Vrenn was in his sleeping room of the House Twenty-Four, alone. The six beds were all neat; the other occupants were at a morning instruction. Vrenn had a sudden, deep flash of wishing he were with them. But he was no longer Gensa, but Khemara. Shortly a transport would be here, to take him away to his destiny.
Vrenn crouched on the edge of the bed that he had slept in all his life, leaned forward, slipped his fingers beneath it, feeling out of sight of the room monitors for the slot between metal frames.
He found nothing.
His jaw tensed, and his lips curled back from his teeth. So the one thing he would have kept was gone as well. He thought that it was not right for the Proctors to take it; it did not really belong to the House. If he found Khidri, Vrenn wondered, could he convince him to give Vrenn that one thing? Or if he could not take it away, at least give it to a Housemate. . . .
That would be a poor strategy, Vrenn knew at once. It had been old Khi’ who had cautioned Vrenn not to demand privileges too soon in the name of Khemara, not to call a victory what was not.
Let the House have the envelope, then. Let them burn it. And he would see it again, in the next life, when he captained a ship of the Black Fleet.
Vrenn left the room. The halls were very quiet; the walls were of smooth castrock, hung with a few machine-copy tapestries, good traps for sound.
“Khemara.”
It was the sound that made Vrenn turn, not the name. Proctor Muros was standing not far away, hands folded. His control wand swung at his side: Vrenn could not think when the wand had seemed both less of a threat, and more.
“Are you lost, Khemara? Guests of this House are normally provided with guides. I will guide you if you wish, honored and exalted guest.” Epetaizana: an honorific so high it became absurd, an insult.
“I am not lost, Proctor,” Vrenn said firmly, then hardened his neck muscles and said, “You may go about your duties.”
Muros smiled faintly, showing points of teeth. “Of course, epetai-zana” He nodded politely, turned and walked silently away. Vrenn felt his liver relax.
Newcomers to the House often thought Muros was demanding their deference, and gave it. It was the wrong answer. “Are you straave?” he would snarl, and use the wand.
When Muros snaps, snap back: it was one of many secret rules of the House. When one arrived, one’s five roommates, and only they, could tell the rules. Or not tell, as they chose. Usually they would tell a part, leave a part to be found out at the end of a wand. Zharn had warned Vrenn of Muros, and it was said he had ordered Gelly’s mates to warn her, which for her strangeness they might not have done.
Zharn and Gelly had not returned, after the klin zha kinta. The others game-killed had, including Ragga, but Ragga was sullen and distant now, hardly speaking even to curse.
Vrenn came into the front common room. The light was lower here, the air moister; there were plants and a shallow dark pool for meditations. Panels of colored glass in the ceiling formed a large Imperial trefoil, the komerex stela, glowing with angular morning sun. A klin zha table was idle near the wall; Vrenn went toward it.
“You are Vrenn Khemara.” Again, it was the sound of someone speaking, not the name he was called, that made Vrenn turn: and this voice was not Klingon, though the language was klingonaase.
A tall, very thin figure was approaching: he wore a black and gold Navy uniform, without insignia. Vrenn did not know the race. A little behind him was Proctor Khidri, carrying a folded pile of dark cloth.
“My name is Tirian,” the tall male said. He had an extremely angular face, very broad shoulders, a narrow waist. “I am Transporteer to Thought Admiral Kethas. I am now honored to serve you as well.”
Khidri held out the bundle. “Epetai-Khemara has sent clothing for you.”
Vrenn took the clothes. There was a long, loose tunic and trousers of deep blue fabric, very soft. Vrenn tugged open the seams of his gray House uniform and began changing on the spot; Khidri was after all a House Proctor, and Tirian, whatever his exact race, was obviously kuve. He had spoken of serving—and more telling, Khidri had said epetai-Khemara sent the clothes, not that Tirian brought them.
A thought occurred as Vrenn was dressing. “These are like Cadet’s clothes, aren’t they? Navy Cadet’s?”
Tirian said, “Somewhat. A Cadet’s tunic is less long or full, so that it does not balloon in no-weight.”
Vrenn moved his shoulders. He had never touched cloth so soft. He picked up his discarded uniform, folding it automatically, and gave it to Khidri. “When do we depart, Transporteer?” he said, feeling his voice tremble just a bit as he tried for the sound of command.
“At your convenience, zan Vrenn. Do you have baggage?”
“No . . . nothing, Transporteer.”
“If you wish, call me Tirian. Kuvesa tokhesa.” I serve willingly, the alien said, and yet Vrenn knew it for an instruction. “Then you shall call me Vrenn,” he answered, a request.
They went into the House forecourt. There was a small flier parked there, short-winged and graceful, green-backed and white-bellied. The viewports had armored shutters ready to drop, and under the wings were mounted disruptors and missile pods. Vrenn knew it from the recognition books as a Teska-2: not just an armed transport but a real combat craft, able to meet a spaceship in orbit.
Around the flier, admiring it from a careful distance, were the residents of the House Gensa; at Kidri’s appearance all turned, and fell neatly into ranks.
They sang “The Vengeance Flies at Morning,” the theme from Vrenn’s favorite tape series: “Undefeated” was the House favorite, but it was about facing enemies and death. This was a better song for today.
The guns are hot, the hull is ringing,
The engines sing the sound of triumph;
And every one aboard awaits
A prize upon the high horizon.
Hand and weapon! Heart and power!
Cry it with the voice of Empire!
Victory and prize and plunder!
Vengeance flies at morning!
It was the perfect song for today, and Vrenn’s neck hurt with holding his jaw steady and his lips tight shut . . . but Zharn was not here to sing it, nor Gelly.
Rokis stepped forward, limping a bit; she had hurt her leg in the klin zha kinta, making a grand swooping kill. She held out her hands to Vrenn: in them was a brown paper envelope. “A gift from us,” she said. “Some things to remember.”
Vrenn almost smiled. So that was why he had not found it beneath his bed.
A hand intruded, and Vrenn stopped as he reached for the envelope; a Proctor passed a device over the package and withdrew again without touching it.
Vrenn took the package, held it as tightly as he could without wrinkling it. “This is . . . an honorable House,” he said, and looked up, but of course sunlight and clouds clothed the stars.
Then the crowd parted, and Vrenn and Tirian went to the flier; the Transporteer touched controls on a wrist device, and the door opened and stairs swung down. Tirian gestured, and Vrenn went aboard.
Vrenn had seen pictures and tapes of ships’ interiors, but he was not at all ready for this. He was in a tunnel, barely wider than his shoulders and not much higher than his head, lined with equipment of metal and plastic and rubber, alive with small lights and noises.
“Go on forward,” Tirian said, turning his wide shoulders to follow. Vrenn emerged into a slightly larger space, fronted with thick tinted glass. There were two large padded chairs, each caged by equipment. Small displays flickered, and ducted air rushed by.
Tirian said, “You’re left seat. That’s—”
“Gunner’s seat,” Vrenn said.
Tirian clicked his teeth together. “Sure, you’d know that. Can you get belted in?”
Vrenn climbed into the seat, pulled the parts of the harness together and locked them over his chest.
“Fine job. Can you get out now?”
Vrenn slapped at the knob on the harness buckle. Nothing happened. He slapped again, hard enough to hurt. Nothing.
Tirian reached across. “Turn, then push.” He demonstrated, then relocked the harness. “Anything could bump open those old locks they show on the tapes. This is safer, and just as fast.” He leaned against his chair, tapped his thin, pale fingers on his knee. “Now. I’m your Transporteer. Do you know what that means?”
Vrenn struggled with himself. Could this really be a servitor? Or was Vrenn’s new status not what he had believed? He looked at Tirian, who waited, no expression on his bony face. Vrenn knew he must answer, and he would not lie. “No. Will you tell me?”
Tirian nodded gravely. “Of course, zan Vrenn. My duty is to keep you safe, while you are aboard any vehicle. If you travel by particle transporter, I will set the controls, that you may be properly reassembled. It may also become my duty to inform you of desirable or undesirable actions while in transit; as my master you must decide how to act on this information. Is this explanation sufficient?”
“Yes, Trans—Tirian.” It was more than sufficient. A Captain lent his life to the one he trusted as transporter operator, each time he used the machine: the one chosen must be of special quality. It was reasonable that an Admiral should have a special officer for the purpose—and a kuve one, who could have no ambitions.
Now Vrenn realized he had insulted one he must trust. He was not sure how to correct the error; surely he should not express error, not to a servitor. He simply had no experience of kuve; on tapes they were so easily dealt with . . .
Finally Vrenn said, “I seem to have misunderstood you at first.”
Tirian said, “I regret that this is common. I am a Withiki—” more a whistle than a word—“and I do not speak well.” He got into his seat, fastened his harness, began bringing the flier to life.
Vrenn looked at him, wondering at what he had just heard. He had seen Withiki, real ones, at the Year Games, and Tirian could not possibly be of that race.
The flier began to lift. Through the windshield Vrenn could see his once-Housemates waving, and he waved back, though realizing they could not see him through the dark glass.
He waited until Tirian had brought them to cruising altitude, then said, “Could you provide me with some information on this equipment?”
Again Tirian’s teeth clicked; Vrenn supposed it was his race’s form of polite laughter, but he was not offended. “The weapons are indeed loaded, Vrenn, but are all on safety. However, you might enjoy the view through the gunsights. A moment to get us on guide-beam, and I’ll show you how it works.”
* * *
The Khemara linehold was almost a quarter of the world away; it took half a day airborne, beam-guided around reserved airspaces, military and private. Had they intruded, they would have vanished from the sky in an instant.
The Teska had a tiny, unenclosed waste facility, and a food locker stuffed with cold meat and fish and fruit nectars. Vrenn took a swallow and was astonished at the taste: the juice was real.
They swung near mist-cloaked hills and low over green lakes, crossing the Northwest Sea as the sun was setting. The clouds broke for a moment and showed the star, a white pinpoint; Vrenn shielded his eyes at once. Then the light was gone, and they were over the Kartade Forest. Tirian was dozing in his chair, breath whistling. Vrenn had no notion of sleep. He switched the gunsight to night vision and scanned the forest; the intertwined trees showed up in startling clarity, and now and then an animal streaked by, burning bright on the infrared screen.
A beep from the communications board woke Tirian instantly. He touched a switch, and a web of light was projected on the windshield: the image of a landing grid that lay, invisible, on the ground ahead. Tirian hung an audio pickup behind his ear. “Center Space, this is Flier 04 . . . Aboard, affirm . . . My password is Tailfeather. What is your password? Affirm, off beam and landing now.”
They touched down very gently. Outside the flier, a pathway lit up; then lights came on behind large windows. Tirian said,“You’re to go on inside. My duty’s here.”
Vrenn nodded. “It was a good trip,” he said, sure it was not too much praise.
Tirian did not click his teeth. He said, “Thank you, master Vrenn,” with clear satisfaction. And he had said master, not the neutral zan. He indicated the brown envelope: “May I bring your package?”
“No . . . I’ll take that.”
Vrenn went down the steps, holding the envelope. The path wound out before him through a garden, with shrubs and pools, and knotted-trunked trees as grew in the Kartade. There was a heavy scent of flower perfumes.
The house was quite high, at least three stories, with a V-shaped roof: the huge front windows seemed a little like angled eyes looking down on Vrenn. Behind the windows was what appeared to be one large room, with red light flickering within.
Without any pause at all, Vrenn went inside.
There was indeed one vast, high-ceilinged room, with wooden beams cutting across the space overhead, and iron-railed stairs to balconies on either side. In the center was a broad, black pillar, open at the base: a fire, fed by wood, burned within. Around the fireplace were cushions, and tables topped with wood inlay and black glass.
A figure stood, silhouetted by the fire. “Welcome, Vrenn. Be welcome in your house.”
“Thought Admiral . . .” Vrenn said, and saw the tilt of Kethas’s head. “. . . Father.”
Kethas nodded, took Vrenn’s free hand in both of his and drew him into the firelight. “Sit, if you like, though I suppose you’ve been sitting too long already. Are you hungry? Thirsty? We need a glass of something to talk over . . . you’re nine, aren’t you?”
“Nearly nine.”
“Yes. Do they have strong drinks, in the Houses? I really don’t know that much about them.”
“I drink ale.”
“Dark ale, then, that’s the best when you’re tired. Not the scorch of a distillate and less risky than brandy.” Almost before Kethas finished speaking, a servitor had appeared with a tray.
Vrenn had never much cared for ale, but it was all he had experience of: this drink, however, was wonderful, as much as the fruit nectar had been. Vrenn began to wonder if he would simply have to relearn eating and drinking.
Another being, a female, came into view. She wore a long gown of some pale stuff that shimmered. Her skin was quite dark, and Vrenn thought for a moment she was Klingon, but then a white ceiling light showed the green cast to her complexion. Light gleamed on fingernails like polished green opals.
And then Vrenn felt something very strange, like an invisible hand squeezing inside his chest. It was not painful . . . not quite. He spilled a little of his drink.
“Pheromonal shock,” Kethas said. “At your age, the rush of hormones could be deadly.” Vrenn had no idea what Kethas was talking about. He knew from the female’s color what she must be: half the ships Koth of the Vengeance captured had an Orion female aboard, all green, all beautiful past imagining . . . but Vrenn realized now that they were all just Klingon females in makeup. And compared to this one, they were all dead things.
“This is Rogaine,” Kethas said. Vrenn forced himself to listen. “She is my sole consort. Rogaine, this is Vrenn, whom we have taken into the line.”
Vrenn bowed. Rogaine returned it, and sank with an impossibly smooth motion onto a cushion by the fire. “Please don’t stare,” she said, in a fluid voice, one not at all suited to klingonaase. “It makes me feel that I have committed an error.”
Kethas sat next to Rogaine, covered her hand with his. “In this House you are infallible,” he said, and then said something in a language as ill-suited to his tongue as klingonaase was to hers. Rogaine laughed, a sound that melted in the air.
Kethas said, “Sit down, Vrenn. This isn’t an examination.”
Vrenn sat, very carefully. “Thought Admiral, a question.”
“Of course; the first of many, I’m sure.”
“Why am I here?”
“A fair enough opening,” Kethas said. “You do not know your parents, do you? Your actual parents, not us.”
“No . . . I do not remember anything but the House. We were told that was better.”
“I cannot disagree. But listen now. Your line was Rustazh, your father Squadron Leader Kovar sutai-Rustazh.”
“I have a line?” Vrenn burst out. “I—that is—”
“An understandable response. But the Rustazh line is extinct. Your once-father was leading a convoy of colonization; the line had received an Imperial grant of space. But the ships were ambushed, by Romulans. Kovar fought well, but there were problems . . . colony ships are a handicap in combat. There were no survivors, as one expects of Romulans.”
“How do I . . . then live?”
“I don’t know. Kovar’s youngest son was named Vrenn, and he would be your age . . . and I see some resemblance, for whatever that’s worth. But how you came to be in the House Twenty-four . . . that is a mystery. Records have been lost, or altered, enough to buy at least one death, could we find the actors.”
Kethas drank his ale, and Vrenn did likewise. Kethas spoke again, in a very serious tone. “But you asked why you were here, and I have not answered yet. Under me, Kovar served Empire well, and because of certain things he did in that time I am disposed to do a thing for him.”
Vrenn said, “I am—” Kethas cut him off with a raised finger.
The Thought Admiral said, “I have had eight children, which ought to be enough to preserve a line. But seven of them are dead in seven parts of space; and the eighth has changed his name to begin a line of his own, and when his last brother died it was too late to reverse this course. And I have spent many years in space, on the old thin-hulled ships, when the power came from isotopes, and I have taken too much radiation; my children now are monsters, that bubble and die.”
Rogaine turned sharply away. Kethas touched her hand, but did not turn toward her. He said, “For Kovar’s sake I took you out of the Lineless’ House; one life was my debt to him. But for my sake I will make you heritor of the line Khemara, and to this linehold and all its property; and the price is that you will be Khemara and forget that you ever were Rustazh.”
Vrenn felt slightly dizzy, but he had heard every word clearly, and there was no Cloud in his mind. He said, “I was never Rustazh until now . . . but now I am already Khemara. And so I will stay.”
Kethas stood, put both hands on Vrenn’s shoulders. “In you the klin lives, this is certain! Odise.” A servitor appeared. “Take Vrenn Khemara to his rooms.” He gave Vrenn’s shoulder a squeeze, then let go.
Vrenn stood, retrieving his envelope. Kethas said, “What’s that? Discharge papers?” He held out his hand.
“No . . . these are . . . just some things of mine.”
Kethas nodded. “We’ll talk again tomorrow, then. And . . . I saw you on the board; do you play klin zha, when you are not a piece?”
“Yes, Grand Master.” Vrenn supposed the title was appropriate now.
Kethas smiled slightly. “Then we will do that.” He went back to Rogaine, who sat very still by the fire; he spoke to her in her own language.
The servitor Odise bowed crookedly to Vrenn. It was a small being, a little over half Vrenn’s height, with spindly legs and arms and a turret head, covered all over with smooth black fur. It turned, and Vrenn followed it, up stairs to a corridor above.
The kuve opened a door, handed the key to Vrenn, then gestured for him to enter the dark doorway. As Vrenn did, lights came on.
The chambers inside were fully the equal of a Captain’s quarters. There was a study the size of Vrenn’s shared room at the house, with a library screen and books on shelves; an equally large bedroom beyond that; a private wash-and-waste. Odise demonstrated some of the controls—silently; it apparently did not speak—bowed and went out, closing the door.
Vrenn wandered around the rooms for several minutes. The similarity to a Captain’s cabin was not just superficial, he realized. He had seen pictures of ships showing the same furnishings: the cylindrical closets, the angular desks and chairs, the tracked spotlamps. The bed even had a concave surface, though there was no restraint web. There was a meal slot in the wall, with programming buttons. And the walls were covered with clearprints of stars and planets, lit from behind, exactly like viewports to Space beyond.
Vrenn sat down on the lumpless bed, weighted down with too many enormities for one day.
On a small table next to the bed was a klin zha set. The pieces were of heavy green and amber stone—jade and quartz, Vrenn guessed, having heard of those materials. The board was black enamel, with inlaid brass strips marking off the spaces. Vrenn looked at it for a long while, not touching it, then opened his brown envelope and slid its contents out onto the table: a triangular piece of heavy card, and some discs of soft wood.
Vrenn had found the board on the ground next to a recycling bin, and inked the triangular grid with another piece of scrap for a straightedge. The discs were hole-punchings from some packing material, scrounged in the same way. Vrenn had engraved the symbols for the pieces into the soft grain with a writing stylus. They were Green and Black, since he had no yellow ink.
Vrenn set up his pieces to match the stone set. He made a few moves, then looked up at the corners of his room. There was nothing overtly a monitor visible. He felt the key in his pocket, thought about getting up to lock the door, but did not.
Finally he scooped the paper board and pieces into their envelope, reached beneath his bed, and found a slot where the package would fit.
* * *
Morning light filtered through skylights, vines, and fog into the house’s indoor garden. Vrenn felt the warm, wet air like a solid substance around him. Fog parted as he moved.
Kethas was armpit-deep in a sponge-tiled pool, watching text flicker by on a small viewer at the water’s edge. “Come in, Vrenn,” he said, and touched the display off.
Vrenn approached. His tunic and trousers were damp, impeding him. He stood on the edge of the water, on which bright plants were floating, giving off a sweet scent.
“Well, come in,” Kethas said, smiling.
After a moment, Vrenn undressed and slipped into the water. It was an oddly neutral sensation, not cool, not hot, just . . . enveloping, and very comfortable.
“Now we’re civilized,” Kethas said. “Have you eaten?”
“I . . . just a little.” The meal slot in his room served nine flavors of fruit nectar, and he had gone through a large glass of each. But they had not stayed with him. And he had soon been more interested by the library screen, which also served as a starship action simulator.
“Two meals,” Kethas said, to the apparently inert monitor. “You were up early.”
Vrenn wondered then if his room was watched. “We always woke before sunrise, at the House.”
“There’s no such rule here. It would never work. I live midmorning to midnight, and Rogaine needs many little sleeptimes, and Tirian sleeps when it’s convenient, like a Vulcan. If you like mornings, fine, but find the time you’re best at and live there. That’s the payoff strategy. The most efficient, that is to say.”
That was exactly the opposite of what the House Proctors called efficiency, but Vrenn was already thinking of something else. “Are there Vulcans here?”
“No, I do not have a tharavul. Can you use a library unit?”
Watched or not? Vrenn thought, and said, “Yes.”
“Then you have no need for tharavul. Here’s food.”
There were light fried anemones and crisp salt fish, sweet gel pastries (Vrenn was careful to take only two) and a hot dark drink he thought at first was heated ale, but which was something harsh and incredibly bitter. Vrenn nearly choked.
“Human kafei,” Kethas said, laughing. “They bring it to me in course; I should have warned you. Awful, yes, but you learn to drink it. Some years back, I was on a deep mission, taking supply by forage, and for half the voyage we had nothing to drink but a case of that stuff taken as prize . . . that and the white fire the Engineer brewed up. They’re not bad together, too.” Kethas drained his cup. “And it has a mind-clearing effect, which you’re going to need.”
The Thought Admiral reached to the display unit again. As he rose slightly from the water, Vrenn could see rippled scars on Kethas’s flank. He had watched enough tapes of battles to know that only delta rays left marks like that: Kethas had been burned by either an unshielded warpdrive, or Romulan lasers.
“Bring down my green tunic,” Kethas said to the unit, “and for Vrenn, the gold.”
* * *
Vrenn and Kethas walked around the fireplace in the large front room. Along the walls were boards and pieces for every game Vrenn had ever heard of, and even more than he had not. For klin zha there were many sets, for all the variations.
“I’ve seen you in the Clouded Game,” Kethas said. “Do you know the Ablative form?” He gestured to a board that was elevated on posts, pressed a finger on one of the spaces; the triangular tile fell out, into a tray below.
“Yes. And Blind, too.” Vrenn wore a long coat of gold brocade, with the multicolored crest of a forest lizard sewn across the shoulders. Kethas’s coat was of thick green cloth, with an Admiral’s haloed stars on the sleeve.
Vrenn thought about his clothes; both the wardrobes in his rooms had been filled. This gown was too new to have been the Admiral’s; it must have belonged to one of Kethas’s children. Vrenn put the question away to ask later, if at all.
Kethas pointed at boards marked in squares instead of triangles. One was square overall, spaces alternately black and white; the other was rectangular, a tan color with gold lines.
“The human zha, chess. And the rom zha, which the Romulans call latrunculo. They are both fine games, though not so interesting or varied as klin zha.
“Do all races have a game?”
Kethas smiled, evidently pleased with the question. “Kinshaya have no stylized game, though they are excellent at small-war with model soldiers. Vulcans find games ‘illogical,’ though they create computer simulations that amount to the same thing, and labor at other races’ games for some reason of the Vulcan sort. Do you know the saying, ‘less pleasant than torturing Vulcans’?”
Vrenn laughed, which was enough answer. Kethas said “Among Masters of the Game it goes ‘. . . than klin zha against a Vulcan.’ ”
“And the kuve?”
“The kuve do not. They have games, yes, and some of them are worth a little study—I will show you, another time—but no kuve zha can be truly great.”
“That is only sensible,” Vrenn said, embarrassed. “I should have understood it.”
“An obvious question is better than obvious ignorance,” Kethas said. “In this house questions may always be asked. Only in the larger universe must one be cautious not to show one’s blindness.”
Vrenn nodded, silently resolving to be more cautious at once. He said “What variant is this?” realizing he was showing more ignorance.
The board and pieces before them were of klin zha pattern, but there was only one set of pieces, colored green and gold combined.
“That is for the Reflective Game. It is the highest form of klin zha, and the most difficult. Barring of course the komerex zha—or do you deny the Perpetual Game?” Kethas shook his head, smiling; evidently a joke was intended. “Come here; I’ll show you.”
Kethas picked up the Reflective set, carried it to one of the tables by the fireplace. He punched up a cushion and sat against it, then swept the single set of two-colored pieces to the side of the board.
Vrenn sat, folding his tunic beneath himself, and waited.
“In the Reflective Game,” Kethas said, “there is a single group of pieces which either player may move in turn. All pieces move in the fashion of the normal, Open Game.”
“How does one win?”
“In the same fashion as the Open Game: by making it impossible for the opponent to move legally. . . . We begin by setting up. Choose a piece and place it: any piece, anywhere. Then I shall do so, and so on, alternating.”
Without hesitation, Vrenn reached for the Fencer, placing it in the corner of the board nearest himself. He watched Kethas: but suddenly nothing at all, not even a smile, was readable from the Grand Master’s face. Kethas selected a Vanguard, placed it some distance from Vrenn’s Fencer.
When all the pieces were placed, in what seemed to Vrenn a totally random fashion, Kethas said, “I move first. This is a disadvantage.” He shifted a Vanguard. “Now, your move.”
“Any piece? And I may kill as well?”
“Of course. Remember only, he said, still without expression, that you may not voluntarily put your Goal in danger of attack. Even though it is also my Goal.”
Suddenly Vrenn began to understand. He examined the board, realizing that most of the moves he had thought were possible actually endangered the Goal disc. If he even moved the Fencer off the Goal, it would then become the enemy’s Fencer, and give the enemy an instant victory.
The game lasted only three moves after that.
Kethas sat back. “A pleasing game,” he said. “My compliments to a worthy opponent.”
Vrenn felt frustrated, angry. He felt he had been used, to win a cheap and honorless victory. Controlling his voice, he said, “I am a good player, at the forms of klin zha which I know, but I do not know this one, and I could not play well against you.”
Kethas answered in a voice that seemed to reach out and physically take hold of Vrenn. “I am an undrawn Grand Master of the Game, and you cannot lose well against me, no matter the form. But as with all my children, I will play this game or another against you every day that you are here, and in time you will learn to lose well, and you may even learn to lose brilliantly.”
Vrenn held his hands below the table, keeping them from clawing into fists, kept his lips from curling back. He wanted to understand, but was not sure at all that he did, or ever would. “And if in time I learn to win . . . however badly?”
“Kai Kassai Klingon!” Kethas said, laughing, and slapped Vrenn’s shoulder. “Then I will make you a Thought Admiral in my place, and retire to my consort and my garden pool forever!”
That night, after a long and useless assault on sleep, Vrenn touched on the bedside lamp and stared at the stonecut klin zha set in the pool of light. Then he reached beneath the bed, took out the envelope, shook its contents onto the table and set up a game.
* * *
It was an afternoon deep in the cold season, and the perpetual fireplace was stoked high; there had been a trace of real white frost on the garden outside, just at dawn, and Vrenn had watched until the day reclaimed it. He had never been so far north, and found the change of seasons amazing. He had been Khemara now for two-thirds of a year.
Kethas had been away from the house for ten days, at a meeting of the Imperial Council, in the Throne City on the other side of the world. Today, the morning’s message said, he would be returning.
Tirian had at once gone to check the working of the house’s transporter station; he seemed satisfied, and now sat in the front room reading a printed book, while Vrenn experimented with klin zha positions on a computer grid. Music drifted down from a balcony: Rogaine was playing the harp in her chambers. The sound was pleasing, but it was not like Klingon music; there could be no words to it, and it did not inspire.
The harp fell silent. A moment later, Tirian’s belt annunciator chimed. He tucked his book away inside his clothing. Vrenn blanked the game display and followed Tirian out of the house.
Beyond the formal garden and the flier landing, all to itself, was a small hexagonal pavilion, much newer than the main house. The particle transporter had been safe for Klingon use for less than thirty years; only very recently had anyone, even an Admiral, the luxury of a home station.
Inside the small building, Tirian unlocked two banks of controls. On the first, he dilated an opening in the deflector shield covering the estate, set to scramble any unauthorized attempt to beam in. Then he went to the second console and began setting to receive.
There were three discs on the floor before the control consoles, matching three on the ceiling. Between one pair a column of sparkling golden light appeared, entirely without sound.
Kethas epetai-Khemara, in black silk tunic and fullformal gold vest heavy with medals, stepped off the disc, and sighed. The grooves in his face and forehead stood out very darkly. Vrenn could not remember seeing him look so tired, or old.
“Well done, Tirian,” Kethas said. “The war continues, on every space of the board.” He nodded to Vrenn, and went out of the transporter pavilion, toward the house.
Tirian began locking up the console. Vrenn thought of what he had wanted to ask the servitor, for a long time now: suddenly, perhaps because of the quiet of the mood, or their distance from the life of the house, it seemed the right time to ask. “Tirian, do you believe in the Black Fleet?”
“My people mostly believe in a next life,” Tirian said, without looking from his work, “though there are not starships in it. But we evolved separately, and if one world’s idea is true, I suppose all must be.”
It was much more answer than Vrenn had expected, but he took it as affirmation. “When my father has gone to command there . . . will you then be his Transporteer?”
“What,” Tirian said quietly, “does the Empire’s hold extend so far as that?”
“Any race may reach—”
“I know. Kethas has told me. I will have a place on his Black Ship. Even if I do not want it.”
“You are Withiki,” Vrenn said. “You would have wings again.”
Tirian turned. His skull face was drawn, pure white. “So my younger master is a strategist as well,” he said flatly. “The Thought Admiral will be pleased.
“But I wonder if you are right, Master Vrenn. I had fine wings once, blue-feathered, if you know what that means, and of spread twice my height. But such broad wings are awkward in the corridors of a starship. So a Force Leader of Imperial Race told me, when he had his Marines pull my wings from their sockets. Do you think that officer is also in the Black Fleet, waiting to maim me a thousand times? Laughing?
“Kuvesa tokhesa. Your father. While I live.” Tirian walked out of the room, toward the flier hangars, not the house.
After a little while, Vrenn went back to the house, thinking that he had in fact won a victory, gotten the information he wanted. But it did not have the taste of victory.
* * *
The female Rogaine was seated among the web ferns of the indoor garden, playing her harp. There was no light from above, and she was no more than a dark shape outlined in light, almost one with the reflections on the pool beyond. Thick mist floated, glowing, diffuse.
Rogaine turned, playing a complex chord, and Vrenn could see that the mist was all that covered her. He felt a stitch in his side, as if his air was short. It was not quite pain, and then it was something worse than any pain Vrenn had ever known. Rogaine’s long nails stroked the strings, and Vrenn heard himself groan.
Then a cold hand touched him, and all his nerves cried out at once.
Vrenn lay on his back, in his bed. Above him, touching Vrenn’s shoulder, was Kethas, wearing his dress uniform. Only the bedside lamp was on; it seemed to be still the middle of the night, when Kethas slept.
“Get up, and dress,” the Thought Admiral said. “It is a night for decisions. Meet me in the garden outside.” He went away.
Vrenn lay still a moment longer, not entirely certain he had not simply slipped from one dream into another. But his senses told him otherwise; surely, he thought, the relics he felt of his last dream would not carry over to this one. So he rose, and put on his adoption-day clothes that were like a Cadet’s, and went outside.
The night air was very cold, and Vrenn’s breath misted. The sky was very dark. . . .
The sky, Vrenn saw, was cloudless. Overhead were stars, hard and white, all the thousand stars of the world’s sky standing naked, as they did on less than one night in a hundred.
So whatever Vrenn and Kethas said here, whatever they did, would be remembered for all time to come.
“Shortly you will be ten years old,” Kethas said, a figure of gold and darkness—but no dream, Vrenn knew. “It will be time for you to choose what you will be. Have you thought on this?”
“The Navy,” Vrenn said instantly.
Kethas did not smile. “You know that I do not require this of you? That you may, as you wish, be a scientist, or an administrator—or even a Marine?”
“I know, father. And I would not be anything else.”
Then the Thought Admiral smiled. “And so you should not. You captain the machine like you were made for it. I am pleased to find you wise as well as skillful.”
Vrenn said, “Was my father sutai-Rustazh a great captain?”
Kethas tilted his head. “You have no father but myself.” After a moment he added, “Though it is true I once knew one called sutai-Rustazh, who was great.”
Vrenn bowed his head, ashamed at the stupidity of the question. And still Kethas—indeed his only father, his whole line—had answered it; Vrenn wondered what this strategy was.
Kethas said, “There are assistances I can provide. You will be assigned directly to the Academy, of course, and the Path of Command. A cruise can be arranged at the earliest—”
“I would make my own path, Father.”
Kethas’s hand slashed crosswise. “Don’t talk like a Romulan! What, do you think you are the only son of an Admiral who will attend the Academy? Half your mates will be Admirals’ sons; and some of them will be kuvekhestat unfit to serve aboard a ship, and those especially will use every advantage their lines can win them. You are still not a good enough player to give your enemies odds.” He paused, said more gently, “And surely you do not deny the Perpetual Game?”
Vrenn stood entirely still, feeling his jaw clench, his lips pulling apart. He knew then that he must have a ship, a command, and he would have them, and he would never know shame again. He looked at the stars, stark burning naked, and knew the oath was sealed.
“Let’s go inside,” Kethas said, his manner easy again. “We’ll play klin zha.”
They went into the house. The fire was uncommonly welcome after the cold of the night. Vrenn sat at the game table, reached to turn it on.
“Not that set,” Kethas said. “The one in your room. The one beneath your bed.”
Vrenn felt his eyes twitch with staring. Kethas’s look was bland. Vrenn went to his room, brought back the envelope with the set of wood and card.
“There is never time to teach everything, so the important things must take precedence,” Kethas said, as they played through a standard opening. “And example works quickest . . . you do know the proverb: If you do not wish a thing heard—”
“Do not say it.”
“Yes. This will always be true; it will be so if you are a Captain, or an Admiral, or the Emperor. You will be watched, so live as if you are watched. Beds are a terrible place for secrets . . . you are about to lose your Vanguard.” And Kethas moved, killing it. He picked up the dead piece, turned the disc over in his fingers. “You know that there is a form of klin zha we have not yet played.”
“What is that, Father?”
“It is the form least often taught, less even than the Reflective, but in a way it is the most important of all to a Captain. I think we should play it now.” Kethas flicked his fingers, and the wooden Vanguard sailed through the air, into the fireplace, where the flames absorbed it with the smallest of whispers.
It had happened faster than Vrenn could think, and now he did not know what to think. He wondered if Kethas had flipped the piece through the fire, and out the other side, but he did not believe that.
Finally the Thought Admiral said, “Your move.”
Vrenn looked around the room, and the gameboards along the walls. He started to rise. “And which set will the Thought Admiral risk?”
Kethas waved a finger at Vrenn’s seat cushion. It looked like a casual gesture. It was not. Vrenn sat.
Kethas said, “You are not ready to count your enemy’s losses until you have learned to count your own. And remember that some enemies will never have learned to count.”
Vrenn looked at the board and pieces that he had made so carefully, kept so long; he tried to see them as nothing but scraps of fiber, bits of waste saved from the bin, and he could not. “What happens, then, when I kill a piece of your side?”
“Keep it,” Kethas said. “Eventually there will be only one set left. And then we will play the Reflective Game.”
Vrenn moved his Fencer and Goal, feeling the wood very warm and fragile against his fingers, like a living thing.