The Jackal's Trick

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  To Ken Barnes, who introduced me to Trek fandom: peace and long life

  Historian’s Note

  After Commander Kruge died on the Genesis Planet (Star Trek III: The Search for Spock), control of his house wasn’t settled until his loyal officers were put down. Discommendated, the Kruge loyalists settled in the Briar Patch. Their descendants grew into skilled hunters who hated the Klingon Empire.

  A hundred years later, in 2385, Korgh—Kruge’s protégé—dispatched Cross, a Betazoid illusionist, to pose as Kruge, back from the dead. The discommendated were armed with a bird-of-prey squadron, the Phantom Wing, and became the Unsung.

  The Unsung massacred the nobles of the House of Kruge. They kidnapped the clone of Kahless. They then declared their intent to cleanse the Empire; their first act was the execution of the clone.

  Taking control of the House of Kruge, Korgh blamed his trumped-up crisis on the Federation, embodied by Picard and the Enterprise. An upcoming summit planned by Admiral William Riker was imperiled. Unbeknownst to Korgh, Cross kept Kahless alive for reasons known only to him (Star Trek: Prey—Book 1: Hell’s Heart).

  The main events of this book begin in March 2386, several years after the U.S.S. Enterprise-E’s 2379 confrontation with the Romulan praetor Shinzon (Star Trek Nemesis). The prologue takes place in 2367, after Ardra was caught duping the people of Ventax II (“Devil’s Due” TNG). The interlude takes place in 2293, shortly before the explosion of the Klingon moon, Praxis (Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country).

  “I bide my time.”

  —inscription on Kaiser Wilhelm II photos distributed in England thirty years before the start of World War I

  OVERTURE

  2367

  One

  “Buxtus Cross . . . you are charged . . . with premeditated murder . . .”

  The voice of the paunchy human in the doorway was gravelly and halting as he read the charges from the padd in his hand. Balding and not hiding it very well, he wore one of the lavender coats lately popular with the Federation’s bureaucrats. The heavy satchel in his other hand caused his whole body to sag. He recited the words as casually as if he were reading from a lunch menu.

  “. . . impersonation of a Starfleet officer, fraud, use of holographic equipment with intent to deceive, and forgery . . .”

  Buxtus Cross gathered up the playing cards from the little table in the legal conference room of the prison transport Clarence Darrow and rolled his eyes at the new arrival. What a production. The chamber Cross had been arraigned in back at the Federation spaceport had teemed with identical specimens, all harried creatures dashing about playing their legal games. That was the place where the twenty-year-old Betazoid had first heard the charges spoken aloud, delivered from the bench before a roomful of waiting defendants.

  It had been the biggest room Cross had ever played—and absolutely not the show he’d had in mind.

  The speaker finished reading the charges aloud and fully entered the consultation chamber. The force field barring the doorway reactivated an instant later. “Emil Yorta,” the human said, his nose crinkling as he approached the table. “I’m, ah, the permanent advocate appointed to defend you.” He offered his hand to Cross, who shook it indifferently and returned his attention to the playing cards.

  “I’m sorry we were so late in getting under way,” Yorta said, plopping his overstuffed satchel onto the table before wandering the brig’s spacious client conference room in search of the other chair. “Ever since the Borg attacked Wolf 359 earlier this year, a lot of the Federation’s support craft have been retasked. We, ah, lowly civil servants don’t have an easy time getting around.”

  “My trip to prison has been delayed—and you think I’m disappointed?” Cross harrumphed. “Okay.” He cast his eyes again on Yorta and really focused this time. The guy was a disorganized mess. “Wait. You’re my defender? I thought you’d be an officer.”

  “No—and that’s a bit of luck,” Yorta said, dragging the seat to the table. Standing by it, he fished inside his bag. “As it turns out, your dishonorable discharge from Starfleet was officially issued the morning of the, er, crime. So while you still fall under the Federation Judicial Code, you’ll be prosecuted as a civilian.” Finding a combadge in his bag, Yorta looked up from under bushy eyebrows. “Of course, that’s the same dishonorable discharge that the other side will be claiming is your motive.”

  “Easy come, easy go.”

  Yorta sniffed. “That’s not how I would look at it, but let’s move on. Hold on a moment.” He pinned the combadge to his lapel and tapped it. “Brig monitor?”

  A gruff voice responded. “Yes?”

  “This is Defender Yorta in consultation cell—ah, cell eight, I guess. I’m starting my conference with my client. Deactivate surveillance sensors until further notice.”

  “Sensors off. Advise your client no funny business.”

  Cross looked up. “Funny business?”

  “He’s telling you not to mutilate your lawyer,” Yorta responded, taking his seat. “And I make a lousy hostage. No one’s traded anything for me yet.”

  “That’s reassuring.” Outside, Cross could see the guard saunter to a desk just out of earshot. The woman had little to do; the Betazoid was short and slight, no threat to anyone—at least not in that way. And a localized transporter inhibitor protected the entire brig.

  Yorta’s eyes scanned his padd. “Here it is. Ah—you’re to be tried sixteen days from now at Starbase 11.”

  “That soon?”

  “The murder of an officer is as serious as it gets. Even civilian justice speeds up for that—but not as much as Starfleet’s does. Either way, a conviction could result in a detention center like Thionoga—no fun at all. That’s why I’m here. We, ah, can use the transit time in preparing your defense.”

  “I didn’t think you were here for the food.” Cross shrugged and stretched back in his chair, propping his feet on the table. “Speaking of, when do we eat?”

  “I don’t know how you can be so cavalier. You’re accused of a murder.”

  “Yeah, but just one.” The one you know about.

  In fact, Buxtus Cross had killed three people. His first murder had been a desperate act, but he had gotten away with it so cleanly that he had been tempted to kill again, just to see if he could replicate the feat. By the third death, he was past personal amusement and into new territory: playing to the crowd.

  The defender studied his padd. “Says here your parents were both civil engineers—they died in an accident a few years ago.” He looked up. “I’m sorry.”

  “I’m not. They dragged me to every colony world in the quadrant, from one construction job to the next. If I wanted time with them, I’d need to schedule a groundbreaking.”

  “Ah, yes,” Yorta said, reading further. “I see it here—‘sullen and withdrawn as a youth.’ We can use that. But it looks like they tried to take assignments where there were sizable Betazoid communities.”

  Not that I ever had time to fit in, Cross thought. The closest he’d come was at fifteen, when he’d finally stayed in one place long enough to form friendships. On a colony world replete with warm springs and roiling geysers, he’d grown close to Gregor, a human who had taught him close-up magic, and to Cenise, a vivacious Betazoid who’d invited him into her extracurricular stage productions. Together, they brought him out of his shell; togeth
er, they had broken his heart. Gregor knew how Cross felt about Cenise—and yet he had taken her away nonetheless.

  So it was in a fit of jealous despair one day that Cross acted—and indeed, it was acting that did Gregor in. While they were scouting locations for a vid project in a remote area, Cross told Gregor that their beloved Cenise had gone wading in a lake known for a dangerous geyser—and that she had disappeared. Convinced of Cross’s word and far from help, Gregor had wasted no time in bravely dashing into the body of water. He paid the ultimate price when the geyser erupted.

  Young Cross was gripped with terror over what he had done, but that was soon replaced by something else. On telling Cenise of Gregor’s fate, his telepathic senses were overpowered by the girl’s genuine shock and sadness. Unaware he was doing it, Cross perfectly replicated and reflected those emotions, seeming as devastated over Gregor’s death as she was.

  And not the least bit guilty.

  Having gotten away with murder once, and after becoming a ward of the state following his parents’ deaths, Cross approached his next homeworld almost looking for a chance to try it again. The person he eliminated there, a drama department rival, had never been a friend, and that made the murder much easier. He had successfully impersonated his victim over a communicator, insulting the parentage of a local Gorn criminal known for his temper. Cross hadn’t delivered the fatal blow, but in a way it was just as satisfying. His performance killed.

  Which brought him to Lieutenant Fenno, a boob of a Bolian and the reason Cross was aboard the Clarence Darrow. No one had pretended Cross would last ten minutes as a Starfleet counselor; he studied others not to help them, but to do better impressions of them in the Academy residence hall. In Fenno’s situation, he had gotten the hardcase officer’s mannerisms down precisely. It had come in handy.

  “It says here,” Yorta said, “that Fenno had filed a report that would have drummed you out of Starfleet. But then you filed another report using his image—generated on a holodeck?”

  “Just his image,” Cross said, suddenly proud. “The dialogue and movements were based on my performance. No one could tell the difference.”

  “Ah, yes—I read that. But the holodeck computer alerted Fenno he had been impersonated.”

  “Stupid thing.” Cross had never been good with technology. How was he to have known about the safeguards?

  “It’s alleged that Fenno told you he’d found out, and that he summoned you to his office to wait until he could call security.” Yorta’s eyes narrowed as he read the rest. “But soon after you arrived, they say you replaced his favorite raktajino mug with one that released a chemical fatal to Bolians.”

  The enchanted goblet trick. It had been easy. Cross had pretended to stumble over a chair, replacing the mug with a bit of sleight of hand before delivering it to its destination. The prisoner smirked. “You should have seen it. Fenno took a huge gulp, staggered out of his office into the common area, and collapsed. And there I was, with no medical training, desperately trying to revive him—and shedding tears when I failed. I got rave reviews.”

  “Until the autopsy discovered the poison, which had to come from somewhere. The replicator you used to create the trick mug kept a record of it.”

  “I thought I had deleted that. I always trip over the technical stuff.”

  Yorta cocked an eyebrow. “You’re admitting to the crime.”

  “Of course.”

  “Then I don’t understand why we’re doing this.” Yorta sat back and placed the padd in his large coat pocket. “Why am I here? You could just plead guilty.”

  “And go straight to Thionoga? No, no. I want the trial. Days with a captive audience? It might be my last performance.”

  Yorta stared. “Performance?”

  “Oh, yeah,” Cross said, picking the deck up from the table. “I’ve been working on some things.” He fanned the cards. “Pick one.”

  Yorta scratched his head and rose. “Young man, I think you’re in for a—”

  “All hands, red alert! This is the captain. Battle stations!” The overhead light in the room took on a crimson tint, and an alarm blared. Over Yorta’s shoulder, Cross could see the guard outside leave her desk and dash madly up the hallway.

  Yorta tapped his combadge. “Bridge, what’s going on?”

  “We’ve been boarded—by the Borg!”

  Two

  The five minutes that had followed were the most peculiar of Cross’s young life.

  After the initial announcement, they’d heard a running commentary over Clarence Darrow’s comm system. Because Darrow was a hybrid administrative vessel and minimum-security prison transport, its guards were trained for keeping people in, not others out. The reported sighting of several Borg drones suddenly materializing amidships, so soon after Wolf 359, sent the crew into audible apoplexy. No one could tell where the invaders had come from; no Borg cube could be seen on any sensor.

  Every fourth word Cross heard the crew saying was retreat. Every fifth word was an expletive.

  Yorta had supplied some swear words of his own after realizing that no one was going to answer his pleas. With the guard absent, he and Cross were equally trapped. Yorta displayed energy heretofore unseen, rushing around the conference cell looking for any way out. Bewildered, Cross had simply sat and watched in curiosity, nervously shuffling his cards. What could he do?

  By the time Cross heard a commotion outside, Yorta had already overturned the conference table and was in the middle of shoving it toward the doorway. When a Borg drone appeared beyond the force field, advancing robotically toward them, Yorta shrieked like a startled chimpanzee. He spun in panic—only to put his right foot directly into the opening of his fallen satchel. He sailed forward, smacking his head against the back of his chair. Then Yorta fell to the deck, senseless.

  Cross dropped his cards in his lap and grabbed his armrests as the drone deactivated the force field. He had seen images of the Borg before, but the real thing was far more fearsome. Elongated mechanical arms bore frightening cutting implements, while wires jutted grotesquely from the skin of the one-time person underneath. A laser attached to the drone’s eyepiece swept the room. Cross stared at the intruder, hypnotized.

  Then he looked more closely. The laser was fainter than he’d expected, and broken, as if it were projecting through nonexistent smoke. And the drone seemed rough around the edges—literally. The sharp angles of the Borg’s implants seemed soft, fuzzy.

  The Borg drone entered the consultation chamber and looked directly at him. That jolted Cross out of his seat, but with nowhere to go in the small room, he simply put the chair in between himself and the drone. It spoke in a monotone. “Identify yourself.”

  “Cross. A prisoner. I’m nobody.”

  “Do not interfere, or you will be assimilated.”

  He chuckled anxiously. “You don’t want to assimilate me. I’d mess up your whole civilization.”

  Clanking as it went, the Borg walked past the overturned table and beheld the fallen Yorta. Its attention turned to the satchel on the deck. As the Borg knelt to rifle through the bag, Cross gawked at the creature’s head.

  The drone looked up at him. “What?”

  “The side of your head.” Cross pointed. “There’s something growing out of it. Er—besides all the wires and metal, I mean.”

  A wave of electrical interference coursed across the creature’s massive frame. There was something protruding from the Borg’s head, for sure: big and fleshy. The drone ignored him, continuing to search the satchel. Unable to find what it was searching for, the drone cast the bag to the deck and stood.

  It turned to Cross. “Have you seen a female?”

  Cross was first startled to have been asked anything, and then by the question itself. “Any particular one?”

  “She was going by the name Ardra.”

  Cross thought for a moment—and then snapped his fingers. “Just a second.” He slipped out from behind the chair and scrambled to beside Yorta
’s unconscious form. Rolling him over with difficulty, he located the pocket that held the padd. “I think he had the prisoner manifest here.”

  “Give me that,” the Borg said, reaching for it with its one clawed hand. Cross scuttled away back to his chair.

  For several seconds, the drone stood and read. With a mechanical sound that somewhat resembled an aggravated grunt, the drone pitched the padd away. Touching one of the controls at its wrist, the Borg spoke. “It’s a bust. Ardra’s trial was moved up. She was sent ahead on another transport.”

  “Damn,” came an answer from somewhere in the drone’s equipment. And then: “Understood. We’re beaming the team out now.”

  Several seconds passed, during which Cross watched to see if the drone would go anywhere. Nothing happened. It spoke again. “I’m still here, Blackstone. Beam me out.”

  “We can’t.”

  The drone froze, clearly concerned. “What do you mean, you can’t?”

  “I mean we can’t get a lock. Something’s wrong.”

  Cross raised his hand tentatively. “Transporter inhibitor. It’s shielding the entire brig.”

  Seemingly confused, the drone stared at him—and this time, its whole body flickered. “Blackstone, do you read an inhibitor field? There wasn’t supposed to be one.”

  “It’s new,” Cross volunteered. “I heard the guards talking about it.”

  The Borg drone responded with what seemed like genuine alarm. It moved jerkily around the chamber just as Yorta had. “This is serious, Blackstone. Where’s the nearest beam-out point?

  “In places you don’t want to go. The guards are regrouping. Hang on, Gaw, we’re going to try some things.”

  The drone just stood there, shifting uncomfortably. Now that he wasn’t terrified, Cross paid attention to what his empathic talents were detecting. He hadn’t expected to pick up much emotion from the Borg drone, but this felt different—as if the drone belonged to a species that Betazoids had trouble reading. He realized why when a flash of light transformed the drone into . . . a Ferengi.