The Jackal's Trick Read online

  “But Ketorix is a strategic supply center.” From what Riker had seen, the factory and hangar alone held enough munitions to blow up the whole city. “How could someone like him get clearance to work here?”

  “Easy, if he knew how to do something useful in his former life.” Kersh wiped her hands on her sleeves. “Straw bosses will use anyone as labor to cut corners. They don’t ask questions. They don’t care that he’s a nobody.”

  “I could have been somebody, Kersh. My brother too,” Har’tok moaned, almost out of his wits with pain. “But you ended all that when you pushed for discommendation. And now you’ve killed him!”

  This was revenge? Riker again considered how long Har’tok and his brother had been working there. “You came to work here hoping for a chance to kill Kersh?”

  Har’tok looked away. “No. We were told we could find a way to something better while working here. But no one came for us.”

  “Something better?” Riker asked. “Who told you that—and what did they mean?”

  “Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Har’tok glared up at Kersh. “When we saw her today, we acted.”

  Kersh crossed her arms before her. “I don’t understand. I’ve visited this facility many times—you would have had plenty of chances. What’s different about today?”

  “Because I know now—I am someone.” Defiance filled Har’tok’s eyes, replacing the pain. “The Unsung have risen. A new day has come for generations of discommendated. It has come for all of us!”

  “Not for you,” came a voice from above. Riker looked up to the edge of the pit where Korgh loomed overhead, flanked by two of his bodyguards. As one, the guards fired their disruptors down into the hollow. Riker instinctively backed away from weapons fire in such a small space—but the shots of Korgh’s minions were precise. Har’tok vanished into nothingness with an agonized squeal.

  Riker looked at the seared spot on the metal wall where the worker had been—and then back up at Korgh. “You could have questioned him!”

  “We do not hear his kind, Admiral.” Korgh knelt and offered Riker a helping hand to exit the pit. Kersh followed without aid. The lord faced her once they were topside. “General, you are sure these were the only two?”

  “Yes. They were condemned by the High Council after acts of cowardice.”

  Korgh sighed audibly. “It is what we have all feared, then. This is the fault of the accursed Unsung.”

  Riker looked again at the badge in his hand. The Unsung had been native to Thane in the Briar Patch before they went on the run—led, according to Worf, by someone posing as Commander Kruge, back from the dead after a hundred-year absence. The Unsung had been formidable and deadly; Har’tok looked nowhere near as professional. “Are you sure it’s the Unsung, sir? I don’t think these characters are connected with them.”

  “You are correct, Riker—and that is the problem. The Unsung number only two to three hundred. But there are plenty more discommendated individuals—and their descendants—who might well be inspired to violence by them.” Korgh scowled. “That is what we have most feared—and your Starfleet’s acts have brought it all to pass.”

  Riker swallowed. He disagreed with Korgh’s characterization of what had happened, but he couldn’t doubt what he had just witnessed.

  “Now, Admiral,” Korgh said, straightening his rich robe, “what was it exactly that you wanted to see me about?”

  Five

  ORION PIRATE CAMP

  AZURE NEBULA

  She had killed and killed, but it had given her no enjoyment.

  Valandris was Klingon by blood, even if the people of the Empire chose to deny her existence. She and her companions of the Unsung valued hunting over all else—even the so-called honor the hypocrites of Qo’noS gave lip service to. The green-skinned Orions were a new species to hunt, and she had stalked her first ones days earlier on a mission in the Hyralan Sector. They had not impressed her—and to her disappointment, the specimens on this nameless world weren’t good sport either.

  No—they were worse. Dinskaar’s crew had at least put up a defense. This was extermination: going from building to shabby building, wiping out pirates wherever she found them.

  Someone lunged from behind one of the racks in the warehouse. Valandris thrust her d’k tahg into the neck of a lime-faced boy just barely old enough to constitute a threat. She had never used the Klingon name for the blade before, but her people’s new leader had told them it was all right. Chu’charq’s stores were full of such weapons.

  “Only Klingon society is tainted,” Lord Kruge had said, his crackling voice reminding his listeners of the death by fire he escaped long ago. “There is nothing wrong with their blades. Sanctify them in the blood of the unworthy.”

  A disruptor blast fired from the nearby office went wide over her head. She pulled her weapon from the junior pirate’s back and flipped it around in her hand. This time she hurled it. The blade sliced the tepid air, sailing from one room into the other—before ending its flight in the face of the husky being who’d fired at her. All flab, he collapsed heavily in the office, surrounded by the worthless trinkets he’d evidently lived for. His countinghouse had become a charnel house.

  The place went silent. Valandris sighed. There had not been a single Orion as good at combat as Leotis, the boss she’d fought aboard Dinskaar. And he had been terrible. She retrieved her weapon from the fat man’s skull.

  Her eyes went from the bloody floor to the contents of the building, a temporary structure so old it had become permanent. There was nothing worth having here, no prize to take. Potok, the founder of her colony of discommendated Klingons and their kinfolk, had banned the taking of hunting trophies; they were signs of status, and in his unyielding ideology, those who could never have honor deserved nothing else. Generations of hunters on Thane had nevertheless sneaked teeth, scales, and fangs from their kills as secret remembrances. But this place held mostly shiny baubles and illicit substances, the currency of the Orions’ nefarious enterprises. All were worthless to Valandris.

  She stepped outside. Colored a soothing cerulean by the nebula above, the night was far from peaceful—but it soon would be. The Orions who used this camp as a hideaway were in their death throes. Half her people hadn’t even used their masks for this attack: the pirates knew who and what the Unsung were, and that had provided terror aplenty.

  From her crew on Chu’charq, she recognized her young cousin Raneer leading raiders on a charge against fleeing pirates. Raneer had improved since her first encounter with the Orions, Valandris thought—though she couldn’t be learning a lot here.

  There didn’t appear to be anyone left to fight—until from behind the door of a dilapidated wooden shack, something exploded. Or, rather, someone: a hulking Orion strongman, flying limply through the air before landing with a meaty thud on the ground outside. His attacker lumbered out after him, fist drawn and smiling.

  “Come on, get up!” The baldheaded Klingon showed his mouthful of broken teeth. “I’ve already spotted you an arm. Get up and fight!”

  Valandris chuckled. Over fifty, Zokar was one of the older members of the Unsung; the violent wildlife of their planet kept life expectancies short. A zikka’gleg had claimed Zokar’s arm, just after he arrived as an émigré to the planet of the condemned. Rather than give up, the injury had made the brawny ball of spite meaner.

  His opponent, meanwhile, might have given up—or might not have. Valandris could see him stirring. “Forget it,” Zokar said after waiting seconds for the giant to recover. He quickly drew his disruptor pistol and vaporized the Orion.

  “There,” he said, putting the weapon away. He saw Valandris and smiled. “What did you think of that?”

  “Not much.”

  “He was better inside.”

  “That’s not it,” she said. “He was going to get up. He should have died fighting.”

  Zokar sneered. “What, you’re Kahless now?”

  “The clone?”

&nb
sp; “I mean the one from the ancient days. ‘Die standing up’—that’s one of his lines.” Zokar waved to the gutted camp. “If you haven’t noticed, these fools don’t exactly follow the Klingon ways. And neither do we.”

  That much was true. Discommendation had taken their heritage away, stolen it from generations of Klingons on Thane whose only crime had been being born to the wrong parents. They owed the Empire and its morals nothing—and their savior, all.

  “There he is,” Zokar said, pointing. The two birds-of-prey involved in the raid, Chu’charq and Rodak, sat at the edge of the clearing, their landing ramps down. An entourage exited the former. Four mask-wearing members of the Unsung in black combat gear escorted a slow-walking pair down into the ruined camp. There was the mysterious robed woman N’Keera, high priestess to the Unsung, supporting he who was her constant companion and their infallible leader: the legendary Fallen Lord.

  Kruge.

  “I am pleased,” the old Klingon said, pausing to breathe deeply. They had been cooped up aboard the ships since their fiery escape from Thane; Valandris wasn’t surprised to see him taking a constitutional here, as he had done so often at home. Sharp eyes set into a face scarred by ancient flames looked on the camp with satisfaction. “Yes, I am pleased. Well done.”

  Zokar stepped forward first and bowed. “I told Rodak’s people these Orions wouldn’t be much—they’re rear echelon, total homebodies. Looks about right.”

  Valandris rolled her eyes. Zokar was a rarity among the Unsung. He had lived more than half of his life in the Klingon Empire, leaving to join the exiles sometime after losing his name. Even then, he had refused to shut up about where he had come from, defying even Potok’s commands. Since Kruge arrived a year earlier promising to lead them all on a mission to reshape the galaxy, Zokar had wasted no opportunity to show that he knew more than anyone else about where they were headed.

  Valandris and Zokar joined the group, and the escorts fanned out, making sure no one remained alive to harass them. “This camp belonged to a dishonorable wretch named Fortar,” Kruge said, walking along.

  “Fortar, indeed!” Zokar laughed. “The Klingons have been after his head for twenty years, my lord. They’ve never found where he holes up.”

  “They never asked me. One has to have a mind for how the enemy thinks.” Kruge glanced meaningfully at his aide before looking around. “There will be no room in our new order for such beings. This is a beginning.”

  N’Keera spoke softly, gesturing to the huts and shanties. “Were they storing riches here?”

  “As they would define them,” Valandris said. “I have seen them. The spoils of a dead-end culture.”

  “Spoils,” Zokar said. “Should we burn them?”

  Valandris saw N’Keera wince at the word burn—and Zokar did so, too, once he saw her response.

  Kruge stared at Zokar for a long, dangerous moment. Then he laughed. “You can mention fire before me without fear. I left my fear of it on the Genesis Planet before your sires and grandsires were born.”

  Zokar breathed easier.

  “No, once you are certain the Orions are all dead, return your crews to your vessels. Rest, meditate—steel yourselves for our exploits to come. Our other birds-of-prey in orbit will alert us if anyone approaches.”

  “Absolutely.” Zokar, his old bluster returning, gestured toward Rodak. “I offer you my team’s ship, Lord Kruge. I flew aboard birds-of-prey back in the Defense Force—I have trained my people well.” He smiled cheekily. “I know you flew with crack crews before. Let us give you another chance to do so.”

  Valandris saw N’Keera and Kruge look at each other. Sensing discomfort, Valandris spoke up for her vessel. “Chu’charq is our lord’s base of operations, Zokar. It will continue to be.”

  Zokar scowled at her. “There are no titles in this movement, Valandris. You don’t deserve special status.”

  “Really? Unless I miss my guess, I’m the one who killed Fortar.”

  “Bah! Slaying fat overlords does not impress—”

  “Silence.” N’Keera raised her hand and spoke sternly. “Lord Kruge will take this up at a different time. For now, return to your vessels as your lord has commanded.”

  Kruge sniffed at the air. “Perhaps an extra hour of meditation for you both would be in order as well.”

  Valandris and Zokar nodded, chastened. “Yes, my lord,” they said in unison.

  Kruge stepped forward, leaving the group. “N’Keera and I will stay on the surface for a time. I would like to walk the camp—to see for myself what you have done.”

  Valandris’s eyes widened. “You shouldn’t go without bodyguards, my lord. It might not be safe.”

  Kruge stopped suddenly and looked back. He raised an eyebrow. “Do you believe me an infant, Valandris, to be kept in a crib?”

  She looked down. “Of course not.”

  “I will have you know, when I was six days old, I killed my wet nurse in mortal combat—after which I was sent to live in the pen with the guard mastiffs. They taught me manners and gave me a taste for meat.” Kruge bared his teeth at her—at first menacingly, before it resolved into a canny grin.

  Everyone laughed—including Valandris, with relief.

  He strode from the group. “To suit my young nanny here, I will not go alone. My dear N’Keera will join me.” He offered his hand, and the young Klingon woman slipped from the group and took it. “If there is danger, you will know it. Carry on.”

  Valandris and Zokar glared at each other, neither wanting to be the one to depart while Kruge and N’Keera were still in sight. Once their master and his aide had gone around a bend, they remained frozen a few seconds longer.

  Finally, Valandris threw up her hands in aggravation and started to walk away. “I have people to find.”

  Zokar chortled. “That’s right. Kruge dismissed you first—Nanny!”

  She turned long enough to return a gesture that he had taught her.

  Six

  U.S.S. TITAN

  ORBITING KETORIX PRIME

  “We’re all right,” Riker said over Captain Christine Vale’s combadge. “Just a little excitement.”

  She stood in the alcove and tried to hear over the music. “Do you need backup, Admiral?”

  “If I couldn’t bring it with me before, I can’t have you send it now.”

  Vale had never liked how often diplomacy and safety wound up at cross-purposes. After the Kruge family had been attacked on Gamaral, Titan’s security chief, Lieutenant Commander Ranul Keru, had implored Riker to take a squad with him to Ketorix. He had refused. The invitation was only for him and his aide, and he didn’t want to offend Lord Korgh by implying that his security forces weren’t up to the job.

  Obviously, they hadn’t been. “Your message said the attackers were copycats?”

  “That’s not for dissemination. I’ll get into that when I return. We’re waiting here in the hangar while Korgh and Kersh order stepped-up screening for the facility’s workers.” He paused. “I know you’re supposed to be off shift, Chris—sorry if I woke you.”

  “Actually, I’m in the officer’s club. While you’ve been down there, I answered a hail for you from the Kinshaya.”

  “And that explains why you’re in the bar. What did the Pontifex Maxima have to say?”

  “Actually, it was the—let me see if I’ve got this right—the second secretary for the Office of Infidel Relations. She said all Kinshaya diplomats are spending the year in prayer, and that they ‘would sooner have their wings clipped before attending a conference hosted by the demon Klingons.’ ” Vale took a deep breath. “I told her that the first secretary had given us the same message but had called the Klingons ‘devils,’ and that we needed clarification on which they meant.”

  “Nice.” Riker laughed. Yeffir, the current head of the Episcopate, was a reformer and relatively reasonable—but getting to her through the church bureaucracy had become impossible of late. “I’ll send up Ssura to return the hail. S
ave me a seat at the bar—if I ever get out of here. Riker out.”

  Vale edged out of the alcove and back into the moody shadows of the officer’s club. Titan had two on this deck: a jazz-themed room and, at the far end, Beale Street, named for the Memphis avenue on Earth where W. C. Handy popularized the blues. Both bars suited the tastes of the trombone-playing admiral who, after all, had been Titan’s captain for several years—and in recent times the clubs had become a barometer for shipboard morale.

  When Titan had been out exploring, as a Starfleet vessel was intended to be, the peppier jazz club saw the most use. But whenever Riker’s promotion meant he drew diplomatic assignments, more officers could be found listening to the somber piped-in ballads sung by people who had it worse than they did. Counselor Deanna Troi contended that counting the number of people “on Beale” at any given time was as good a diagnostic tool as she’d found.

  Troi was waiting for her outside the alcove, anxious to hear about her husband’s situation. Returning with Troi to the bar, Vale shared what little she knew and reclaimed her drink. “Do you think it’s wrong for a new captain to want to lock up an admiral so nothing else bad happens to him?”

  “As long as his daughter and I can visit him in the brig,” Troi said, smiling. She put her empty glass on the counter. “Speaking of Natasha, I owe her a story.”

  “Well, you’ve heard about Will. What’s stopping you?”

  Troi nodded in the direction of the other end of the bar, where a young Skagaran officer stood alone. “I think Lieutenant Kyzak is continuing to win friends. I have seen four different people get frustrated talking to him and wander off.”

  “Where’s Melora Pazlar? I thought they were friendly.”

  “One of them was Melora.” Troi studied the young man from afar. “I think rustic charm only goes so far in space. I’m sensing he could use a word.”

  “Go,” Vale said, putting down her drink. “I’ve got this one.”

  “You’re a saint.” Troi slipped off her chair and started to walk away. She stopped momentarily to call back. “I like today’s hair, by the way.”