Hell's Heart (5 page)

Worf stared at the table. “I know.”

“I do too,”
Riker said after a pause. He shrugged.
“Well, there's nothing else to be done. You have to tell him the truth. Let the chips fall where they may. I know who'll have to pick them up.”

Seven

V
ALANDRIS
'
S
E
XPEDITION

O
UTER
E
DGE OF THE
G
AMARAL
S
YSTEM

T
he three space tugs were mighty vehicles, far larger than anything Valandris had seen during her secret sojourn in Federation space. Each ungainly vessel hauled a rectangular container four hundred meters long and three hundred meters across. According to the manifest obtained from Leotis, each cargo unit contained enormous stone blocks and columns crafted by the finest artisans. Giant puzzle pieces, they would be beamed to their proper locations on the surface, where they would form a colonnade arcing around a stone plaza.

It made sense, Valandris thought; no one was going to dig a quarry on Gamaral for a single day's fete. But it was hard to celebrate the cleverness of people engaged in such a misguided effort. No matter: she would have something to say about that soon enough.

Sadly, the Orion crime lord hadn't lasted ten seconds in battle with her. But Leotis's information had been accurate in all respects, including when the tugs would arrive at Gamaral. Valandris's ships had waited under cloak in the outer reaches of the system, poised like so many
hensyl
waiting for the vessels to emerge from warp. They moved swiftly once the mammoth haulers arrived. The tugs were within firing range in seconds—but that was not what she was here to do.

“Close in.” Valandris still wore her face-obscuring environment suit; they all did. There would be no time to suit up later. “We're in the corridor. Stay on your approach vector.”

The vocabulary of the starship still sounded odd in her mouth. Valandris had been born to hunt things on land, not
ships in space. But she, and her people, had taken to it quickly. Stalking was stalking: a starship was just another weapon. There was no weapon she could not learn to use.

Still, it was a tricky thing, navigating in close to the tugs when three of her cloaked companion vessels were doing the same. But each of their captains had an assigned trajectory, and they had trained for this moment incessantly over the past several months.

“Closing on the cargo module,” Raneer said. “Contact in four, three, two . . .” A soft clang resounded through the ship's innards. “Footpads down.”

“Deploy magnetic field.” Valandris rocked forward in her seat—and fell back into it as their starship came to a halt.

“We're level and locked,” Tharas said from the seat beside hers. “Riding pretty—like a mote fly landing on a
jinarkh
.”

Maybe,
Valandris thought,
but we're a 200,000-tonne insect.
And one of four—as the other three cloaked ships would have performed the same action on the other exposed sides of the shipping container. The two other haulers were also now unwitting hosts to four riders apiece. “Listening station—has the beast stirred?”

“The tug crew is talking about us,” replied a voice from behind her. “Sort of. They think their cargo shifted on exiting warp.”

“They don't notice they're carrying riders?” Raneer asked.

“Our effect on their deceleration is being attributed to local conditions. It helped that all our ships landed at the same instant. Our cloaks are working.”

They certainly seemed to be. Valandris could see the other two tugs through the viewport ahead of her. They, too, each bore invisible riders on their cargo compartments. She couldn't detect anything there at all.

But someone else would be looking with better eyes than hers. Contacts were already appearing on her monitor: small probes, scattered through the planetary system and covering
the approach to Gamaral. And when the tug rolled, her scopes caught a glimpse of one of their objectives.

She quickly put it on the main viewer, with magnification. “It's here,” Raneer whispered. “
Enterprise
.”

“Stay alert. We may have to move.”

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

O
RBITING
G
AMARAL

Enterprise
had been at Gamaral for an hour, which was more than enough time for La Forge to get a handle on operations in the system. The Federation's advance team had done a good job, he saw from the engineering station on the bridge; the probes were in place monitoring the approaches to the planet.

With the captain and Worf attending to other business, La Forge had yielded the center seat to Lieutenant Commander Havers; the engineering interface had larger displays, better to get the full picture of what was in the system. La Forge was looking over the Gamaral system's shoulder—and for the last ten minutes, someone had been looking over his.

“You're tied in with the probes now?”
Gin'tak
Galdor asked, continuing to stand behind the engineer.

“That's right.” La Forge pointed to static points on the display before him. “We're scanning all approaches to the system with multiple sensors.”

“Excellent.” Galdor smiled. The Klingon had been an amiable shadow, at least. “You appear to be looking at everything out to the sixth planet.”

“Seventh,” La Forge said, reframing the image before him. “Nobody's going to drop in unannounced.” He looked back at Galdor. “Er—were you expecting anyone to?”

“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

N
EAR THE
C
IRCLE OF
T
RIUMPH

G
AMARAL

T
here 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 about 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.”

V
ALANDRIS
'
S
E
XPEDITION

O
RBITING
G
AMARAL

“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.