Orion trader long to discover someone who would make the purchase through unofficial channels.
He felt as if he had been coerced into a game of klin zha known as the Final Form, where to take an opponent’s piece was not merely to set it aside, but to destroy it utterly—burn wooden pieces, smash or melt those made of stone or metal. There was no victory—when only one set of pieces was left the game reverted to the Reflective Game, and the weaker player’s mistakes resulted in the destruction of the stronger player’s pieces.
Only Klingons, Korsal thought, could conceive of such a game—but only an Orion could force a Klingon to play it.
Yet if Nisus’ biochemists could isolate and dupli cate the factor in Klingon blood that gave them immunity—
He could hope for that. Biology was not his field, however; he had to rely on the Humans and Vulcans now studying his blood samples to find an answer.
Korsal’s home was on the distant outskirts of the city. The public transport system was still running, although he saw no one else on the slidewalks as he worked his way from the slow-moving outer bands to the high-speed inner ones. With the skill of daily practice, he switched lanes so as to be carried along C-belt, out to the suburb where he owned a home.
His own home. Land, a garden. It was something he could never hope to gain as a scientist in the Klingon Empire. His title of thought master meant little there if his science was not military strategy.
It had rained that morning. The air was fresh and moist in his nostrils as he stepped off the slidewalk into his own neighborhood. In the whole trip, only three lonely figures had slid past him on the bands designed to carry thousands. No one was on the streets, either, although a few children played in their own fenced gardens.
Those gardens might look normal at first glance, except to a resident of Nisus. Here two Vulcan girls played under the watchful eye of a sehlat. There five Hemanite children of the same litter tumbled happily on the grass beside a small pond. A few houses further on, another Vulcan child, a boy, practiced alone with an ahn-woon, while across the street Caitian children used a huge movidel tree as a gymnasium.
What was unnatural was that the children of each family were confined to their own home ground. Ordinarily they ran the streets or gathered in noisy groups in various gardens. The unnatural quiet did nothing to improve Korsal’s mood.
He reached his own house and found his sons in the cheery main room. Kevin, now fourteen, was on the couch, frowning over a problem on the screen of his tricorder. He had inherited his father’s eye problems, which could not be treated until he was sixteen—but knowing that he would be able to discard his glasses then, Kevin did not resent them. They were sliding down his nose now, and he shoved them back into place with a gesture so familiar that it made his father smile. He noticed, too, that Kevin was succeeding in growing a mustache, although he did not yet have enough facial hair for a beard. Nonetheless, his Human heritage was plain in his appearance, his hair light brown, his skin lacking the swarthiness of his father’s.
Korsal’s other son, Karl, who was nine, was playing klin zha at the communications console, his opponent a Vulcan schoolmate, Sonan. When Korsal entered, Kevin set his tricorder aside and rose, saying, “Fa ther!”
Karl turned from his game and also got to his feet. “Welcome home, Father. I am pleased that you are well. You have a message from Ms. Torrence, asking that you call her as soon as you get in. She missed you at the hospital.”
“Thank you, Karl,” he said as his younger son turned to freeze his game and sign off contact with Sonan so his father could use the console.
His sons’ formality might be appropriate in a high-ranking Klingon family, but that was not the reason for it here. A few years ago, both boys would have thrown themselves into his arms
He felt as if he had been coerced into a game of klin zha known as the Final Form, where to take an opponent’s piece was not merely to set it aside, but to destroy it utterly—burn wooden pieces, smash or melt those made of stone or metal. There was no victory—when only one set of pieces was left the game reverted to the Reflective Game, and the weaker player’s mistakes resulted in the destruction of the stronger player’s pieces.
Only Klingons, Korsal thought, could conceive of such a game—but only an Orion could force a Klingon to play it.
Yet if Nisus’ biochemists could isolate and dupli cate the factor in Klingon blood that gave them immunity—
He could hope for that. Biology was not his field, however; he had to rely on the Humans and Vulcans now studying his blood samples to find an answer.
Korsal’s home was on the distant outskirts of the city. The public transport system was still running, although he saw no one else on the slidewalks as he worked his way from the slow-moving outer bands to the high-speed inner ones. With the skill of daily practice, he switched lanes so as to be carried along C-belt, out to the suburb where he owned a home.
His own home. Land, a garden. It was something he could never hope to gain as a scientist in the Klingon Empire. His title of thought master meant little there if his science was not military strategy.
It had rained that morning. The air was fresh and moist in his nostrils as he stepped off the slidewalk into his own neighborhood. In the whole trip, only three lonely figures had slid past him on the bands designed to carry thousands. No one was on the streets, either, although a few children played in their own fenced gardens.
Those gardens might look normal at first glance, except to a resident of Nisus. Here two Vulcan girls played under the watchful eye of a sehlat. There five Hemanite children of the same litter tumbled happily on the grass beside a small pond. A few houses further on, another Vulcan child, a boy, practiced alone with an ahn-woon, while across the street Caitian children used a huge movidel tree as a gymnasium.
What was unnatural was that the children of each family were confined to their own home ground. Ordinarily they ran the streets or gathered in noisy groups in various gardens. The unnatural quiet did nothing to improve Korsal’s mood.
He reached his own house and found his sons in the cheery main room. Kevin, now fourteen, was on the couch, frowning over a problem on the screen of his tricorder. He had inherited his father’s eye problems, which could not be treated until he was sixteen—but knowing that he would be able to discard his glasses then, Kevin did not resent them. They were sliding down his nose now, and he shoved them back into place with a gesture so familiar that it made his father smile. He noticed, too, that Kevin was succeeding in growing a mustache, although he did not yet have enough facial hair for a beard. Nonetheless, his Human heritage was plain in his appearance, his hair light brown, his skin lacking the swarthiness of his father’s.
Korsal’s other son, Karl, who was nine, was playing klin zha at the communications console, his opponent a Vulcan schoolmate, Sonan. When Korsal entered, Kevin set his tricorder aside and rose, saying, “Fa ther!”
Karl turned from his game and also got to his feet. “Welcome home, Father. I am pleased that you are well. You have a message from Ms. Torrence, asking that you call her as soon as you get in. She missed you at the hospital.”
“Thank you, Karl,” he said as his younger son turned to freeze his game and sign off contact with Sonan so his father could use the console.
His sons’ formality might be appropriate in a high-ranking Klingon family, but that was not the reason for it here. A few years ago, both boys would have thrown themselves into his arms
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