Hell's Heart Page 6

  “Not at all. Everyone invited is on this ship. The house has no enemies—not today. But I am cautious where so many nobles are concerned.”

  That made sense to La Forge. Turning back to his interface, he noticed the approach of new arrivals—as did Abby Balidemaj at tactical. “Three ships just out of warp,” she reported. “Identified as haulers nine, ten, and eleven for Spectacle Specialists, the third-party arrangers.”

  “Transmitting the correct codes?” Havers asked.

  “Affirmative. They check out.”

  La Forge took a closer look at the telemetry coming in from the probe network—and changed the display to a different kind of readout. “That’s odd.”

  That caught the attention of Galdor, who had been reading from a padd. “What is it?”

  La Forge pointed to the digital image on his screen, which depicted waves in motion around a black object. “Some emissions, coming off the haulers. All three of them, actually.”

  “Emissions? What kind?” Galdor put the padd down and joined him at the interface. “Dangerous ones?”

  “No—just a little quantum phase distortion. It’s mirroring around all sides of the haulers’ aft and cargo sections.”

  “What might that mean?”

  “You might expect to find it, among other places, near a cloaked ship,” La Forge said. Galdor’s eyes widened, and the engineer instantly regretted the choice of examples. “But it’s really far more likely the warp drives of the haulers are out of flux. These are massive loads they’re moving—hell on the verterium compensators once you switch to impulse.”

  A quick hail from Havers to the lead Spectacle hauler confirmed that its crew, too, suspected a glitch. The lieutenant commander looked back to La Forge. “Should we have them stop?”

  La Forge hesitated—and saw a different kind of hesitation in Galdor. “The assembly of the Circle of Triumph is time-intensive, and without it all is lost.” The Klingon stared intently at La Forge. “Unless you truly think there is a danger, repairs might be better handled once they enter Gamaral orbit. That way, they can unload.”

  “It’s not even clear they’ll need repairs,” La Forge said. “Old ships, big loads.” He turned back to Havers and nodded. The order to proceed was given.

  Galdor appeared relieved—and that relieved La Forge. He wasn’t as accustomed to handling diplomats as Picard was, but he could tell when it was time to put Occam’s Razor to work and wilder theories away. After all, what would be the odds that three haulers could be carrying four cloaked vessels each, clinging around them like bats perched in perfect symmetry?

  • • •

  “We’re through the Federation’s screen,” Valandris said over her comm system. Gamaral hung just outside her vessel’s viewport, resplendent in green and gray. “Host vessel is in geosynchronous orbit over the event site.”

  “And Starfleet’s envoy?”

  “Keeping watch but did not disturb us. And you were correct, master—she is Enterprise.”

  “Enterprise . . .” Valandris could not see the Fallen Lord’s face; even audio was a miracle to her, given her cloaked state and how far away he was. But he had said the word before in her presence, and it had always been a mouthful of poison to him. “How I despise that name,” he said. “You must be on your guard.”

  “We do not fear—”

  “You should. The Federation is the head. Starfleet is the ­muscle—and Enterprise the name given to the vessel manned by its most elite crew. This is no fat jinarkh, wallowing in the muck and waiting for you to cut its throat.”

  That sounded to Valandris like a challenge worthy of her. But she had other throats to cut first. And those would please her master just as much.

  Eight

  NEAR THE CIRCLE OF TRIUMPH

  GAMARAL

  There are better times for this, Worf thought as he watched the sunrise over Gamaral’s forests. Much better.

  He had put off telling Kahless the truth too long. There had never been a good time for it aboard Enterprise. Once the starship had arrived at Gamaral, there had been a flurry of activity, first coordinating with security in the system and on the ground, and then getting the venue on the ground squared away. By then, it was time for him and Kahless to transport down.

  The Federation Diplomatic Corps and the festival specialists had scouted the site: a naked spot on a low rise cleared more than a century earlier by a Klingon survey crew. It sat in a majestic temperate rainforest, with a hazy mountain looming directly to the east; Mount Qel’pec, the original cartographers had called it. When Worf and Kahless had arrived, the workers had already installed the marbled flooring for the circular plaza, with a small templelike structure at center. The big columns of the surrounding colonnade were now being transported into place. If all went according to plan, in a couple of hours the emperor would wait inside the temple before ascending to a rostrum on top, addressing the nobles and veterans ringing the arena.

  Except one thing had not gone according to plan. Seizing a quiet moment amid the ongoing construction work, Worf finally had told Kahless what he had learned about the events of the Battle of Gamaral. The emperor had listened intently, his outrage growing. Then he had stormed off the plaza, down from the plateau, and into the wilderness.

  Worf needed no tricorder, no tracking skills to find Kahless. In anger, the clone had barreled through undergrowth sodden by a recent rain, slashing at trees and vines with the ceremonial mek’leth he had been given for the event. Worf found him at the end of a trail of destruction, chopping at an offending bit of foliage obstructing his path.

  “Kahless!”

  “Not now, Worf.” The gold-colored mek’leth had tangled in something, and Kahless struggled to dislodge it. The emperor was in his finest ceremonial garb, now dirtied and disheveled. Frustrated, Kahless finally ripped the weapon free. Then he turned and cast it into the mud at Worf’s feet. “If Galdor wants that back, he can have it!”

  Worf knelt to pick up the weapon. Even soiled, it shone as Gamaral’s morning light peeked through the greenery above. It had been a gift from the House of Kruge to Kahless for the event; inscribed on it were the names of the nobles to be honored that day. The letters were tiny, almost as if the inscriber knew how little the recipients deserved the honor. Galdor had yet to encounter Kahless, sending it to the emperor by courier while on Enterprise. Kahless had been impressed by the weapon—but no longer.

  “You hold an engraved record of warriors,” Kahless said, “warriors of a kind I’ve never heard of in the history of the Empire.” He stomped toward Worf and seized the weapon from him. “By all means, let’s give them the Order of the Bat’leth!”

  “I think,” Worf said gravely, “that most of them already have it.”

  “Wonderful! No wonder the Typhon Pact does not fear our alliance, Worf. Your Federation has joined forces with a toothless tiger.”

  Worf shook his head. He had waited too long, but told the truth, as he knew it. Worf was pleased that Riker had not asked him to compromise his principles—though on reflection, he knew there was never any chance of that happening. Riker was a man of honor, who understood and respected it in others. “I am sorry to have waited, Kahless. But I was—”

  “Embarrassed for your fellow Klingons?” Kahless laughed. “You should be.” With a snarling expression on his face, he read the names inscribed on the mek’leth. “This battle that was staged in these absent cowards’ names—the one against the general’s coup. Was it a massacre?”

  “There was a trial,” Worf said, “but I cannot find much more about it. Chancellor Kesh was a weak leader, afraid of his own military. He seems to have accepted the family’s account and made an example of the conspirators.”

  “He put them to death?”

  “I could not find out. Certainly their names were purged from history. The records from those days are mostly a
bout the restoration of the peace of the house, of the may’qochvan.”

  “A ridiculous concept,” Kahless said. “If this Kruge had no single heir, they should have fallen on each other and let honor decide.”

  “They were more concerned about rival houses doing the same thing,” Worf said. “Kruge had been dead for some time. The carrion beasts were circling. A unified force gave them their only chance at survival.”

  Kahless gave an audible sigh. “Is there not a warrior to be found in the whole family?”

  “There is,” Worf said after a moment. “Kersh, daughter of Dakh. She is a general—one of the Empire’s finer ones. A grandchild of J’borr, I think. Her father was killed by the Borg. She was military liaison when I was an ambassador. I told you of the incident at No’var Outpost—she was of help to me there.”

  “Why is she not here?”

  “Kersh does not think she can inherit control of the house. Instead, she commits herself to the Defense Force, body and soul.”

  “A wise woman. Wiser still not to honor this crowd.” ­Kahless knelt and stabbed the weapon into the damp soil. Dejected, he rose and tromped past Worf.

  Kahless stopped inside a small clearing. Leaning against a tree, he looked out at Mount Qel’pec. He appeared tired, Worf thought—and the emperor acknowledged it. “I am not who I was, Worf.”

  “Since your exile?”

  His back to Worf, Kahless shrugged, his answer barely above a whisper. “I was born—I was created—to lead the Empire to a more honorable state. I was not, I am not the warrior of legend, but it did not matter, because you and Picard showed me what I could still accomplish. Things did improve, under Martok. That is why I left for Cygnet IV—because without that mission, I no longer knew who I was.”

  “You are a warrior in your own right, Kahless—in your own time. You fought against Unarrh and led the people when Morjod and others would have ruined what Martok has built.”

  “And then I left to paint pictures and to sing pretty songs of scenes like this,” the clone said, gesturing to the mountain ahead. “The problem with singing is that one hears only one’s own voice. And I have never had my own voice. I have always sung with the voice of another.”

  He turned back to look at Worf. “I thought I would hear the song of the universe around me, of eternity—showing me the next step on my journey. But I heard nothing.”

  Worf nodded. He understood. He—and so many ­Klingons—had sought wisdom about the next steps in their lives by trying to commune with Kahless the Unforgettable’s spirit. What wisdom could a being find whose mind was already stuffed with all Kahless’s known teachings? Worf assumed there was something else out there—but he understood Kahless’s difficulty in finding it.

  After a few moments, Worf broke the silence. “Emperor, before we spoke I consulted with both Captain Picard and Admiral Riker. You are bound to no agreement. Participate or not, it is up to you.”

  “The humans are honorable beings—and so are you.” Kahless turned, his face looking grave. “And so am I. I must meet my obligations.”

  Kahless strode purposefully back past Worf to where the mek’leth stood, impaled in the soil. The commander didn’t understand. “I told you, you are under no obligation.”

  “This is between me and the House of Kruge,” Kahless said, plucking the weapon from where it was embedded. He smeared mud from the engraved names. “I am the emperor. They would like to have their feats recognized, before all the Empire.” He bared his teeth. “I will show them the honor they deserve.”

  VALANDRIS’S EXPEDITION

  ORBITING GAMARAL

  “Sensors find two Klingons on Gamaral near the gathering site,” Tharas said. “In the woods close by. Alone.”

  “Who are they?” Valandris looked back to Hemtara at the starship’s listening station. Having disengaged from the cargo haulers once they were past the security probes, all the stalkers’ cloaked vessels were in orbit over the planet, tending to their assignments. They’d gotten their best looks yet at both Enterprise in orbit and the situation on the ground, but Valandris couldn’t act without knowing more.

  “Enterprise’s transmissions are scrambled,” Hemtara said, “but the event organizers’ messages are not. It is the one who calls himself Kahless, the emperor. The other Klingon appears to be Worf.”

  The first name she had expected—but not the second. Yes, she thought. It made sense he would be here, if his starship was.

  Hemtara spoke again. “The ground crew is beginning to install transport inhibitors, as we expected.”

  “Do we care?” Valandris asked.

  “No.”

  “Good.” The woman understood the technologies involved better than she did. If Hemtara wasn’t concerned, Valandris wasn’t.

  Tharas leaned in Valandris’s direction. “Still, we could act now,” he said. “While they’re alone in the woods. It could be fun, like a real hunt.”

  “This is a real hunt. And you know very well that’s not the plan.” No, Valandris knew they had to stick with what their companion vessels were doing. That meant remaining under cloak while they continued to scan the stone clearing on the surface. “Keep tracking. We wait.”

  Tharas grumbled, but not for very long. If there was one thing their homeworld taught its people, it was patience. So long as Enterprise remained oblivious to them, the hunters could remain in the blind indefinitely.

  Valandris knew they wouldn’t have to. After a lifetime, it was all coming together. She mouthed the word, unspoken: Soon.

  Nine

  THE CIRCLE OF TRIUMPH

  GAMARAL

  The event organizers selected to assist the Federation Diplomatic Corps had done a wonderful job, Picard thought. The aesthetics were just right. Thirteen great stone pillars rose from the circumference of the plaza, with ornate braziers installed atop each. Beneath that, each column bore the etched symbol of the Klingon Empire, the seal of the House of Kruge, and the names of the heroes of the Battle of Gamaral. Thirteen columns for thirteen honorees: veterans like J’borr and Udakh, and surviving heirs, like A’chav and M’gol.

  The columns sat upon mammoth plinths, three meters high, each with an arched passageway permitting an individual to enter the circular plaza from an external waiting area. A raised semicircular bowl wrapped around behind each column, providing each noble a small seating area for his or her guests. Everything was equal; no branch of the family could claim it had a better view than any other. As Galdor had designed it, the nobles could be beamed down to their designated waiting areas in any order; all would step through the columns and onto the Circle of Triumph simultaneously when the sun set.

  In all, it was a sparkling monument both to the veterans and to the speed and industry of the Federation and those who served it. Galdor appeared to approve. The gin’tak was walking about in the waning light of early evening, inspecting everything. He wore his usual garb, conveying simple refinement; Picard had switched to his dress uniform.

  The captain could also see, at the periphery, his security chief Šmrhová and her team at work on the last bit of protection: transporter inhibitors, ready to be activated once all the VIPs were in place. Picard didn’t expect any trouble, in part because, as Galdor had jokingly put it, “all the family’s enemies are already here.” But the captain was concerned about the report he’d just gotten from Worf, who had stepped out from Kahless’s small underground waiting lounge—a small but comfortable building half-embedded at the Circle of Triumph’s center. Picard had listened gravely before sending his first officer back to the emperor’s side.

  No sooner had Worf headed down the stairs than Galdor approached the captain. “The final touches are in place, I see.” He gestured to Šmrhová and the inhibitor towers, all a respectful distance outside the plaza.

  “Just as you suggested,” Picard said. “The lieutenant’s security te
am will shut down all transporter use to this area five minutes before the ceremony. Should any trouble require evacuation or reinforcement, we can deactivate the field instantly.”

  “Excellent.” The Klingon gazed toward the center of the plaza. “And Kahless?”

  “Present,” Picard said, trying to force a smile.

  His expression didn’t fool Galdor. “So is he here or isn’t he?” He laughed loudly. “You don’t sound sure.”

  Picard cast a glance around and stepped in closer to Galdor. “We . . . may have a problem.”

  “Problem? There can be no problems. I have slain them all, with cuts to the throat.”

  “I am not sure about this one.” Picard took a breath. No, there was no better way to put it. “Kahless suspects that the Battle of Gamaral may not have been the great victory it was vaunted to be.”

  For a moment, Galdor looked as if he had no idea what to say.

  Then, he slowly asked, “How . . . did he form this suspicion?”

  “Kahless wanted more information about the battle for his speech. Commander Worf interviewed several of the nobles aboard.”

  “That’s a relief,” Galdor said. “I was afraid the emperor had met some of the nobles himself. Then he definitely would have formed an opinion.” He looked keenly at Picard. “Will he speak out during the ceremony?”

  “Worf thinks he might. And as I am responsible to you, I wanted you to be aware.”

  “Thank you,” Galdor said, although his tone didn’t seem overly appreciative. “I am sure Worf tried to dissuade Kahless. Does he want me to speak to the emperor?”

  “Worf wasn’t sure it would help—but it is your right to try,” Picard said. “Would it help?”

  “It would not, because I would be forced to speak truthfully to him.” He turned and gestured to the columns ringing the circle and the names engraved upon them. “Of course these were no heroes—and their progeny present have inherited all their flaws. Shall I tell you of the battle?”

  Picard nodded.