The Jackal's Trick Page 2

  “Oh, great,” the pudgy figure said, disgusted. “Illusion compromised, Blackstone.”

  “We thought killing the projection might help us beat the inhibitor.”

  “And?”

  “It didn’t. And the field’s stopping us from reestablishing the illusion. Oops.”

  “And conveniently, I’m already in a prison cell,” the Ferengi said. “If I don’t talk to you again, you’re all fired.” He found the chair Yorta had struck and took a seat.

  Cross stared at him, more mesmerized now than when he’d thought he was dealing with a Borg. “Your name is Gaw?”

  “And you’re Cross. Glad to meet you, cellmate.”

  “That illusion—you faked a Borg invasion?”

  “For a while.” Gaw shook his head. Cross figured him for young middle age. “We have a cloaked ship that projects images around individuals. Don’t ask me to explain—the tech’s secret.”

  “But it’s not enough.” Fascinated, Cross, turned his chair around backward and straddled it, facing Gaw. “I mean, I could tell you weren’t Borg—and not just from the glitches. You weren’t selling it.”

  Gaw looked at him and shrugged. “I don’t usually work in the field. I’m a truthcrafter—one of the engineers. I create the illusions. But we still need people to act out the parts—and our practitioner got pinched a few years back. We were hoping to spring Ardra so she’d take over our crew.”

  “The person you were looking for.”

  “I don’t know her real name. She tends to stick with the name of the last character she played.”

  “Method acting,” Cross mused. “What was she in for?”

  “Impersonating a deity.”

  “A deity?”

  “A devil, actually. She’d put one over on the Ventaxians, but good. Then some busybodies ruined it. Damn that Enterprise.”

  It sounded like a good enterprise to Cross. “So you guys are a team of what, con artists?”

  “These days. But I think the days are numbered.”

  Cross’s mind swam. He’d never heard of anything like it: roving groups of high-tech charlatans, capable of fooling the Federation? It sounded amazing—perfect, in fact. Perfect for him.

  For the first time since the intruder had entered, he listened to the announcements over the public address system. The crew was getting its act together, now that the other “drones” had transported off. It wouldn’t be long before they’d work their way back through the prison decks. Hopping off the chair, he bounded again toward the stirring Yorta’s body.

  “What are you doing?” Gaw said, only mildly interested.

  “Saving you.” He found the combadge pinned to Yorta’s lapel. Taking a breath, he tried to remember just what the attorney had sounded like. Then he pressed the control and spoke. “Bridge!”

  A moment passed. “What is it? Who is this?”

  “This is Emil Yorta,” Cross said, winking at the Ferengi as he spoke in another man’s voice. “There’s, ah, one of those Borg things in the hall here. I need you to drop the, ah, whatever it is and beam me out of here!”

  Then they both heard the response: “Stand by, Yorta.”

  The Ferengi’s eyes widened as, a moment later, the body of the prone defender shimmered and vanished. Gaw quickly touched a control on his wrist bracelet. “Blackstone, the field’s down!”

  “We see it,” responded the voice from earlier. “Just in time—the guards are about to re-enter your deck. One to beam out!”

  Gaw stared at the young Betazoid, grinning as he rose from the floor where Yorta had been. “Hold on, Blackstone.” He tilted his head at Cross. “What are you in for, kid?”

  This time, he perfectly mimicked the arraignment judge. “Buxtus Cross, you are charged with premeditated murder, impersonation of a Starfleet officer, fraud, use of holographic equipment with intent to deceive, and forgery . . .” He watched as Gaw’s eyes lit up. “And that’s not all I can do.” With a quick sweep past his sleeve, Cross made his deck of cards appear in his hand. “Want to see a trick?”

  “Maybe later.” Gaw thought for a moment and then announced, “Two to beam out, Blackstone. I think I’ve found something here.”

  ACT ONE

  THE TIGERS’ MASTER

  2386

  “Dictators ride to and fro upon tigers that they dare not dismount. And the tigers are getting hungry.”

  —Winston Churchill

  Three

  HOUSE OF KRUGE INDUSTRIAL COMPOUND

  KETORIX PRIME, KLINGON EMPIRE

  If you’re looking for a good time, an old Starfleet saying went, just follow the floating bottle of champagne. It was most surely headed for a starship waiting to be launched.

  Some of the best parties Admiral William Riker had ever attended were at christenings—or, rather, in the after-hour gatherings once all the speeches had been given. Certainly launches in Starfleet were moments for pomp and ritual, with officers and civilians turned out in their dress uniforms to cheer a massive engineering achievement. Starships either ended their lives violently or in obsolescent obscurity; rarely was anyone invited to see a ship broken down for scrap. The time for partying was up front, while all a vessel’s promise still lay ahead.

  Riker wasn’t surprised that attending the launch of a Klingon ship was a completely different experience. Jarin, a modern B’rel-class bird-of-prey, had been commissioned a year earlier by the House of Kruge, with the Klingon High Command helping coordinate its construction in the house’s shipyards. The christening had been conducted right in the construction hangar with very little ceremony. Riker expected that was normal for Klingons, who on creating a warship would have been eager to send it on its way to battle. There were no speeches, no songs; those were things for after a victory, not before. A few gruff words from a presiding general and it was part of the Klingon Defense Force, ready for departure under her newly minted commander.

  It was the christening of this ship, commanded by the somewhat boyish Bredak, son of Lorath, that had brought Admiral Riker to Ketorix. Bredak’s grandfather, Lord Korgh—once the gin’tak, or manager, of the House of Kruge—had taken charge of the house following the assassination of the family elders at Gamaral. Over a short period, Korgh not only had gained control of one of the Empire’s great houses, but he had become an immensely popular—and incendiary—figure on the High Council.

  Lord Korgh also had acquired the ability to make Riker, a diplomatic envoy of the Federation, sit on his hands like a supplicant. Klingon Chancellor Martok had given the go-ahead for the diplomatic conference that Riker had been charged with organizing on H’atoria, but that planet was under the administration of Korgh’s family. As wily at a hundred twenty years old as dealmakers a third his age, Korgh had wheedled a role in deciding exactly when and where on H’atoria that the conference would be staged.

  Then Lord Korgh had proceeded not to return Riker’s calls.

  The admiral wasn’t one to be kept waiting—especially when his assignment was idling the crew of his flag vessel, the Starship Titan. When his diplomatic aide, Lieutenant Ssura, discovered that Korgh would be making his first trip home to his house’s manufacturing center since ascending to power, Riker had made it his business to be there.

  He and Ssura watched from afar as Korgh gave his grandson a hearty embrace. Korgh’s entourage had grown in recent days; he had three burly bodyguards, a nod to the ongoing threat to his house. Then Bredak saluted those on the platform and boarded. Moments later, the landing ramp rose and massive engines ignited.

  “Is that all?” Ssura asked, the Caitian aide’s feline eyes fixed on Jarin as it lifted into the air. “That’s the whole thing?”

  “That’s it,” Riker said. “Show’s over.”

  Or maybe not, he thought as the lead Defense Force officer present descended from the highest level of the platform toward him. He’d seen General Kersh before; a sturdy Klingon woman just entering middle age, she hadn’t yet spoken a word to him. Seeing Rik
er at the bottom of the steps, the dark-skinned Kersh looked as if she’d smelled a foul stench. She bared her teeth to him. “Still here!”

  “Still here,” Riker said. “The United Federation of Planets wishes Jarin and its crew all success in its future missions, General.”

  “How could it succeed?” Kersh looked back at the vessel, wobbling in midair as it worked its way out of the crowded hangar. “I have put a child in charge of a warship because he is the grandson of a man who less than a month ago was answering my family’s door.” She turned back and glared at Riker. “The great ‘Lord Korgh’ should be thanking you for your incompetence!”

  Riker bristled. Kersh had plenty of reasons to despise him. In what had come to be known as the Takedown Incident, troublemakers from an advanced civilization had taken control of Riker and several others, sending them on missions of mischief. It was Riker’s bad luck to have been dispatched into Klingon territory, where he’d attempted to disable an outpost Kersh was defending. No one had been injured—Riker had made sure of that—and damage to the outpost was minimal. Kersh’s pride, her honor, was another matter.

  That, however, was only the beginning. Protecting a ceremony on Gamaral on Riker’s orders, the Enterprise had failed to stop the massacre of the nobles of the House of Kruge—including Kersh’s grandfather, J’borr. Former gin’tak Korgh had then stepped up, declaring himself the adopted son of long-dead Commander Kruge. It wasn’t clear that Kersh could have inherited the house; Klingon rules about gender and property were sticky. But it was clear that Kersh blamed Riker for Korgh’s new status.

  He reached for anything innocuous to say. “The Empire stages a fine ceremony.”

  “Much different from the one you ran, Riker. No unarmed civilians have been murdered.” Kersh gestured to the scaffolds all around. “But there is still the chance for you to destroy Klingon property.”

  Riker and Ssura looked at each other. What the hell do you say to that?

  The general didn’t give them the chance to think of anything. She turned on her heel and made for another set of steps leading downward onto the hangar’s factory floor. She had gone scarcely a few meters when she stopped to berate an unfortunate laborer, sloughing off during the ceremony.

  “That could have gone better,” Riker said, his words easily masked by the sounds of work in the hangar.

  “I don’t understand,” Ssura said. “Commander Worf’s file on Kersh says that she is sharp and dependable.”

  “She can be that and still hate my guts.” The admiral turned back to look at the platform behind him, where Korgh was giving an interview to someone. Riker didn’t have a firm grasp on how the media worked in the Empire, but Korgh clearly did. The new lord rarely passed up the chance to spread the word about all the ways the Khitomer Accords had failed the Klingons.

  Korgh was in middle of a harangue when Riker finally succeeded in catching his eye. He kept on talking to the interviewer, the hint of a smile appearing on his face as he made Riker stand down below. The admiral crossed his arms, willing to wait as long as—

  Something changed. Korgh’s eyes looked up, above Riker’s head—and his expression switched to surprise, alarm. Riker turned, even as Ssura grasped his arm and pointed upward. “Sir!”

  They had passed it on the way into the hangar: a disruptor cannon, mostly assembled and intended for eventual placement on the wing of a bird-of-prey. Weighing tons, the drab green mass of metal had been slung over the factory floor by an immense crane system. The chains securing it were on the move, slipping from the pulleys above—and now the gun was in motion, too, falling toward the woman standing beneath.

  “Kersh!” Riker took two steps and leaped from the catwalk he was on. Kersh noticed him but not the gun—now turned missile—spearing down toward her. Startled, she put her hands before her in defense, but his momentum was too great. As his tackle sent them both tumbling into a pit for a lift, the cannon struck the spot where she’d stood with a colossal clang.

  The depression was only a couple of meters deep, but it was enough to knock the wind out of the two of them. Recovering first, an unknowing Kersh clawed free from beneath Riker and reached for his neck in the shadows, intent on strangling whoever it was that had struck her.

  “Stop,” he said. “It’s me, Riker!”

  Lost in rage, Kersh wasn’t listening. The admiral had begun to fear that she might accidentally kill him when there came a new interruption: blazing orange disruptor fire, peppering the upper walls of their pit. Kersh’s eyes widened, and her grip loosened.

  He wrested free from her. “Strangle me later! We’re under fire!”

  Four

  Whatever benefits the large metal-lined pit might have had as a foxhole were seriously undermined by the location of the assailants somewhere in the upper catwalks of the hangar. The snipers were at right angles to each other, giving them shots on all but one corner of the recess. The admiral and general huddled there for long moments—until they heard footsteps and return fire.

  When the shots on the pit walls subsided, Kersh drew her sidearm, something Riker hadn’t been allowed to bring into the facility. “Now,” she said, asking for a boost. He helped her scramble out—and accepted her aid in return. They crouched beside the fallen cannon, which had left a sizable dent in the flooring where Kersh had stood earlier.

  One of Korgh’s bodyguards, sheltering the old Klingon behind a stack of girders, gestured toward the gantries up ahead. Korgh’s other two protectors were scaling the ladders as more guards entered the hangar from the far end.

  “Ssura!” Riker called out.

  “Here, sir!” The Caitian was off to the side, having used his catlike climbing abilities to partially scale a tower of equipment for a better view. He pointed. “Admiral, I see them!”

  The assailants had doubled back and were on the catwalk level directly above. Riker could tell exactly where they were from the clanking footsteps on the gridwork deck over their heads. It was the only alert Kersh needed. She set her disruptor on full power and fired upward at the grating. A male Klingon voice screamed. If the catwalk deflected part of the beam, it wasn’t enough to save the person above.

  Was it person or persons? Had she struck them both? Riker backed up, trying to get a view of the catwalk from below. Instead, he saw a masked figure plummeting down toward him, disruptor in hand.

  Unlike when Riker leaped onto Kersh from above, the admiral was primed to react—and did, shifting to his right foot. With no pit to tumble into this time, when the attacker caught him on the way down, they simply hit the deck and rolled. Wrestling, Riker alternately saw the floor and the face of his attacker, obscured by a protective industrial mask.

  His back against the deck, the admiral kicked upward, forcing his opponent off him for a moment. It gave the attacker a chance to bring his disruptor in front of Riker’s face. “We must punish the Empire—and those foolish enough to ally with it!” Fingering the trigger, he called out, “We are the children of the true Kahless!”

  A pair of powerful hands grabbed at the shoulders of the attacker and ripped him from his position atop Riker. Kersh hurled the aggressor backward, tumbling him head over heels into the mechanical pit that had recently saved her. Riker heard a howl accompanying the crunch of landing.

  A pained moan emanated from below. “We . . . are the vor’uv’etlh . . . who will not fall . . .”

  “You just did,” Kersh said, handing her disruptor to Riker. He hustled with it to the side of the pit as Kersh clambered back down into the hole.

  The dazed assassin—if that was what he was—struggled to get to his knees. His welder’s mask had been knocked askew, and he fumbled about ineffectually for his fallen disruptor. Kersh delivered a jarring kick to the faceplate, causing him to careen backward against the wall of the pit. The fight left him, and he sagged.

  Riker noticed his dingy uniform was identical to that worn by the other laborers in the hangar. The only difference was the mask. The Unsung, t
he terrorist Klingon sect that had killed Kersh’s relatives and assassinated the clone of Kahless, wore masks, Riker knew—and the attacker had just invoked part of their manifesto.

  Seeing Ssura approach, Riker passed him the disruptor and shimmied back down into the pit. Having located and pocketed the injured man’s disruptor, Kersh ripped the mask from his head.

  Riker wasn’t surprised to see a Klingon face behind it, not here. The surprise was all Kersh’s. She gasped. “You!”

  “You know him? Who is he?”

  “A coward.” Kersh spat, disgusted. “This worthless targ served under one of my best sergeants years ago. He wanted a promotion—but instead of issuing a direct challenge, as a warrior should, he and his brother killed their superior in his sleep!” Kersh grabbed the battered assailant’s collar and shook him. “Was that your brother up there on the catwalk? Speak!”

  “The disruptor blast . . . he died in front of me,” the shaken Klingon said. His nose and mouth bled from Kersh’s kick.

  Kersh ripped an employee badge from his chest. Barely glancing at it, she tossed it to Riker. The admiral read the name on it. “Your name is Har’tok?”

  “When he had a name,” Kersh said.

  Riker blinked. “You mean he’s discommendated?”

  “Of course.” Kersh searched Har’tok’s clothes, not bothering to be gentle about it. “How else should we deal with those who would attack the unsuspecting?”

  Their methods haven’t changed, Riker thought. He compared the face on the badge with the battered visage before him. It was the same person—yet their Klingon prisoner looked a good deal older. Something didn’t add up. “This guy didn’t just sneak in here. He’s been working here for years.”

  “It happens,” the general said, indifferently rising and stepping away from the attacker. “The dishonored drift around. We don’t keep track of them.”