Hell's Heart (4 page)

Five

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

O
RBITING
N
ARENDRA
III
,
K
LINGON
E
MPIRE

G
aldor's reluctance to disturb Kahless had continued even after he'd boarded
Enterprise
, and Picard thought it just as well. The emperor at that point was still asleep in his quarters, having overdone it at every meal since his arrival. Not that he went anywhere when he was awake. Kahless had kept to his private dining room, insistent upon hearing every tale of adventure Worf could tell.

That suited Galdor too. Regardless of the sequence in which
Enterprise
was to pick up the members of the House of Kruge, the
gin'tak
thought it vital that the emperor not greet any one before another. Instead, Galdor had suggested waiting to introduce Kahless until the commemorative ceremony on Gamaral, where he could meet everyone at once.

“Ah, Picard,” Galdor said on seeing the captain step from a turbolift. “Do you have the specifications of the celebration site?”

“Just arrived.” Picard handed Galdor a padd. “The Federation Diplomatic Corps has brought in event specialists to craft a venue to meet your needs.”

“So I see,” Galdor said, eyes scanning the schematics. He pointed to the padd. “Would this spot here be the Circle of Triumph?”

“Correct. No one noble's position ahead of any other, with individual entryways to the dais so no one walks in first or last.”

“Outstanding.” Galdor gave Picard a jolting pat on the back, which the captain accepted with patient acquiescence. The two began walking to the transporter room. “You must think it peculiar, Captain. Grown Klingons—would-be ­
rulers
—­envying their neighbors' nests like jealous prickle mice!”

“Not at all. One of our Earth legends speaks of a Round Table, designed such that no one's valorous deeds be held in higher esteem than any other's.”

“Hmph. I think you've seen by now that description doesn't fit here,” Galdor said, reaching the door. He straightened. “Well, time for battle again. Prepare yourself.”

The doors opened, and the Klingon and the captain stepped inside. The
gin'tak
and Picard had replayed the scene again and again in the past day and a half—and as usual, Chen waited inside, next to the transporter engineer.

A figure began to materialize on the transporter pad. “Who is this one?” Picard whispered to Chen.

“Kiv'ota, veteran of Gamaral.”

“Oh, yes.” Picard understood Kiv'ota to have been one of Kruge's contemporaries. And the Klingon that appeared now before him certainly appeared the right age. The white-haired male's ensemble, far richer than Galdor's, included a maroon stole bearing the golden crest of the house. Kruge had worn such a sash in the past, but Picard had seen it much more recently: every single noble who'd boarded
Enterprise
in the last thirty-six hours wore an identical garment. It was a reminder that, ceasefire or not, all still claimed Kruge's mantle.

Kiv'ota was older than anyone who had yet arrived; he made Galdor look nearly boyish by comparison. And at the moment, he appeared to be . . .

. . . asleep. While standing up.

Galdor spoke before Picard grew too uncomfortable. “My lord.”

The noble snorted, and his eyes opened a fraction. A voice that sounded like rocks scraping together asked, “Am I here?”

“You are, Lord Kiv'ota.”

Picard cleared his throat. “Welcome to
Enterprise
, sir.”

Kiv'ota's eyes opened wide, and he stared directly at Picard. Strata of sagging skin shifted into a frown, and he spoke with
indignation. “I will not set foot on this ship,
Gin'tak
.
Enterprise
killed my noble cousin Kruge.”

Picard looked to Galdor, who merely clasped his hands together patiently and responded, “This is not that
Enterprise,
Lord Kiv'ota. That ship was destroyed.”

Kiv'ota appeared puzzled. His gaze went from Galdor to Picard to the deck while he sorted it out. “This vessel . . . is its namesake?” He stood firm on the transporter pad and crossed his arms. “No. I will not set foot on this ship.”

“Just so.” Galdor turned abruptly to face the captain. “This is intolerable, Picard. You heard him.”

Picard straightened, surprised. “I don't know what I can—”

“I do. For the duration of this trip I will require you to deactivate the artificial gravity, such that my lord's feet will not touch this vessel's flooring.” Galdor's left eyebrow raised the tiniest fraction, which Picard now interpreted as the Klingon's equivalent of a wink.

“Ah, yes, certainly,” the captain said. “We will of course do as your lordship commands.”

Galdor turned back to the older male. “Picard will deactivate the gravity, Kiv'ota. I am certain your stomach can handle it.”

Kiv'ota started to say something before freezing in contemplation. Making a decision, he began shuffling off the transporter pad. “That will not be necessary.”

“Are you certain, my lord?” Galdor asked. “I would not want you to feel uncomfortable walking on such a ship.”

“Never mind,
Gin'tak
,” Kiv'ota said with some aggravation. He eyed the deck nervously. “I will take large steps.”

Picard nodded to Chen. She stepped forward. “I can show you to your accommodations, my lord.”

Kiv'ota, seemingly seeing her for the first time, brightened. His crevice of a mouth resolved into a smile, and he crooked his arm invitingly. Chen saw it and looked back to the captain in
bewilderment. Picard felt her discomfort, but before he could say anything, Kiv'ota was at Chen's side, leaning on her for support. “Show me the way,” he said.

Chen walked the old Klingon to the exit, glancing back to Picard long enough to see his apologetic expression. The second the doors closed behind them, Galdor chuckled. “
Now
he moves.”

The doors suddenly reopened, and Galdor's expression instantly returned to servility. “Yes, my lord?”

“A thought,” Kiv'ota said, still on Chen's arm. “See if the captain will rename the ship.”

Picard looked at Galdor and took a breath. “Discussions are already under way, my lord.”

“Excellent.” The doors shut again.

Galdor smiled toothily at Picard. “You're getting the picture.”

•   •   •

Picard
had
gotten the picture—and continued to, over the following hours, as
Enterprise
gathered attendees during its whirlwind tour of a dozen planets administered by the House of Kruge.

Kiv'ota, at a hundred fifty-one, had been one of Kruge's elder cousins and was the second oldest claiming his legacy. But the other ancient veterans of the Battle of Gamaral had all tested
Enterprise
's hospitality in one way or another, as had the younger heirs representing those who'd died. Riker's earlier description of Kahless as a “handful” sounded almost comical to Picard now, because every one of the house's nobles had presented unique problems.

There was M'gol, who was a ne'er-do-well scion of one branch of the family and easily one of the youngest people invited. Already drunk upon boarding, M'gol had demanded his own floor of
Enterprise
, located physically higher on the vessel than any of the ones his fellow nobles were staying on.
Galdor had convinced him it was more prestigious to be as far
forward
as possible—and the presence of the Riding Club had convinced him to settle for a suite.

Also among the younger generation was the big bruiser A'chav, who Picard thought set the record for the largest number of insults ever hurled in a diplomatic greeting. He appeared to be indifferent not only to the alliance with the Federation but also to the ceasefire in his own house; he had barely left the transporter room when he saw one of the other attendees and started a fight. After Chen and the security escorts intervened, Galdor convinced the brawler that after the ceremony, the Federation would be ceding Gamaral not just to the Klingon Empire and the House of Kruge, but to A'chav personally. “Let him think so,” Galdor told Picard after A'chav had peaceably retired. “He has been struck in the head so many times he will not remember it two days hence.”

A different problem was the decrepit J'borr, even older than Kiv'ota. He was so feeble Picard had thought to send him straight to sickbay on his arrival—but the xenophobic J'borr refused to convalesce in a Starfleet setting. Once again, Galdor had a response right at hand: a program for a facsimile Klingon medical center, which Beverly Crusher then opened in holodeck two. J'borr went without complaint; Picard did not expect to see him emerge until they reached the ceremony.

Not all the Klingon nobles were eccentric or even particularly interesting. Picard detected among some an odd boredom paired with irritability at being made to travel to a party in their honor. But Galdor was always there, ably navigating the waters of entitlement and solving their problems without evident strain.

Picard had to admit he was impressed. He had met courtiers of many leaders before and read about many more from history. Most, regardless of their planetary origin and cultural back
grounds, seemed to strive for what the sixteenth-century Earth writer Baldassare Castiglione called
sprezzatura
: a nonchalant perfection. The most valued aides were the ones who could work whatever magic their superiors required—while not making their exceptional competence seem threatening in the least.

The captain had not really considered what a Klingon courtier would be like. Klingons were more direct than Romulans: conflicting ambitions were generally resolved by violence, and quickly. Power games didn't last long. But the House of Kruge's ceasefire arrangement
did
need to last, and in Galdor, the House of Kruge had found a steward who could manage the impulses of more than a dozen would-be leaders at once, nimbly playing off the insecurities and idiosyncrasies of each. He had preserved the peace—and kept the family moving forward.

Picard decided to say something about it as Galdor, having finally gotten his guests situated, sat at last at the table in the Riding Club. “
Gin'tak
, would you permit a compliment?”

“Always.” Galdor accepted a mug from the server and quaffed healthily.

“As a ship captain, I admire your ability to . . . to
manage
so many.”

“Ah.” The Klingon set the mug down. “It is nothing new, Picard. The house was adrift when I found it—and in my time I have helped it survive dotards, spendthrifts, and debauches. Would-be conquerors that would have started civil wars, just to avenge a slight. I even had a lunatic who wanted to blow apart our most productive asteroids, certain he would find Sto-Vo-Kor inside. But the house endured—and became something that I am honored to be associated with.” He drank again and slammed the mug on the table. “Build the fortress strong, and it will outlast its enemies—
both inside and out
.”

“Sound reasoning. Though I admit I'm surprised to hear you speak so candidly.”

“What I say to others is unimportant,” Galdor said. “The nobles care about what I say to
them
. And I tell them they are
right, all the time.” A sly smile formed, and he spoke in lower tones. “And when I am right, I make sure it is their idea.”

Picard didn't know whether it was proper to laugh at that or not. Thankfully, Galdor provided the cue by bursting into laughter himself.

Six

“Y
ou there!”

Commander Worf spun in the hallway, unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner on
Enterprise
. The words were spoken in Klingon, which explained their tone right away—but nonetheless he greeted the speaker with an angry stare. “I am Worf, son of Mogh—and first officer on this vessel. I am not ‘you there.' ”

“Pah!” The bangle-wearing Klingon woman returned his glare. A hundred twenty and trying to look ninety, she jabbed her finger in the direction of Worf's nose and stepped defiantly toward him. “First officer, my ear! The Federation would give a title to a trained grint hound. No—a hound would answer his master without complaint!”

Worf restrained his ire. “What do you want?”

“I'm looking for my husband, Lord Udakh.”

“As was I.”
Regrettably
, Worf did not say. “Computer, locate Klingon guest Udakh.”

“Lord Udakh is in holodeck three.”

Lady Udakh gave a derisive snort. “Your computer should call him the
honorable
lord. Have it fixed, right away.”

Worf said nothing, knowing that, fortunately, the holodeck was just ahead. Still more fortuitously, the lord was fully dressed when the doors opened—though the same could not be said for some of the holographic Klingon and Orion dancers surrounding the honorable lord's throne.

“Damned Federation device,” growled the fat old man. One-armed and somewhat older than his wife, Lord Udakh was hairless but for tufts at his ears and chin, dyed a ridiculous black. Caught in his den of debauchery, he shook his fist at Worf. “I asked for privacy!”

“You did not,” Worf said. “The system did not indicate it.”

“Your system lies!”

“
You
lie!” shouted Lady Udakh, entering through the archway behind Worf. She beheld the holographic dancers, now modestly cowering behind her husband's gilded chair. “You told me you weren't going to use this accursed room. Computer, end program!”

The entertainers vanished, as did the garish furnishings—including the throne, causing Lord Udakh to land on his considerable rump. Worf stepped quickly forward to help the old noble up. “It was a mistake,” the old man said. “I had come to pay my respects to my cousin J'borr.”

“Lord J'borr is in holodeck two,” Worf said.

“And Udakh despises him,” his wife said. She looked daggers at her husband. “Tell the officer how you tried to have one of these rooms built at home, before I stopped you!”

Udakh grumbled as he brushed himself off. “I am not your prisoner. I am the sole heir to Commander Kruge—”

“Just like all the other ‘sole heirs.' And if you give yourself a heart attack, what happens to me?” Lady Udakh shook her finger at him. “I'm going to keep you alive, old man, whether you want me to or not!”

Worf wasn't surprised by the exchange. It was not traditional for Klingon females to inherit the running of great houses; Azetbur, who famously became chancellor in Kirk's time, had been an important exception. Udakh had only unwed daughters, Worf had learned; whatever sliver of claim his line had to the House of Kruge rested on Udakh staying alive.

While Udakh and his mate argued about the future, it was the old man's past that had prompted Worf to seek him out. The commander had wearied of playing Kahless's dinner companion, but the emperor had shown little interest in venturing out, even to exercise. The clone had always considered combat workouts, holodeck-assisted or otherwise, a sad substitute for action, and that had not changed.

As
Enterprise
left Klingon space to head toward Gamaral,
Kahless had reluctantly admitted he needed to know something about the events he was to commemorate. The problem, Worf found, was that while the records supplied by the Empire spoke much about the historic
may'qochvan
that followed the battle of Gamaral, other details were few.

He didn't expect to find much about the military officers who'd led the uprising, of course; their disloyalty had been deemed so shameful at the time that the names of the conspirators had been blotted from the official histories. Meanwhile, the Kruge family nobles present at the battle were mentioned frequently and prominently.

And yet, somehow amid all the plaudits, the accounts managed to say very little about what the nobles actually did. There was no order-of-battle, no discussion of specific engagements or wounds inflicted or suffered.

Reluctantly, Worf realized there was only one way to learn more—and he steeled himself for it. Seeing the Udakhs in verbal melee, he forced himself to step between them. “I have been talking to the others, Lord Udakh, about the great battle—”

“Why? They can't tell you much,” Udakh said. The squat Klingon adjusted his robe. “The heroics were all mine.”

“I see.” Worf glanced at Udakh's missing arm. “A battle wound from Gamaral?”

His wife laughed. “That was lost when I caught him with a serving woman.” It was on a tropical vacation far from medical attention, she elaborated; the wound from the skewer grew gangrenous. “I would have been within my rights to quarter him.”

Udakh's irritation rose. “Enough!” He started hobbling from the chamber, pushing past his wife.

Worf followed him outside, hoping to hear more about the battle. “The House of Kruge brought five
K'tinga
-class battle cruisers to Gamaral,” he said. “You were aboard one?”

“Of course. Ours forced their lead general's vessel to the surface. The miserable traitors! A glorious fight. One for the ages!”

“You fought hand-to-hand, then?”

“I led those who did. My role was very important, very important.” Udakh stopped in the hallway and looked up at Worf. “It was a magnificent battle—everyone knows about it. Surely you've heard the tales before?”

“No.”

“And you call yourself a Klingon.” Looking back, Udakh saw his wife approaching—which caused the old man to quicken his pace. “Look, I don't have time for stories, Commander. You'll hear all you want at the celebration, I'm sure.”

“I am sure,” Worf said. He stepped to the side to allow Lady Udakh to follow her husband down the hall. By the time the bickering started again, Worf was walking in the opposite direction, thrusters on full.

•   •   •

Worf had never been fond of senior staff meetings, but the one Picard called together in the final hours before their arrival at Gamaral had been a gift. It had meant he'd only had time for eight more frustrating visits with other nobles. He didn't think he had the patience for nine.

Family historian was one of Galdor's roles, and Worf had expected that the
gin'tak
might be able to tell him more about the battle than people who were actually there. But the first officer had only caught glances of Galdor in passing. The
gin'tak
had been in constant motion since boarding
Enterprise
, too busy to talk. The commander fully understood. He'd only had to deal with the Krugeites for a day. Galdor was their keeper for life.

The
gin'tak
had definitely made an impression on Picard, who was in communication with Admiral Riker when the meeting convened.

“Are the personalities manageable?”
the admiral asked.

“It really hasn't been a problem. They have quite the wrangler in Galdor.” Picard grinned and shook his head. “Now, there's a man who would make short work of the worst diplomatic summit.”

“Great. He can have my job.”
Riker explained his latest dilemma: he had delivered Alexander Rozhenko to Qo'noS, just in time to find that the Kinshaya had disinvited themselves from the H'atorian Conference.
“Martok swears he didn't do anything to provoke them—though it doesn't take much. The Kinshaya are claiming offense that we'd schedule a summit during a religious holiday.”

Geordi La Forge chuckled. “Every day's some kind of holiday with the Kinshaya.”

Chen piped up, “If I may, Admiral—Commander La Forge is right. The Kinshaya may be in their Oraculade. Every thirty-first celestial year they spend deep in prayer, imploring their gods to return.”

“A year,”
Riker said.
“Great. Are they allowed to do anything else?”

“Oh, sure,” Chen said. “But I wouldn't put it past them to use it as an excuse to beg off the negotiations.”

“Unfortunately, none of this works without them—or the cooperation of the House of Kruge. But sounds like you and Galdor have that part well in hand.”
On the screen, someone handed Riker a padd, which he quickly scanned.
“And speaking of the
gin'tak
—I just got a message. The Klingon High Council has dispatched Galdor's oldest son, General Lorath, to arrive after the ceremony with a cruiser to ferry the nobles back home.”

Worf watched Picard. The captain appeared to be breathing a sigh of relief. He was certain Picard didn't mind playing host on the way to Gamaral in the name of diplomacy, but Worf knew that Picard had dropped an ever-so-subtle hint to Galdor that
Enterprise
had a mission to get back to. Evidently Galdor had caught the hint and worked something out.

One by one, the attendees around the table provided reports on the preparations for the busy day to come. Aneta Šmrhová, chief of security, had the floor the longest. Security of the celebration site would shift from the Federation's advance team to
Enterprise
as soon as it reached Gamaral; she had already
conferred with her opposite numbers with both the Diplomatic Corps and the event management specialists on the scene. Gamaral had few permanent inhabitants, most of its territory having been protected by the Federation as a nature preserve. The entire population had been screened and would be kept away from the memorial site.

“A network of surveillance probes has been deployed throughout the system at our request,” La Forge added. “That should give us plenty of warning if anyone drops by who's not invited.”

“Sounds good,”
Riker said.
“And protection against cloaked vessels?”

“I have a team working on a plan for that,” Å mrhová said.

“Excellent. That sounds good, everyone.”
Riker paused.
“Only I haven't heard from everyone. Commander Worf? How's the emperor?”

“He is well.”

“Well?”

Worf inhaled, unsure of how much to say about what he thought about Kahless. He
was
concerned about how the clone had changed since his self-imposed exile, but he decided it would not honor the emperor to air his thoughts in this setting. And, besides, he had something else troubling him that he
could
speak of.

“Kahless asked me about the Battle of Gamaral, wondering what it was he was expected to commemorate. I admitted I had heard of it, but that I needed to speak to some of those who were there.” He frowned. “This I have done.”

“And?” Picard asked.

Worf recalled that Riker was on Qo'noS. “I do not wish to dishonor our guests—”

“This is a secure connection,
Worf. Speak freely.”

“I had heard whispers, but never believed it could be true—especially not given Kruge's reputation,” Worf said. “This is the most decadent, indolent house in the Empire—and I cannot
believe there is enough courage among any of these so-called nobles to swat a glob fly.”

Worf's words hung in the air for a moment, and he sat uncomfortably as they did. Then the room broke into laughter. Including, remotely, Riker, who was the first to speak:
“That's ‘freely,' all right!”

The first officer, embarrassed by the response, shook his head. “It gives me no joy to say this. This was one of the great houses—but I knew it only by reputation. These people are not simply difficult to deal with. They have no honor—and the younger generations appear no better. And no two stories about Gamaral are remotely the same. All that is agreed upon is that the disloyal general and his adherents were overwhelmed by superior force—with the survivors taken back to Qo'noS for trial. But I can find no one who fired a torpedo, who held a blade.” He paused, the words weighing on him. “They all say they fought, or that their forebears did. I am simply not sure any of them ever knew how.”

“They aren't what one would expect from Klingons,” Picard admitted. “And yet the house seems to be thriving, based on what I saw at Ketorix. Is it because of Galdor?”

“I would say it is
entirely
Galdor,” Chen said. “I don't think any of the nobles have any responsibilities whatsoever. He keeps them on their estates, living apart and feeling in charge, and while they're out of his hair, the house prospers.”

Riker appeared to take it all in.
“Well, this is useful,”
he finally said.
“Maybe that's why Galdor and Martok thought our putting on a show would earn us the house's appreciation. We advance the family legend for them.”

Worf was certain that was true. But he was less certain of something else. “What should I do now?”

Picard looked across the table at him. “What do you mean?”

“Kahless asked me to give him a historic account of the battle. Let us say that the nobles were present only as witnesses. The fighting, if any, they might have left to mercenaries.” His
eyes widened. “I think that is entirely possible. What, then, do I tell Kahless? He would sooner honor . . . I should not say.”

Worf felt he had said too much as it was. But Picard appeared to realize the gravity of what he was talking about. He looked with alarm at Riker. The admiral rubbed his left temple.
“We need this to go well, Worf. All this work . . .”