All that was left to him was his continuing search for Object Thirteen, the cloaked vessel supposedly shadowing the Phantom Wing. He knew it might only be detectable one millisecond out of every billion; it was illogical to expect it to appear now just because he was looking for—
Something changed.
It wasn’t the reading Enterprise had told him to look for. It was a different kind of energy, in a distinct subspace band. The effect had been pronounced for only a moment—but in that moment, it was noticeable.
Tuvok adjusted the sensors, trying to find the signal again. He detected nothing. But a faint echo, so to speak, came and went, darting in and out. Then it waned and disappeared.
He looked to Vale. “Captain, I may have something.”
“What is it, Tuvok?”
“Checking sensors. One moment, please.”
PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ
ABOVE H’ATORIA
Disguised as Kruge, Buxtus Cross took his place in Chu’charq’s command chair. It was not an honor that he wanted: bridges were the place where one saw everything surrounding the ship. With all the firepower in orbit around the cloaked bird-of-prey, he was almost afraid to look.
But with Valandris on the surface, the crew looked to him. Raneer was an adequate pilot but no tactician, and the others knew it. Cross was here pretending to be a famed Klingon warrior. Of course they wanted the Fallen Lord in command. “Go,” he said, and the starship banked and started its descent toward H’atoria, joined by two other Phantom Wing vessels, both cloaked.
Cross felt his stomach flip over. The risks had to be getting to him. He’d been trapped by his own choice of characters—or, rather, Korgh’s.
He wondered what Korgh was doing. By now the old operator was probably on Qo’noS, sipping bloodwine in the lounge of the Great Hall, waiting to go to the High Council floor to denounce a range of scapegoats. The Federation for harboring the Unsung. Starfleet for failing to capture them. Chancellor Martok for likewise failing to catch the cultists—and for supporting the Accords. “The terrorists have continued their vendetta against my house,” Korgh would say in a few hours. “Killing my valiant cousin Kersh and bringing death to one of our proudest historic places.” That Admiral Riker had fallen would be relegated to an afterthought; the Empire’s feckless “ally” would have deserved no better.
Yes, Cross had a pretty good idea of what Korgh would say. The Betazoid had impersonated politicians of many species before—and the old Klingon codger was definitely putting on a show for the masses. But for all his years pretending to be someone he wasn’t, Korgh was just an amateur, as was anyone outside the Circle. He could never be in Cross’s league—even if no one since Ardra had tried anything as ambitious as Korgh’s Unsung scheme.
On the other hand, Ardra, so far as Cross knew, had never done anything with such a body count. Even if he never pulled off his Kahless plan, the others of the Circle would be talking about Cross’s Kruge act for ages. He benefited from the fact that the Circle didn’t judge the morality of its practitioners’ schemes. Oh, it might once have—long before the days of Jilaan, the last to hold the title of Illusionist Magnus. The Circle’s plight had become more desperate since, its opportunities constrained by the advance of the Federation and its busybodies in Starfleet, always out to preserve its precious Prime Directive. The only time his rivals passed judgment was at their occasional convocations, and that was just to rate the quality of the feats.
Cross saw the clouds part in front of Chu’charq. A green sea opened up below. Almost imperceptibly, Shift arrived at his side in her N’Keera incarnation. “Where were you?” he asked quietly.
“I had something to take care of,” she whispered. “It’s a big day.”
That it was. The twin peaks of the Spirits’ Forge island appeared low on the horizon, pillars of steam rising wherever lava flows reached the ocean. He’d not seen the place from midair before. “Magnify.”
After Raneer complied, Cross could make out several transports on the southern island, where the beam-in zone was located—and in places he could see the new transporter suppression towers along the causeway. He wondered what other devices the defenders had brought to the areas the Unsung had not entered. Did the Klingons have antiaircraft guns?
“Five shuttles parked at the southern promontory,” Raneer said. “Three Klingon. One Breen. One Starfleet.”
“Hold here,” Cross commanded as they approached. They were still several kilometers away. “Order Kradge and Bregit to hold at the same distance.”
Hemtara looked to him from the engineer’s station. “We can get closer without detection, my lord. A cloak that can evade tachyons will not have trouble with a little fog.”
“Kradge and Bregit may advance. But we will stay here,” Cross said, his hands gripping the armrests. The fire would start soon enough. He had no desire to dash into it.
PHANTOM WING VESSEL RODAK
ORBITING H’ATORIA
Sitting in his bird-of-prey’s command chair, Zokar looked out at the vessels gathering over H’atoria and remembered the first time he had flown aboard a ship under cloak. He had been a teenaged trainee on maneuvers, and looking out from his starship, he had felt like a vengeful spirit. He had envisioned himself leading whole squadrons of ghostly attackers, stalking and defeating the Empire’s enemies.
Instead, he had been in the wrong place at the wrong time forty years earlier—and all his dreams had died. He did not lead squadrons. Rather, he began three decades of humiliation and misery, alleviated only when he emigrated to Thane and its colony of the discommendated. It was the only place that would welcome him, and he had flourished.
Now he had his invisible squadron. Kruge had appointed him to direct the Unsung forces remaining in space while the operation proceeded below. And unlike his teenaged self, Zokar had something he genuinely felt vengeful about.
There were the Klingons who had discommendated him, of course. But in Zokar’s case, unknown to most of his companions or to Kruge, there had been another party worthy of blame. He looked over at the twin-hulled Romulan warbird, hanging in orbit like a poisoned claw: D’choak, the transponder reported.
He had been ordered to protect the Unsung forces escaping from the surface from the Klingon and Starfleet forces who would surely pursue them. He had no orders about the Romulans. But what was it that Kruge had said in his broadcast declaration? “We must punish the Empire. We must punish those foolish enough to ally with it. We must punish any who seek to bargain with it.”
He ruminated over the last part. It was meant to keep anyone from coming to the Empire’s aid against the Unsung—but it was also dispensation.
The Romulans had come to H’atoria to bargain with the Empire. And it was Romulans who had killed his brother—and so many others—at Khitomer, forty years earlier. He owed them for that—and more. Oh, so much more.
Rubbing the stump of an arm long since gone, Zokar nodded to himself. If the chance came, he would deal a little extra revenge.
SPIRITS’ FORGE
H’ATORIA, KLINGON EMPIRE
Once, a precocious friend had talked the young Ethan Kyzak into reaching into a campfire. The experience had given the child a healthy respect for fire and a dislike for anyone who tried to wheedle another person into doing something dangerous.
Thus it was with trepidation that he had suggested that Lieutenant Xaatix climb into the kiln of Spirits’ Forge, on the vaguest possibility that someone lithe and heat-tolerant might be able to investigate the fortress’s ventilation problem. Kyzak crouched as close on the stone hearth as he could safely get and gave Xaatix a boost. The Ovirian’s body curled as she twisted inside the great furnace and grasped the inner wall of the chimney with her suctioning claws.
“Are you okay?” Kyzak asked, not imagining how the answer could be yes.
“This is the most irregular thing I’ve ever done. I’m a protocol officer.”
“I meant, are you all right?”
“I have a secure hold,” Xaatix said, her voice echoing. “The interior walls are metal. Quite hot. It is good that I do not breathe as you do. Or wear clothing.”
“I’d noticed, but I didn’t know if I should say anything,” Kyzak said. It was probably wrong to say it now, but he found it hard to focus on making conversation when helping someone to climb inside an inferno. He hoped against hope the Sentries wouldn’t come back inside.
Thrumming drumbeats reverberated and grew smaller. “You’re climbing?”
“I’ve found the problem,” Xaatix called down. “There is no damper mechanism. But there is something up here. Something is hanging in the chimney.”
“Hanging?” Kyzak’s nose wrinkled. “What?”
“Well, it’s a kind of a snub-nosed bulky thing, suspended by something. I’d say about two-thirds of a meter across, one meter and a third long.” A pause. “There appears to be a marking on it. Klingon.”
“What does it say?”
“I don’t know this word. Morath. Morath’s Fist.”
Kyzak’s eyes widened. “Did you say Morath’s Fist?”
“I did. What does that mean?”
“Oh gosh.” Responding to the name he remembered from his Klingon ordnance identification class, Kyzak grabbed at his sweat-soaked hair and looked up at the ceiling. “There’s a photon torpedo in the chimney!”
Twenty-five
“So close,” Riker said under his breath.
After scaling the dozens of gradually sloping steps stretching up the hill to the fortress, he had at last gotten to the open doorway. Troi was already inside with Kersh and the other guests, getting situated. It only remained for the admiral to enter with the Breen envoy and the Kinshaya, and then the two Sentries posted outside would close the massive double doors for the duration.
Then Ambassador Vart had gotten a call. Riker assumed that was what had happened; the message must have come in to the envoy via his helmet. The evidence was that Vart had stopped dead, steps from the threshold. The Kinshaya had halted behind the Breen ambassador.
Just a few more meters, Riker thought. Just so I can say we had the damn meeting!
• • •
Valandris stood at the northern end of the causeway and watched the fortress, which sat higher up the island atop a series of stairs. The dignitaries had finally reached it. The time was nigh.
The plan was simple. The doors would close behind the attendees, triggering the timer rigged to the torpedo. While the disguised Unsung outside the front and rear doors sealed the exits, Valandris would pass along a signal through the forces behind her on the land bridge. Those posted past the halfway point on the causeway would retreat to the southern cape, clear of the transporter inhibitors’ effects. The rest would join her on the Unsung’s training grounds, under the umbrella of a shield that was proof against everyone else’s transporters but theirs.
In the seven minutes it took for the timer to reach zero, all the Unsung would be back aboard the cloaked birds-of-prey hovering nearby. General Kersh and her conspirators would die so dramatically that the Klingon Empire and Federation alike would forever cower in fear of the Unsung.
It was Kruge’s plan, and naturally it was brilliant—but it would not have been her plan. It was no hunt; it was purely a trap. She was not sanguine about it, but she wasn’t making the decisions.
Then something unexpected occurred. Her keen eyes could tell that something was happening with the diplomats just outside the open doors. The Breen lingered stubbornly on the threshold, and the three Kinshaya had backed away from the doors. Riker was in the entryway, gesticulating as he tried to get the Breen to go inside.
The Breen waved away the Starfleet admiral and stepped over to speak into the lead Kinshaya’s ear.
What was going on?
• • •
Sweat streaming down his face, Kyzak finally got Commander Troi away from her guests in the meeting area. Troi followed Kyzak to the door of the forge room.
“Transport out?” she whispered. “What do you mean? The meeting’s about to start.”
Kyzak saw past her through to where Admiral Riker beckoned from the anteroom doorway, urgently trying to get Troi’s attention. Something was going on outside. “Deanna, I need you,” Riker called, before disappearing back through the exit.
“Ethan, I’ve got to go,” Troi said, turning from the Skagaran.
“No, Commander.” Kyzak grasped at her arm. It didn’t take a Betazoid to sense how alarmed he was—and his eyes said the rest.
She called out over her shoulder, “Just a minute, Admiral!” Troi stepped fully into the room with Kyzak, out of earshot of the puzzled Klingon and Romulan representatives.
“Xaatix has found something in the furnace,” he said.
“The furnace?” Troi looked at the blazing fire pit and looked around. “Where is Xaatix?”
“She’s up the chimney—with the torpedo!”
It was hard for Kyzak to tell which half of the sentence surprised Troi more.
• • •
Riker couldn’t hear what Breen Ambassador Vart was saying to Galoya—and he knew he probably wouldn’t have understood it anyway. Whatever it was, the Kinshaya understood. Galoya’s wings flared upward into a defiant vee.
“So!” the Kinshaya yelled.
The admiral didn’t know what to do with that. “So?”
“So you bring me and my comrades to an abattoir, where the Klingon devils slew and ate my brothers and sisters five years ago?”
This was new. “Envoy, Spirits’ Forge is not a—”
“Save your lies, heathen. I saw it as we approached. The chimney still smokes from the carcasses of our lost heroes!”
Riker shook his head. “It’s a forge for creating ceremonial weapons that—”
One of Galoya’s companions spoke. “I know Klingon ceremonies. They flay the flesh and devour their victims alive.”
Riker gritted his teeth into an almost-smile. “One moment, please.” He looked over his shoulder and tapped his combadge. “Riker to Troi.”
She did not respond—but someone else did, behind him. “What is it, Riker?”
His heart sank into his stomach. Kersh.
“It’s nothing,” Riker said, outstretching his hands in the doorway. He was having difficulty getting everyone to the table; he wasn’t going to let anyone else leave. “Envoy Galoya, there is no danger to you here.”
“Danger?” Kersh, now behind Riker’s back, called over his shoulder. “You waste breath, Riker, if you expect bravery from a carrion beast. The Kinshaya only attack in the wake of others, just as they did after the Borg strike.”
“I’ve heard enough,” Galoya said, turning and trotting down the stairs. Her two companions followed.
Riker glared back at Kersh. “Nice going.”
“You mean to say, Good riddance.”
Tocatra stood to Kersh’s side, grinning. “Problems, Admiral?”
Riker shook his head in disgust and walked onto the terrace outside. Vart was hastening down the steps after the Kinshaya, bound for where the captain of the guard stood mute at the end of the causeway. The admiral heard a low rumble from the south—and mere moments later, the Breen shuttle broke through the haze, heading for the fortress.
Why did they leave their engines powered up? Riker wondered.
The admiral started down the stairs and called after the Breen ambassador. Maybe they could continue if the Breen remained and represented the Kinshaya. But a stream of invective from Vart suggested that the Breen were standing with the Kinshaya—and, in fact, offering them a ride offworld.
Both topography and ceremony prevented there from being a landing pad on the northern cape, but the Breen pilot improvised. Far ahead and below, the shuttle settled awkwardly over a narrow patch of lava-free beach at the distant end of the stairs. A ramp descended from the vehicle.
“Thank you, Ambassador,” Galoya said. “You have saved us a trip to the beam-in zone.
I couldn’t take the stench here another second!”
• • •
A few kilometers away aboard Chu’charq, Cross was beside himself.
“What is happening?” he said in his Kruge voice. “What’s going on down there?”
Raneer increased magnification to the maximum—but only the image of events became clearer, not their meaning. “The Breen shuttle is boarding Breen and Kinshaya passengers,” she reported.
“I can see that,” he said with disgust. He looked to Shift, who seemed unusually silent. “They were supposed to go inside the building. What’s going on?”
“Unclear,” Raneer said. “Should we approach?”
Before Cross could answer, Hemtara spoke up. “My lord, there may be a problem with that.”
Cross’s bushy Kruge eyebrows shot up. “Can we be seen?”
“No. But the steam from those fumaroles could condense on our hull, or precipitate out as rain. We’re invisible, not immaterial.”
Raneer looked back at him. “Aren’t there ways to deal with that, my lord? Something about altering hull temperature or reshaping our cloaking field?”
Cross didn’t have the slightest idea. Shift saved him by answering. “Most of the people on the surface are ours. I’m sure our lord would advise that we approach very slowly to unassisted visual range.”
“Yes. Do it.” Cross sank in his seat. He wondered if the Unsung had anything aboard to treat an ulcer.
• • •
“I will tell the admiral,” Troi said in the forge room. “And Titan.” She was gone from Kyzak’s side in a heartbeat.
The Skagaran leaned as far into the hearth as he dared and called upward. “Xaatix, how’s that torpedo secured?”
“It’s suspended on chains,” the Ovirian lieutenant said. “Looks like it was lowered from the top of the chimney. Won’t the heat set it off?”
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