A few minutes ago.”
“It could have waited.” He stood, tossed the tablet back to BelHoQ, then abandoned his tray and strode toward the door. BelHoQ followed him out to the corridor and forward, toward the bridge. The two warriors walked side by side through the dim, musky passageways of the Zin’za, whose deck plates thrummed with the steady pulse of its warp engines.
BelHoQ grumbled, “Fek’lhr take those petaQpu’ at the High Command. I’d rather be whipped naked against the gate of Gre’thor than trust a Romulan to watch my back.”
“Not that we have much choice, now, do we?” They sidestepped past a pair of mechanics effecting repairs at an open bulkhead, then Kutal continued. “I get the feeling someone very high up is in league with the Romulans, and not just for the sake of spiting the Federation.”
A low grunt presaged BelHoQ’s reply. “I think the Romulans traded their cloaking secrets for safe passage through the Empire so they could gather intelligence for an invasion.”
“Maybe. But if so, that’s a long way off. Right now, I think their agenda leans more toward corruption than conquest.” The port hatch to the bridge slid open ahead of them. Kutal marched to his command chair and shouldered aside Lieutenant Krom, the ship’s second officer, along the way. “Krom, report!”
Krom had almost regained his footing when BelHoQ shoved past him and left the shorter soldier off balance and half-sitting on a deactivated gunner’s console. Straightening, the young lieutenant tried to act as if neither slight had just happened. “We’re continuing on course for the Gonmog Sector, Captain. Standing by to execute course change based on our new orders.”
Kutal turned a sour scowl on BelHoQ, silently reproaching him for failing to keep word of the ship’s new mission profile from being prematurely leaked to the rank and file. “Helm, set course for our rendezvous with the Romulan cruiser Kenestra, in the Hujok system.”
Qlar, the helm officer, keyed commands into his console. “Plotted and ready.”
“Engage.” Kutal swiveled his elevated chair toward the weapons officer. “Tonar! Make sure you read the report on Romulan tactical protocols. We’ve been ordered to conduct joint operations with our new allies, harassing Federation shipping, until further notice.” A curt nod signaled Tonar’s understanding, and he set himself to his task without speaking—a habit Kutal wished more of his crew would emulate. Turning forward, Kutal punched his left palm a few times while he pondered the shifting currents of power coursing through the Empire. Then he glanced left, toward BelHoQ, who stood, waiting on the captain’s next words. “No good will come of speaking our minds to the High Command. They won’t hear ill words spoken against the providers of the great and mighty cloaking device.”
“A cowardly invention,” BelHoQ sneered.
Waving away the criticism, Kutal replied, “A weapon is neither cowardly nor brave. What matters is how it’s used. And I think the Romulans are using it to seduce our leaders—the generals inside the High Command, the heads of the Great Houses, and who knows who else. The point is, we need to choose our friends very carefully.”
“With all respect,” BelHoQ protested, “we know who our friends are.”
“Do we? Just because we’ve trusted someone in the past doesn’t mean we should trust them now. Do some digging. See what secrets our good friends on Qo’noS have buried, and make sure they really are still our friends before we start making new enemies.”
A low growl of frustration rumbled deep inside BelHoQ’s barrel chest. “Why must we waste time while novpu’ move freely through our space? Why not take action now?”
“Because we’re not preparing for a duel, we’re preparing for a war. Which means our first action must be to prepare the battlefield. Remember the lessons of Kahless: the victorious warrior wins first and then goes to war, while the defeated warrior goes to war and only then seeks to win.” He met the first officer’s sullen gaze with a stare that brooked no dissent. “I will fight this war when I’m ready to win it, my friend—and not a moment sooner.”
The rank perfume of coitus assaulted Duras’s sensitive nose as he traversed the brothel hallway, passing one curtained partition after another on his way to a clandestine rendezvous.
It struck him as particularly ironic that, of all the possible locations for a meeting in the First City, his contact should choose this one. Normally, as a scion of a Great House, Duras would never come within a hundred qelIqams of such an establishment; if he desired companionship, it would be his for the asking, in the privacy of his own home. Only offworlders and those without honor frequented these places.
As he noted the way in which everyone he passed made a point of avoiding eye contact with him or one another, however, he realized there was a certain perverse logic to this plan. The single most important element of the social contract in a brothel was discretion, making it the one place where people actively avoided remembering, or being remembered by, those around them. It was the most anonymous place in the capital, making it a far more discreet meeting place than his office within the Great Hall, or his estate, which was always under surveillance by operatives employed by his rivals.
