Dragon's Honor - Kij Johnson [9]
The human nodded gravely. Kakkh thought he perceived renewed determination in the human’s demeanor, but who could be sure where such worthless creatures were concerned? Nostrils flaring at the end of his snout, Kakkh sniffed the air, but smelled only the ordinary scents of a warship’s bridge. He looked forward to tasting the odors of Pai itself, after they had eliminated the unsuspecting mammals and terraformed the planet to suit their own needs.
“I shall do as you say,” the human said, visibly squaring his shoulders beneath his flowing robes. He bowed again, more deeply this time, and the screen went blank.
“Honorless dolt,” Gar said. The younger G’kkau eased partly up the mound. His green scales reflected the dim interior lights of the bridge.
“When has any being not of the G’kkau ever shown honor?” Kakkh said. “They are all mere animals. Prey.”
“What of the Federation?” Gar asked. “I have heard of this Picard. It is said he defeated the Borg, and more than once.”
Kakkh had smelled the same reports, but was not overly concerned. Picard had a weakness: his precious Prime Directive. “He can do nothing until the treaty takes effect,” he explained. “With the Dragon dead, the wedding will not occur and the treaty will be invalid. And after the Dragon is gone, nothing can stop our puppet from seizing control of the Empire. Under his rule, the Pai will offer no resistance to our invasion and, in time, the traitor’s death will be but one drop in an ocean of blood. And the famous Captain Picard, conqueror of the Borg, will be powerless to stop us.”
Kakkh sniffed the air again. This time he smelled victory.
The turbolift door slid open and Beverly walked into Transporter Room One.
No, Picard decided: walked was too pedestrian a word. Dr. Beverly Crusher glided in, as beautiful and as exotic as the illustrations from a centuries-old children’s book. She wore a full-length robe with huge sleeves that trailed on the ground as she entered. Beneath it were a series of other robes, their various iridescent fabrics showing at her neckline and at the openings of the sleeves. The outermost robe was pale peach and green, painted in an elaborate pattern of ribbon-entwined flowers and rings. Her thick red hair had been pulled back to the nape of her neck with a broad painted ribbon that fluttered as she moved. Her eyes were startlingly dark against her luminous skin. In one hand, she carried a small silk fan.
Sometimes I forget just how attractive Beverly is, Picard thought ruefully. More fool I. He stepped forward and applauded quietly. “You look … enchanting,” he said. If they weren’t minutes away from beaming down, he would have offered her his arm.
“Bravo,” Riker said. He stood waiting, along with Data, at the foot of the transporter platform. Ensign McKenna, a blue-skinned Bolian female, was posted at the transporter controls, ready to beam the away team down to Pai. “Doctor, you’ll outshine the bride herself. What gorgeous robes.”
“Left over from my revival of The Mikado,” she explained. “Judging from my historical research, all this is quite an ordinary rig for a female guest at a royal wedding. I expect I’ll be solidly average down there.”
“I had my doubts before,” Picard said, “but I have to admit I was mistaken. This is a lovely touch, and one which the Pai are bound to appreciate.”
Beverly laughed. “Maybe if they wore burlap I wouldn’t have been so quick to volunteer.” She inspected Picard and the others. “You gentlemen don’t look so bad yourselves.”
“Frankly,” Picard said, scowling, “I always dislike wearing this … folderol.” He gestured at his red-and-black dress uniform, his medals gleaming discreetly on a black shoulder.
Riker nodded sympathetically. “I know what you mean, sir. We’re all more comfortable in our duty uniforms. By the way, are you sure we should be carrying phasers? It seems odd for a diplomatic mission.”
“Indeed,” Picard agreed. “However, the Pai insisted on dealing with warriors. According to our