Hell's Heart (24 page)

Forty-five

F
EDERATION
C
ONSULATE

Q
O
'
NO
S

W
ill Riker watched Martok tromping angrily around the room. The private dinner had been scheduled beforehand at the Federation's under-renovation consular building as a working meal, a chance to go over the conference plans and the state of the parallel Federation and Klingon investigations. Instead, the antics of a certain elder-caretaker-turned-lord had dominated conversations before, during, and after dinner.

The chancellor had spoken most of the words, many of them obscene.

Martok slammed his empty cup down onto a mantelpiece. “I tell you, Riker, if any other new councillor spoke as he did to me, he would feel my fist in his gut. But Korgh is an old man, standing up for a decimated family. The public has showered him with goodwill.”

“He spares none for you,” Riker said.

“Ha! You should have heard what he was telling people outside the chamber. Everything he says is just on the verge of an affront—but he never goes so far as to force my hand.”

“He's definitely changed his tune.” Riker rose to refill Martok's cup. “Awfully fast for power to go to someone's head.”

“I barely knew the man before now. His son Lorath has served honorably—I know less about the brothers.” Martok shook his head.

“There is no free-flight corridor without the Empire,” Riker said, “or without the conference. Can you come to the table without the House of Kruge's support?”

Martok frowned. “It is difficult. The worlds involved belong to the Empire; their residents' ultimate allegiance is
to us, not the family that administers them. But the Kinshaya attempted to invade H'atoria just a few years ago. And with the massacre and the emperor's abduction, the Empire is in a vile mood.”

Riker understood fully. It was just the sort of anxious environment in which demagogues flourished. He'd been surprised how fast Korgh had taken advantage of that—but then everything about the former Galdor had surprised him.

As had the fact, revealed earlier in their conversations, that Martok had known full well that the nobles of the House of Kruge had not been present at the Battle of Gamaral. He had suspected the commemoration ceremony in Federation space was the family's price for considering the H'atorian Conference. That alone, however, didn't explain why Martok would consider such a charade.

Riker had been looking for a way to bring it up when, staring into the fireplace, Martok unburdened himself. “I will speak frankly to this point, Riker—and we will never speak of it again. I knew of the family's deceit—and so did chancellors past. It was tolerated for the same reason the
may'qochvan
was a good idea. The Empire needed their quality starships—and we needed the house that held the border worlds facing the Kinshaya to appear strong.”

“It has been strong these last fifty years. A perfect buffer province.”

“Correct. I may not think much of Galdor—of
Korgh
—hiding who he was all those years, but he did the Empire a service. And in avoiding a feeding frenzy over the dissolution of the house, he has saved the Empire from certain tumult.”

Alexander appeared in the doorway. “Chancellor, ­Admiral—there is a call from Captain Picard—for you both.”

“He has been trying to reach me,” Martok said. Glad for the change of subject, he and Riker followed the ambassador into the office. Picard appeared on the main viewscreen on the wall across from Alexander's desk. The ambassador excused himself.

Picard wasted no time.
“The defeated forces at Gamaral a century ago, Chancellor—do you know what happened to them?”

Finding a seat, Martok seemed caught off guard by the question. “They were discommendated.”

“Yes, I thought so. I mean after that.”

“There is no ‘after that.' That is the end for them. We do not place bells around the necks of the discommendated to track them. They are no longer worthy of being seen by Klingon eyes.”

“I understand that,”
Picard said.
“But how do you prevent someone who has been cast out from returning to threaten the Empire?”

“Those who truly pose threats to the Empire rarely live to be discommendated. The danger they pose is cut off, root and branch. As for the rest? It is hard to explain to you, Picard. They understand they have an obligation to go away. Shame is enough to keep them out of sight.”

“And the officers' rebellion was not deemed a danger to the Empire a century ago? Because it was an uprising only against one house?”

“Because it was ridiculously inept. That much of the family's story was true. The lead general was on his heels from the second the family members turned on them. He was no tactician. His flight to Gamaral is one of the most nonsensical moves imaginable. He was just sitting there, waiting for the blow to fall.”

“I don't think he was, Chancellor.”
Picard quickly described what La Forge had found beneath Mount Qel'pec.
“I'm certain there were starships there that the rebels were seeking to aid their cause.”

Martok was still shaking his head. “An entire shipyard, carved into a mountain? That's beyond the level of a line officer to create. I cannot imagine they'd have much of anything hidden there.”

“I wondered the same. But the discovery made me think again
about the losing side. Perhaps they weren't so inept—and perhaps they were still out there somewhere, plotting an ancient revenge.”

Riker looked at the chancellor. “Do you know the names of the discommendated conspirators?”

“They are in no history I have seen,” Martok said. “It was not as open a time as it is now.”

“Would Korgh know, as family historian?”

Martok shrugged. “Ask him.”

Riker rose—only to see the ambassador in the doorway. “We need to contact Lord Korgh.”

“That won't be necessary,” Alexander said. “He is at the door—and wants to see you both.”

U
NSUNG
C
OMPOUND

T
HANE

Valandris had been true to her word, although Kahless's “work shift” had gone on far longer than Worf would have imagined possible. He'd already realized Thane turned slowly on its axis; the sadists who had enslaved the emperor had insisted that he continue toiling until the end of the day. Worf had climbed into the pit himself, helping Kahless in his messy work. The act had also generated a lot of discussion from observers, from what little he could hear.

Kahless's labors had eventually ended—but if Worf thought they would handle the emperor any better after that, he was sadly mistaken. They had kept the collar and manacles on Kahless, and a group of children had pulled on his chains to lead him to what appeared to be a kennel for meter-tall creatures the Unsung kept in a pen.

The minder drove the insect-like animals into a side yard, and Kahless's chains were fastened to a stake near the kennel. The children threw fresh meat into a trough near the emperor and laughed. Worf growled angrily at them, driving them off.

It didn't surprise Worf that Kahless had lost his appetite, given the repulsive pit he had been toiling in. But the emperor had drunk eagerly, quickly downing the first pail of rain­water Worf brought to him. Then he had slumped against the trough, falling immediately asleep.

“This is intolerable,” Worf said to Valandris. “You cannot keep him here.”

“He stays here, or he goes back to work,” she replied. “I don't make these decisions.”

The mysterious “lord” again
, Worf thought. “Then I will stay with him and take my meals here as well.”

“No, you have to stay under guard. I just got that order. Everyone's at dinner—and that's where I'm headed. You go with me or he goes back to work.”

Worf's voice dripped with disdain. “You have no honor.”

“I think we've covered that.” She walked out of the pen. “Come on.”

Seeing Kahless snoring—and that he was in no danger—Worf reluctantly followed.

Daylight and darkness were tough to tell apart on Thane, but it appeared to Worf that activity was winding down. Between the humidity and the animal stench, finding shelter was appealing. He followed Valandris into a large mess tent packed with diners. As earlier, Worf drew attention during his time in line at the server's station.

“Welcome, Worf. Did the Fallen Lord call you here?” the middle-aged woman asked as she scooped him a bowlful of something squirming.

“No.”

“It's a time of wonder. Great things are finally happening.” She smiled. “Enjoy your
gafgeg
.”

Worf was sitting against a post, trying to stomach the first handful, when Valandris plopped down next to him with her dish. He watched her eagerly devouring her meal. “I see you prefer food prepared in the Klingon way,” he said.

“You can't banish a taste for live food. Problem is we only have a few things that can be served alive. Most everything else on Thane will take a bite out of
you
if you let it.”

That sounded about right to him. But something was still nagging him. “That server. How did she know me?”

Valandris set her empty bowl on the ground beside her and gestured to the other diners. “Discommendated Klingons have found their way here from time to time—joining the community. Zokar is one—I think you've seen him.”

“How would they learn of you, when no one else knew?”

“I don't know that. It has bolstered our numbers at times—and certainly assisted the gene pool.” Seeing he was finished, she stood. He did the same. “But it has also caused problems,” she continued. “My mother was one such arrival. My cousin Tharas—you've met him—is considered fifth generation, which I am through my father's line. But because of my mother, I am considered to be part of the first generation of the condemned.”

Following her out of the tent, Worf had to admit he had never thought about such a predicament. “I would have assumed the shame traveled through the father's lineage.”

“Your rules are annoyingly unspecific. Or at least that's the way the elders here interpreted things. On Thane, one's sentence is determined by whatever the most recent discommendation was, anywhere in your ancestry.” She shook her head in aggravation. “So thanks to my dear mother being discommendated for poisoning her abusive employer on Qo'noS, my descendants earn four more generations of shame.” She put her hands on her hips. “Tell me, would
you
have children then?”

Worf understood. He had been reluctant to give his name to Alexander during his period of discommendation.

“There have always been opposing strains in our society,” Valandris said, walking through the shadows of the village. “Some started families quickly, hoping to rush through the
sentence. And there are those who detest the idea of creating a child who is condemned from birth.”

Light flickered up ahead: one of the bonfires. She stopped and stared at it. He stepped to her side.

Staring into the firelight, she asked, “How old were you when you were discommendated?”

“I was an adult—already a member of Starfleet.”

“Imagine being a child and having your elders bury you beneath guilt and self-hatred.” She continued to face the light. “The flame of your honor—it did not go out?”

“The fire burned,” Worf said. “My father was unjustly accused.”

“Our fire was never lit. We were unbeings. The elders thought that eliminating pride was the only way the community could atone for whatever-it-was. If not for hunting, we all would have gone mad.”

Worf knew what she meant. “Klingons cannot exist without honor.”

“Not as Klingons.” She turned to face him, the fire lighting her face. “But now things are different. We have our names—and we have our mission. We have something of which to be proud.”

“Valandris,” he said evenly, “if your mission is to kill defenseless people and abuse honorable warriors like Kahless, then you still have nothing to be proud of.”

Her expression soured. Abruptly, she started walking. “Come on.”

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the kennel. If you like him so much, you can sleep with him tonight.” She looked back and added tartly, “But at least you'll both have your honor to keep you company.”

Forty-six

F
EDERATION
C
ONSULATE

Q
O
'
NO
S

“A
stounding,” Martok said, studying the information on a padd. Korgh had brought two of the devices to the ambassadorial office, each containing what he said was highly classified material from the House of Kruge. Riker was behind the desk, poring over the other with Alexander—while Picard, still on screen, watched in mute curiosity.

“An entire secret flight of
B'rel
-class ships?” The chancellor glared at Korgh. “How did you not know of this before?”

Seated in a chair against the wall across from the others, Korgh sighed and looked down at the floor. The old man's bluster was gone; he spoke as one humbled. Riker couldn't believe it was the same person who'd been ripping into the Federation earlier.

“I don't think
anyone
knew of these ships,” Korgh finally said. “The family kept Kruge's old office here in the city like a shrine. I had only entered it once in all my years as
gin'tak
—that was the day I found the hologram of my adoption ceremony.” He looked up. “Tonight, I had logged into his terminal, hoping to find in his writings wisdom that would help me in my new role. I was not expecting to find
this
.”

“Project Phantom Wing,”
Riker read. The padd contained schematics and production plans Korgh said he'd downloaded from Kruge's computer. “Looks like a dozen birds-of-prey. Can that be possible?”

“The House of Kruge has manufactured countless ships for the Defense Force,” Martok said. “If this were an experimental production run, he might very well have built it in secret.” He looked over at Korgh. “But why did no one learn of it after his death?”

“Kruge cultivated a group of engineers for his operations,” Korgh said. “They were known as the Twenty
.
Fiercely loyal to him in life; perhaps that continued after he fell. I believe they are all dead.”

“Then they took these secrets to Sto-Vo-Kor,” the chancellor said.

Light-years away aboard
Enterprise
, Picard spoke up.
“Someone must have known of it, because Mount Qel'pec holds no ships. Lord Korgh, is it possible the officers who rose up against the Kruge family knew about this Phantom Wing and went to Gamaral a century ago in search of them?”

Korgh regarded the image of the captain politely. “Picard, I am almost
sure
that is what happened.”

Riker and Alexander both looked to Martok. All were stunned. “That's pretty definitive,” the admiral said.

“It has burned a hole in my gut since I discovered the ships' existence, hours ago,” Korgh said. “Commander Kruge would surely have appointed someone close to him to manage their construction. He never would have trusted the other nobles, that is certain.”

“Could it be the same person who led the defeated forces at Gamaral? Do you remember his name?”

“Ah.” Korgh ran his fingers through his beard. “I met him, while I was studying under Kruge. His name was General Potok.”

Korgh spelled the name—and at the desk, Alexander quickly entered it into his interface. He received a low beep in response. “Chancellor, there is nothing in public Imperial records about a General Potok.”

“There wouldn't be,” Korgh said, appearing to recall something distasteful. “He was a reckless, imperious popinjay—I do not know why he had Kruge's ear. He treated me as if I were a child, beneath contempt. His rebellion never surprised me—and his capture on Gamaral did not disappoint me.”

He paused thoughtfully. “Apparently, Potok must have been
more intrepid than I gave him credit for. It was he who developed the Phantom Wing for Kruge. When he failed to retrieve the ships in time to prevent his loss at Gamaral, he accepted discommendation—”

“And then he returned sometime in the last century to reclaim the ships and destroy the hangar,” Riker added.

“And a hundred years after one battle, he returned with the Phantom Wing to execute those who had caused his shame.” Korgh's fists clenched. “Damn that Potok. He should have been expunged long ago.”

Martok was equally enraged. “He violated the spirit and meaning of discommendation if he returned for the Phantom Wing.”

Riker nodded. “And if he were using it now for revenge?”

“Unforgivable.”

“Just a moment,”
Picard said.
“Could even a dozen of these ships be capable of striking
Enterprise
and escaping? They are hardly new.”

Korgh dismissed the concern. “Kruge's
B'rel
-class vessels were years ahead of their time and are still used in the basic design of ships constructed on Ketorix today. If any of the Twenty joined his cause, they would have gone with him into exile. They could have continued making upgrades.”

Riker nodded. “There's also what the Hunters told the ­captain—that a group of Klingons might have stolen their transporter technology. They would've had a lot of years to plan.” He noticed Picard wasn't looking directly at them. “What is it, Captain?”

Picard looked back in their direction.
“I was just checking
Enterprise
's records. Apparently the Federation had an encounter with this general around that time.”
He looked up, astonished.
“There is a report filed by Spock.”

Riker's eyes bugged. “
Ambassador
Spock?”

“None other.”

“Really,” Korgh said, smiling mildly. “Perhaps that infor
mation will help you find Potok. I want the emperor returned as much as you do. And if my discovery helps avenge the members of my house, I am happy to have been of service.” He made his respects to the chancellor and departed.

Martok got up to leave as well. “This is bad business,” he said darkly as he looked at the padd. “Discommendated seeking revenge. This idea must be put down, before . . .”

Before what?
Riker had wanted to ask. But the chancellor was already gone. Instead, the admiral looked to Picard. “That certainly took the fire out of Korgh,” he said. “He was ready to burn us at the stake earlier.”

“He's a politician now—and we already knew he was a good actor. But what an amazing thing to discover.”

“Agreed. I'm not sure
what
to think.”

“I think I have a hundred-year-old report to find. At least we know Starfleet saves things.”

U
NSUNG
C
OMPOUND

T
HANE

Returning to the pen, Worf found only a bone where the meat they had thrown to Kahless had been—and a muddy trail leading inside the kennel. There, amid the yipping of creatures locked in their cages, he found Kahless. Someone had detached the emperor's long chain from the stake outside and had secured it to one of the sturdier wooden beams in the rafters. At the chain's end, Kahless lay in a corner of a stall, snoozing in the muck.

Worf looked up at the beam. He doubted it would stand up against a concerted effort—and he knew that while Valandris had posted a pair of guards outside, they would not be able to cover all four sides of the kennel. He started to pull at the chain.

The movement roused Kahless. He let out a low moan and opened his eyes.

“We are getting out of here,” Worf said.

“I . . . cannot go anywhere,” the emperor said. “I am . . . a poor copy, Worf. The original Kahless . . . said to choose death over chains.” He let out a tired sigh and winced in pain. “I should . . .
have fought
. . .”

Worf ceased his pulling. “Are you injured?”

“Only my pride,” Kahless said, summoning the strength to roll onto his side. He winced. “Apparently . . . I have pride in every bone of my body, for they all hurt.”

“It is inexcusable that they should put you here—or treat you so.”

“Perhaps it is a lesson in humility,” Kahless said, coughing as he tried to sit up. “You can learn from labor. I have learned that the next time I am invited to a ceremony, I should stay home.”

Worf quickly stepped out to fetch more water. The guards, a dozen meters away outside the pen, watched him with mild interest.

He returned to find Kahless sitting upright, attempting in vain to salve the wounds on his wrists and neck. “Worf, who are these people?”

Sitting on the ground beside the emperor, Worf quickly explained who the Unsung were. Kahless squinted at him, barely comprehending. It was not that Worf did not explain it clearly. It was, for the personification of Klingon tradition, simply beyond his understanding.

“Madness,” Kahless said when Worf had finished. “The discommendated do not commune together. They slink off and hide, like the wretched wraiths they are.”

Worf looked off into the darkness. “Not all hide.”

“You can't take offense, Worf. I know your story—you won back your name. It is as if it never happened to you.”

“If that were truly the case,” Worf said, “then we could not be talking about it now.
I
remember what happened.” He would never forget.

He decided to change the subject to their predicament, explaining where they were.

“The Klach D'Kel Brakt,” Kahless repeated. “We will find no help here.”

“I think they give me freedom because they know I cannot do anything with it. The only communications equipment here was aboard the bird-of-prey, and it is back across hostile territory.”

“Guards?”

“And wildlife. Still, I am willing to risk it—but I would not leave you here.”

“I am not going anywhere soon,” Kahless said. “I was told that by the old man.”

“Old man?” Worf remembered that Valandris's people had beamed Kahless ahead to the village. “This is their leader?”

“He talked like it. I've never seen him before.” Kahless's words grew cold. “A scarred face, and by more than time. It was he who ordered me cast into the pit—and his foils here followed without question.”

“The Fallen Lord?”

“I heard him called that, yes. He was as old a Klingon as I have ever seen—but he was not weak. No, not at all.” He gripped Worf's arm with urgency. “And those eyes, Worf—they held
madness
.”

Kahless's energy left him again, and Worf helped the emperor to lie down once more. “I know who it is. It must be General Potok.”

Kahless opened his eyes. “Potok?”

“He was the general opposing the Kruge family at Gamaral a century ago. He settled his people here.”

The emperor nodded. “If he led the Unsung, that would explain why they killed the nobles.” He paused. “But not why they took me—and you.”

Worf decided not to get into why he thought Valandris had taken him. Kahless, however, he was clearer about. “They dis
dain the empire and all its works. You were taken as vengeance, I'm sure.”

“We know what they say about revenge,” Kahless said. “Then we have our answer—for what good it does.”

Worf sat for a moment, reflecting on his conversations with Valandris. Something didn't fit.

“What is it?” Kahless asked.

“Valandris. She spoke as if she hated the founders of this colony as much as she hated the empire. Wouldn't she hate Potok too?”

His words hung in the heavy air for long moments, the only response coming from the animals in the kennel.

And then Worf heard another sound. A moan. A Klingon moan, not from Kahless.

The
Enterprise
's first officer stood and worked his way through the kennel, on his guard against the animals snapping at him from their compartments. Finally, at the darkest corner of the structure, he found the source of the moans in a filthy stall. An ancient Klingon hung limply, his hands chained to a beam above.

His long beard, once white, was encrusted with mud and crumbs. His only clothes, his pants, were little more than ragged strips. When Worf touched the old man's arm, he moved only barely, shaking on the restraints. As he swayed, Worf noticed characters painted on his bloated belly, just visible in the low light. They formed words:

I
AM
F
AILURE

I
AM
S
HAME

I
AM
P
OTOK