Sienov Mnhei'sahein

Hall of Parliament, Balatak, Watraii Hegemony, ch'Watraii.

One thing Morgaiah t'Thavrau could say for the Watraiisu, they could throw one hell of a party. The reception for the diplomatic contingent from the Republic was suitably dignified, and the music and wine were flowing freely.

It was almost enough for her to ignore the weapons prominently carried everywhere. Every last masked Watraiiha seemed to wear at least a pistol and two knives, even the odd sword. Morgan didn't feel threatened, exactly; it was their way to be constantly on a war footing, each one ready at a moment's notice to defend herself and her sisters. She and her crew, too, were carrying: a small dagger and her battered old disruptor pistol, freshly cleaned and polished, were belted at her waist; on her right, the white-clad Enarrain Jaleh Khoroushi bore a Type-2 phaser in a thigh holster. Just single pistols, though: Morgan wished them to be respectful, not threatening.

The newly inaugurated Hegemon, Harda, had proven surprisingly receptive to the Republic's offer of a pact. "These are not the same Rihannsu we battled for so long," he had said. "We have both suffered greatly under the iron hand of the Star Empire and it is time to let the past die."

Morgan thought it politic not to mention the peace treaty her government had recently signed with the remainder of the Empire. The Hegemon and his ministers knew about it, of course, and tr'Khev had briefed her on its appearances on the planetary internet, but Watraii state media was focused on the ceremonies and the younger generations that had grown up after the Hegemony had broken its isolation after the War of Foes United seemed mostly in favor of closer relations.

Even here, Spock's influence was clear. She smiled at a bust of the old Thaesha, depicted wearing the right half of a Watraii mask. The postwar thaw was all his doing: he'd wanted Unificationism to apply to all the races of the Thaes Diaspora, and though the upheaval of the 2380s had stymied his efforts the Masked Ones still thought well of him and seemed willing to extend their goodwill to his ideological child D'Tan.

A bell rang, a herald cried that the court be called to order, and Morgan turned and strode for her seat, taking a moment to nod to Deihu Hannam t'Hei. T'Hei smiled back; her new husband Riov Giellun tr'Hei half-bowed, his arm tight around her.

Morgan smiled as the Hegemon began speaking. The Heisu were the most unlikely love match imaginable: she a lifelong Unificationist, he a defector from the Tal'Shiar. But Rihannsu loved as passionately as they hated, as did all the nine races of the Diaspora. And likely that was why D'Tan had assigned the Heisu, as Harda seemed to think the same. "... And so it is without reservation that the Office of the Hegemon fully endorses this treaty. The floor is now opened for comment to members of the public and Parliament. Representative Arslan, I believe you had something?"

"One question, for Commander-General Morgaiah ir'Sheratan ei'Salthos t'Thavrau." Morgan tensed and turned to face the Watraiiha, noting the woman's emphasis. "You are a descendant of General Salthos t'Thavrau, the Scourge of Kalantha, are you not?"

Morgan faintly heard a sharp intake of breath from the Hegemon as she nodded, her lips tight. "I took that honorific when I was a young and foolish cadet at the Fleet Academy," she explained quietly. "I wanted to honor my House-clan's legacy of service to the Shiar, and Salthos i'Mirek's heroism during the war with the Coalition of Planets. But as I'm sure you're aware, the Shiar was not, as a rule, keen on dissident voices, and she was, unfortunately, a part of that history as well."

"So then why do you still use that butcher's name?!"

"I do not!" she snapped at the man in the gallery who bellowed the question. She quickly drew in a deep breath. "I ceased using that name after the Loss. If you wish to tie me to it, I can't stop you; I can only say that what she did to the Kalanthssu at the behest of the Tricameron was horrible."

That was what she wanted to say, but the other man was already talking over her. "See? See? What did I say? What did I tell you?!" the man in the audience shouted. "They're no different! They send the spawn of a mass murderer to—"

"Who is that man?" Morgan whispered to Khoroushi, who quickly pulled out a tablet as the man continued to harangue an increasingly agitated gallery.

"That's Garaf, the heir to one of the major duchies. According to my diplomatic briefs he's part of an anti-reconciliation political group." Morgan grimaced; a high-ranking noble would lend a great deal of legitimacy to anti-reconciliation activists. Garaf continued, flecks of saliva spraying intermittently from the mouth-hole of his mask as he shouted.

"...you see? Even the Federation lacks any honor! Working with, supporting the thieves and criminals who stole our land, stole our very birthright! And we are to accept them, to just ignore the crimes that the children of kh'Rahon have committed against the Watraii, to sit back and pretend that our mothers' mothers did not suffer for millennia as the thieves of our rightful inheritance lived in splendor on kh'Rahon and ruled the empire that should have been ours, doing to hundreds of peoples on other worlds what was done to us! I, for one, say NO! I will not stand by and let our purpose in life be destroyed like this!" Garaf spat on the ground and yanked a knife from his belt, pointing it at Khoroushi; the Watraiisu collectively gasped.

"Damn it, man, are you mad!?" the Hegemon cried.

"No, you are, Harda! Led by the nose by foreign agents and murderers! Well, I stand against you! Kh'Watraii will never bow down before the Rahonshu or the Federation!"

"I'm confused," Khoroushi interjected. "What just happened?"

"He just challenged you to a duel, Commander," t'Hei answered, as if she couldn't believe what she was saying.

"Me?!"

"Can he do that?" tr'Khev asked, stepping closer to the Terrhaha and drawing his plasma pistol.

"I don't know," t'Hei answered, quickly standing as the Havrannsu shadow guards closed ranks between the cacophony of the crowd and the Republic detachment, raising their rifles with the Watraii soldiers as the gallery began to surge towards the Parliament floor. "I'll have to speak to the Hegemon."

"That's enough!" Harda yelled, then when a response was not forthcoming, he drew an ornate golden pistol and put four red bolts into the pockmarked plaster ceiling. "I SAID THAT'S ENOUGH!" he thundered in the sudden silence. "I will have order in this hall of law, or the next person to speak out of turn will be unmasked and left for the lightning!" He slammed his gun onto the table and sat back down, then continued, slightly hoarsely. "Parliament is in recess! Bailiffs, clear the hall!"

The guards forced the crowd out over angry jeers as the delegation came up to the Hegemon's desk. Tr'Khev was blunt: "All right, how in Areinneye do we get out of this one?"

"It should be easy enough to get the challenge thrown out," Morgan commented, then frowned when the Hegemon shook his head. "Among us, a duel is entirely voluntary, and you cannot challenge a superior except for family vengeance."

"Among us, Commander-General, you can challenge anyone you please as long as you aren't part of a unit in a war zone."

"But aren't there restrictions?"

"It's mostly a matter of tradition and unwritten norms," Harda explained, pulling a bottle of something pale green out from under his desk. "Elements, I need a drink," he said, taking a pull straight from the bottle, then handing it to Morgan. She sipped it to be polite and suppressed the urge to gag: whatever that was, it was not a proper ale. "There is a formal code on the conduct of a duel but it's mostly about how to show your respect for your opponent right before you try to carve out her entrails."

"Not a fan, I take it? Lanat bar shaytun," Khoroushi muttered. "And he's allowed to challenge me?"

"Say rather that there's nothing that says he cannot. The code goes back to Thesha, before the Sundering or any contact with aliens."

"I suppose the rules change died in committee, then!?" Morgan snapped.

"T'Thavrau, I'm on your side! This is ridiculous!" He took the bottle back from Morgan and took another pull. "My election was… somewhat contested. The margin of victory was not so great that I can do as I please, and there remains a significant faction opposed to peace. Or'yennya, if I'd put it to a plebiscite like the Federation ambassador suggested, there's a good chance we never would have gotten it this far. I'm sure you know how us children of Thesha are, Commander Khoroushi: our memories are long and hate runs deep, even if we need to re-integrate into galactic society if we want to survive another ten generations. I don't know why he went after you instead of the Commander-General, though…"

"I do," Morgan grumbled. "As commander, and as a noblewoman myself, I'm responsible for the lives of my crew. Killing the enarrain would make me look weak and cost the Kreh'dhhokh Mol'Rihan some prestige, and could sway our government to retaliate."

"Our traditionalist faction, the Raptor Party, is currently tentatively for the treaty," t'Hei added, "but formal duel or not, if the khre'riov were to stand by and let a foreign national kill an officer under her command without answering it…"

"It would mean war," Harda realized. "And we would burn."

"Not necessarily," t'Hei demurred. "The Republic tries to approach foreign relations more… amicably. But you would be cut off, likely quarantined. And Spahkh or not, the Lloann'nasu wouldn't take kindly to one of yours killing their officer, either."

"Brilliant," Harda growled. "Just brilliant. That young fool did research; this was planned."

"Az sad taa 'aqrab-o maar badtare," Khoroushi grumbled.

"Which brings us to how to wreck the plan," tr'Khev said. "I'm guessing there's no way to simply refuse the duel?"

"Under the oldest Thaes customs there is, but the traditionalists here probably would take it as an insult to Watraii ways and turn the population against us," t'Hei said, eyeing the Hegemon, who agreed, offering the bottle again.

Khoroushi took it, sniffed the neck once, then made a face. "No offense, sir, but what is that stuff?"

"That stuff happens to be twenty-year-old kalafil," the Hegemon said haughtily. "It's a very good marque."

"I'll take your word for it."

She passed it on to tr'Khev, who took a big gulp and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. "All right, uh, is this thing to the death, or what?"

"Yield or die, but if you yield without taking any injuries you're as much of a coward as if you refuse. And I'm afraid young Master Garaf has killed sixteen men with the straight silver."

Khoroushi stared at him. "Swords?"

"Well, what else would you fight a duel with?" Riov tr'Hei asked in a derisive tone. "What do you use in Starfleet?"

"We don't! Article 114 of the SCMJ explicitly forbids dueling! And besides which, I barely know one end of a sword from the other!"

"They don't even teach you cutlasses?" Tr'Khev sounded surprised.

She squeezed her eyes shut. "I'm a logistics officer, Tovan. You have to rate with phasers and basic hand-to-hand combat; anything else is extra unless you go Security."

"What if your ship is boarded?" Riov t'Hei asked in a disapproving tone.

"Look, if it was pistols, judo or, hell, surfing, I'd—"

"Hegemon Harda!" Morgan interrupted. "Does your dueling code include the concept of a second?"

"It does…" he answered uncertainly.

The raven-haired woman raised her wrist communicator to her lips. "Riov tr'Sauringar, hfaeii sienov rhham!"

Garaf stood across the Parliament courtyard from the Rihannsu, gingerly taking up a slender, straight blade from a white cloth held by a servant. Morgan quickly sized it up: thicker than tr'Sauringar's rapier but not as obviously sturdy as a Klivam yan, the blade appeared double-edged, with a densely engraved cross-hilt and a highly polished steel blade.

Morgan unsnapped her uniform jacket and cape and stepped out onto the field in her royal blue undershirt as Khoroushi handed her a meter-long curved blade. She drew the heavy saber left-handed and tossed the dull grey polymer scabbard aside. Her sword, the Khul'ar Pattern 2373, was not a true sienov omienai, only a Fleet officer's saber, a machine-produced reproduction of the famed Rihan swords of which so many had died with the homeworld.

But like her opponent, she had killed with the blade. In a boarding action, in the closest of quarters aboard a warbird or a pirate's converted freighter, you used whatever weapon came to hand, even the ostensibly ceremonial ones. Factory-forged or not, the saber was her honor blade, and she knew every scratch and nick on it as they caught the light amid the practice swings she took to limber up as she approached Garaf. A scratch from sparring with tr'Sauringar. A chip in the fuller where it had blocked a bat'leth.

That was the difference between herself and this man, or with any Khe'lloann'na you cared to name. Battle was not glamorous, it was certainly not honorable, and by the Elements it was not to be sought. But there was a certain savage beauty in it.

Garaf straightened as she approached, a sneer halfway between anger and disdain visible behind the mouth hole of his mask. "A second? Is your officer such a coward she would shy from a fair fight?"

"Are you such a coward you fear an opponent able to fight back?" She raised her sword to vertical, staring across the polished steel into the Watraiiha's blue eyes. He copied her salute, now seeming slightly uncertain.

Good, the more off-balance he was, the better.

Lightning flashed in the clouds in the distance. Ch'Watraii's high oxygen-nitrogen ratio meant electrical storms were far more frequent and far more destructive, and it seemed Air and Water sought to express their opinions on the matter as Morgan stepped back and brought her sword to guard position.

Garaf strode forward and slashed upwards, right to left across her. She stepped outside his reach and deflected, sending a probing cut in return; Garaf blocked and the jolt ran up her arm.

Within two blows of the sword, Morgan had read Garaf's intent, felt the whispers of malice brushing across her mind. Whatever the Watraii traditions, he meant to kill her.

Which was fair: she meant to kill him. It was mnhei'sahe.

She struck again, allowing her countless hours of training and live battle experience to move her body on their own as the tactician half of her mind analyzed the Watraiiha's attacks. Thrust left, sidestep. Skilled, but formal, artful, nothing like the brutal no-nonsense swordwork taught to Galae officer candidates. Block high, parry right. But he had ten centimeters and probably twenty kilos on her, plus longer arms, though the length of her saber slightly outreached his arming sword.

Morgan deflected a thrust high off the basket hilt of her blade but felt the whisper of steel parting her right sleeve, cold metal against her skin, then a drip of warm liquid, and only then the pain. First blood. Garaf laughed, a laugh that was quickly choked off when Morgan didn't even flinch, stabbing out and catching him in the ribcage with the point of her honor blade that was just as sharp as the rest of it. He dodged backwards in time to avoid being gutted, but patted the wound and eyed the coppery green on his hand in surprise.

"Surprised at a little pain?" she mocked him.

He shook the blood off his hand and grinned. "Impressed is more the word. I should've challenged you from the beginning instead of that pathetic human."

"That 'pathetic human' has saved more lives than you'll ever have the chance to take," Morgan snarled, raising her sword and circling to the right. "I'll warn you once, Lord Garaf, in case you live through this day: never underestimate that race, they'll always surprise you."

"I'll take that under advisement." He set himself and waded in, sword swinging.

Parry high, slash right. Block, half-pirouette, slash left. Thrust, sidestep, ouch, he went after her shoulder again. Morgan revised her opinion of her opponent upwards.

Root yourself to the Earth. Flow, flow like Water, use your enemy's Fire against him. Strike, withdraw, thrust, dodge, parry, let him tire—

There, there was the opening. She backslashed upwards and he blocked again, but she wasn't aiming for his head. The specially reinforced forward-pointing hook on the lower surface of the hilt caught on his sword; a swift step forward and the two blades locked in place.

Garaf tried to shake her off but she held fast. "You don't have to do this," he yelled at her. "Just surrender and leave! I will kill you! Would you really die to bring us to heel?"

She shifted her weight slightly. "No, I would not."

Morgan brought her knee into the man's stomach, hard, then planted her right hand in his chest and shoved him backwards with her full strength as the air whoofed out of him, ignoring the pain from her injured arm as she levered her sword into his collarbone, breaking it loose from the lock. The wound wasn't deep, but as Garaf's robe darkened with a green stain she whirled and slashed left to right, the razor-sharp edge of her honor blade whistling through the air in a flash. The stunned Garaf tried to block but his lungs weren't working; the Rihanha's heavier sword struck his dueling blade from its thickest, densest point, simply smashing through and and opening a ragged green gash across his chest before burying itself in the bone of his arm.

Morgan jerked her blade free as he fell to his knees, dropping the useless hilt from his nerveless left hand; she stepped around him and lowered her sword to the back of his neck. "You won't die from that wound, not if quickly treated. Yield or I kill you immediately." He nodded. "Say it."

"I yield," he managed, struggling to stanch the flow of blood from his arm.

"T'Vraehn!" Morgan shouted to the white-coated doctor standing by the sidelines as she threw her sword to the side and drew her belt knife to begin cutting Garaf's shirt off.

"How is he?" Morgan asked, looking into the infirmary.

"Inshallah, he'll survive," Khoroushi answered from her seat beside the still-sedated Watraiiha; tr'Khev was sawing logs in a chair next to her.

T'Vraehn added, "You severed his radial artery and the major nerve, rekkhai; he lost a lot of blood."

"I see."

"How's your arm?" Khoroushi asked.

"What, this?" She glanced at the bandage on her upper arm that still twinged. "Barely a scratch. He meant to kill me, but he was no soldier."

"Take your shirt off and let me have a look," t'Vraehn said, reaching for a dermal regenerator as Morgan complied. The medical team was still understrength from the war and hadn't had a chance to do more than first aid and old-style sutures, on account of Morgan's insistence they treat Garaf to mend fences with the Watraiisu.

As the doctor began working, the intercom chimed. "Rekkhai, this is tr'Sauringar. The Hegemon is on his way up."

"I'm otherwise occupied at the moment; please escort him to sickbay."

"Daie, rekkhai."

"Better finish up before he gets here, Doctor; I don't want to embarrass him."

"I'm sure he's seen a woman's bare back before. But I take your point," she quickly added at Morgan's sidelong glance. She made one more pass with the dermal regenerator, then picked up scissors and cut the stitches loose with swift, precise movements. Another pass with the regenerator and she patted her CO on the back. "Finished."

Morgan flexed her shoulder. Still a little pain, but duller and more diffuse. Good enough. She shrugged back into the undershirt and reached for her uniform jacket as Harda stepped in. "Commander-General, may I speak to you?"

"Please."

"How is he?" the Hegemon asked, eying the unconscious Watraiiha on the gurney.

"Sedated, but he'll recover."

"On behalf of the Hegemony and my family, I am deeply sorry this happened."

"You do not need my forgiveness, Honored Hegemon, you didn't do anything wrong."

"That's gracious of you to say," Harda acknowledged, "but Garaf violated all our norms and values of hospitality in challenging your officer."

"He was trying to do what he believed was right, as were you and I. I'll hold no grudge: my mnhei'sahe is satisfied by the blood already spilled, and if my deihu had taken offense we would have left orbit already."

Harda nodded and dropped the subject. "Parliament has narrowly voted to agree in principle to the existing outline of the treaty and to allow negotiations to continue in detail."

Morgan sighed in relief. "How narrowly?" Khoroushi asked.

"35 to 34; one of the opposition representatives abstained."

"That's narrow," Doctor t'Vraehn agreed.

"But it's a win, and I didn't even need my tiebreaker vote," the Hegemon added with some relief.

"We'll inform the Deihuit."

Morgan reached for her sword leaning against the wall and drew it, slowly scanning the blade for defects—"Oh, no." Her lips tightened as she eyed the chip missing from the edge where it had broken Garaf's weapon.

"May I?" Morgan nodded and handed to the sword hilt-first to Harda, who examined the blade. "It's a fine weapon. You know, we have smiths who could repair it."

"I…" Morgan looked up at him and smiled. Of course the Watraiisu would still have swordsmiths, they'd withstood the Loss. "I would like that."