The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  She wasn’t smiling. Broken up about Cross, Gaw figured. He stepped back to get a good look at her gear. “You disguised yourself as a Breen?”

  “No,” she said, her voice cool and calm. “I disguised myself as Cross’s apprentice—as a con artist.” She held the helmet forth proudly in her gloved hands. “I am a Breen. And you—and this ship—are now under our control.”

  Sixty-three

  “This is a joke, right?” Gaw said, reeling. “You can’t be a Breen. Tell me this is a joke!”

  “Not unless you consider the guns trained upon this ship a laughing matter.” Shift smiled.

  “Hey, we surrender,” Gaw said. “We didn’t do anything to the Breen.” Suddenly uncomfortable, he looked to the other techs and whispered, “We haven’t done anything to them, have we?”

  “Not this decade,” came a nervous response from someone on the bridge. But now more Breen warriors materialized, all armed. Immediately, they began apprehending the truthcrafters.

  “Don’t worry, Gaw,” she said as she watched the dumbfounded Ferengi being shackled. “They’re not going to hurt you. They—we—need you, and what you know how to do. That was why I joined you in the first place—to steal your fakery know-how.” She walked from the bridge into the control center and watched as more troops arrived. It had taken so long—and yet it had worked.

  Theft was an easy thing for one born into a world of crime. But theft for a reason was something relatively new for Shift. It had come after years of abuse had pushed her past the breaking point. Sick of being chattel, the young Orion woman had fled the people who had made her life miserable. She’d expected a fight to the death to keep her freedom—a fight she was likely to lose.

  Instead, she’d found something else: a new life, new respect. The Breen were the ultimate egalitarian nation. One’s class at birth didn’t matter. One’s species didn’t matter. And her beauty, which had been such a mixed blessing, would be hidden away behind her suit. No one would abuse her again. And when she finally chose to use her appearance again, it was her decision, in service of the Breen as an agent for the Intelligence Directorate.

  The Breen had been interested in the workings of the Circle of Jilaan. The truthcrafters’ brand of artifice came from a technology that neither the Breen nor their rivals understood; that made it invaluable. Once Shift had found Cross and introduced herself, it had been an easy get. Cross was a ridiculous being. He was a gifted actor and mimic, but otherwise eccentric and myopic. Certainly he’d been blind to her, seeing only her physical attributes as she inveigled herself into his confidence to learn his methods.

  In time, she’d realized Cross was not the key: the truthcrafters, the illusionists behind the scenes, held the real power. With their skills making everything possible, all that was required was a reasonably talented actor to complete the illusions. And what was a spy, if not an actor?

  The moment of the truthcrafters’ capture—this moment—would have come a year earlier, had she not learned of the “big score” Blackstone’s crew was working on. Realizing the Kruge scam was a deception ordered and financed by a powerful figure within the Klingon Empire, she had reported it back to the directorate. Thot Roje, her case officer high in Breen intelligence, had ordered her to remain in character, reporting back whenever she could.

  Once she and Cross moved into the hut in the Unsung compound in the Briar Patch, her chances for contact dwindled. She didn’t dare use Odrok’s secret chain of repeater stations to get a message out of the nebula. After Chu’charq departed Thane for good, she finally checked in using her secret communicator. Foolishly, Cross had never asked why she kept disappearing.

  Thot Roje had guided her every play. As long as Korgh was using the Unsung to undermine the Klingon alliance with the Federation, the Breen let the plot play out. Her warning had prompted them to withdraw Ambassador Vart from Spirits’ Forge in advance of the Unsung strike. The Breen had won the appreciation of the Kinshaya by hustling their representatives away before the shooting started. After her “death of Kruge” scene, Shift had told the Breen to rush for Ghora Janto, to be able to take credit for stopping the Unsung. The Breen had invited their Romulan allies to join them, earning diplomatic capital.

  Korgh and Cross had played the Klingon Empire—and then they had tried to play each other. At every turn, she had been there, working the angles for the Breen. When Cross lied to Korgh about killing Kahless, she learned all she could about the Betazoid’s plot to impersonate the emperor. They had information on Korgh, but that paled before the prospect of controlling a fake Kahless. It still sounded like a good plan to her.

  Of course, Korgh had betrayed Cross as well, planting a homing device aboard Ark of G’boj in order that Jarin would destroy his coconspirators. Shift had called the Breen to Cragg’s Cloud to prevent that.

  The only wrinkle had been the unexpected arrival of Starfleet. She still didn’t know from where they had transported to the Klingon treasure ship or how they had uncovered the scheme. Cross, predictably, had tried to bargain by revealing the location of the Unsung. That information she intended for Breen hands, not Starfleet’s. She had killed him. He was unnecessary. The real power was in the truthcrafters and their amazing starship.

  Shift had enjoyed killing him. She had been forced to pretend to like some real scum in her time. Had she not been acting in service of a higher cause, she could never have tolerated Cross for an instant.

  She’d learned from her Breen rescuers that more than half of the Phantom Wing had been destroyed at Ghora Janto; she’d also discovered that the mechanism on Cross’s padd for tracking the Unsung no longer worked. It didn’t matter. Korgh and Cross and their crazy Klingon minions had already wrought significant damage to the Khitomer Accords.

  In Korgh’s scheme, Thot Roje had seen something she hadn’t: a chance to completely upend the Accords—putting the Breen on top of the Typhon Pact. “Lord” Korgh would continue to rise in the Empire, not knowing what the Breen had on him. In Blackstone, the Breen had an unmatched tool for mischief. A tool she had spent a year learning how to use. By using her body in service of the Breen, she had made her mind an asset of immeasurably greater importance.

  Breen warriors shoved Gaw into the control room, where his companions were under guard. “What is all this? What are you doing with us?”

  Shift lifted her helmet in preparation of putting it back on. “It’s not what we’re doing with you, Gaw. It’s what you’re going to do for us . . .”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  DEEP SPACE

  The Unsung had delivered Worf to the same prison cell he had awakened in after his abduction from Gamaral: converted personnel quarters protected by a force field. At least this time they had not drugged him.

  The first time he was taken by the Unsung, most had looked upon him reverently; Worf was the discommendated Klingon who had won back his name. This time his walk to the cell had taken him through corridors crowded with Unsung: the noncombatants from the community, refugees from other birds-of-prey. A ship designed for three dozen now carried twice that, at least. His cell was taking up valuable accommodations.

  The respectful looks had vanished. The Unsung seemed shaken, lost, angry, and afraid in equal parts. Before ordering him imprisoned, Valandris had described the assassination of the false Kruge, as well as the mad dash to Ghora Janto and what was almost certainly a trap. Without Kruge’s guiding voice, they did not know what to believe—but they did remember that their Fallen Lord, now truly fallen, had once ordered Worf’s death.

  Now he could only wait to see what they would do.

  Movement caught his eye. He rolled over and saw Sarken standing outside the force field. She seemed mesmerized by it. Her fingers traced millimeters above its surface, causing excited particles to glow vibrant red. “I like this,” she said.

  “You will find many interesting things in the galaxy.” Worf sat up and faced her. “I do not think you have come to free me.”
<
br />   “No.” She fretted. “But I told Valandris about how you appeared on Rodak, and how you and I found the bomb.”

  “Did she find one on this ship?”

  “Oh, I showed everyone where it was,” she said with pride. Sarken had shed her fear of the starship’s innards. “They found them in the same place on the other three ships. Why would someone want to do that to us, Worf?”

  “I do not know,” he said, stretching the truth only a little. The child had confronted enough without learning her people were expendable puppets in someone else’s game. “Did they try to disarm the torpedoes?”

  “They figured out how, thanks to one of those things you found.”

  “A tutorial padd?”

  “I guess. It didn’t say anything about the bomb, but they learned enough from it to remove the bad part and reset the other thing so it stopped telling everyone where we were.”

  Worf figured that might happen. Then we are again cloaked, and no one can find us. He was reluctant to involve the girl in another escape plot. “Have they said what they intend to do with me?”

  “They said I won’t be able to see.” She put her hand before the force field, her fingers splayed outward. “I am sorry.”

  He reached out and put his hand across from hers, just skimming the surface of the energy field. “I think you have acted honorably, Sarken. Your father would have been proud.”

  She held the position for a moment—and then looked behind her. “They are coming for you.”

  Sixty-four

  Valandris had hidden what remained of the squadron to the best of her ability. Her knowledge of the region was minimal; Kruge had made all their decisions. But she’d been one of the warriors who took part in moving the birds-of-prey to Thane. On that journey, they had stopped over on Cabeus, a deserted Class-M planet.

  She had found it again on her charts not far from their avenue of escape. The Empire and its accomplices had swarmed the sector, searching for the Unsung. She hoped that Cabeus, devoid of anything but a breathable atmosphere, would escape the hunters’ notice long enough for the exiles to decide what to do.

  The mood of the discommendated was black. They had been given a promise, a purpose. And then they had been abandoned, leaderless and without direction. Valandris was a talented hunter, and Weltern commanded respect. But of the Unsung, only Zokar had ever presumed to consider himself first among the Unsung. Kruge and his murderous aide-de-camp had made all the decisions. Now no one was left.

  Confident that Chu’charq and its three companion vessels were safely cloaked on the surface, she proceeded to the deck five mess hall. Most of the lights were out along the companionway; the ship had been running on low power to conserve energy for the cloaking device. Hearing the raucous voices from outside the darkened room, she could tell they were already under way.

  Before Kruge came to Thane, the exiles had no system of justice beyond Potok, and the endless helpings of shame he and the elders distributed. The Klingons in the Empire literally turned their backs on discommendated individuals, refusing to speak to them. On Thane, everyone faced the accused, leveling excoriation. It was one practice Kruge had adapted rather than supplanted, adding public and physical humiliation. It was what was done to the late clone of Kahless, yoked down in the sewage pit.

  There was no pit aboard Chu’charq, but a yoke had been created. It ringed the neck of Worf as he stood atop a hexagonal table whose legs had been removed. The ceilings in the mess hall were low, but there was no chance that Worf would strike his head—not when the yoke was attached to chains, ropes, ODN cables, and whatever else Chu’charq’s occupants could find. The other ends were in the hands of dozens of jeering Unsung, all pulling him downward. Many had come over from the other ships for the occasion—and all were yanking on the cords from their positions on the deck.

  Worf, a marionette whose controllers were all around him, fought to remain standing.

  “To your knees! To your knees!”

  “Never!” Worf clutched at the bonds, trying to keep from choking.

  Valandris entered, and the crowd parted. “You are late,” Harch said to her, yanking on a cable with evil glee. “You have missed getting a chain.”

  Weltern offered her chain to Valandris. “Take mine.”

  “No,” she said. “What has come before?”

  The woman responded. “We told him his crimes. He sought to stop Kruge on Thane—attacked the muster.”

  “He killed Tharas!” said another.

  “He came aboard Rodak by stealth,” Harch said, “intending to expose us to discovery. He was trying to finish what N’Keera started!”

  Worf strained at his bonds. “You are wrong! I was trying to stop you, yes—because you were being led by a false ruler. The real Commander Kruge died a century ago!”

  “Liar!” several shouted. A renewed tug-of-war broke out, causing Worf to stagger and gag.

  “Hold,” Valandris said. She looked up at him with a mixture of sympathy and indifference. He had told her of Kahless and honor that had sounded good—yet it all rang hollow after Kruge’s death and their betrayal. “Worf, you saved Sarken, and warned us of the bombs—but you are not one of us and never will be. There is a divide between us that can never be crossed.”

  “D-discommendation,” Worf said, struggling to speak.

  “You have something we can never have. Either we are trash—or your honor is.” She scowled. “We are not shells. Your existence serves only to taunt us.”

  She felt the words and believed them—but seeing their effect unnerved her. The yanking intensified. Worf would soon fall to his knees and then to the deck—whereupon she was certain they would strangle him.

  “K-K-Kahless,” Worf said, the word barely audible.

  “What?” Valandris touched the arms of the others nearest her, stilling them. She shushed the group. “What did you say?”

  “Kahless.” He coughed hard before looking at her wearily. “If you sought someone who returned from the dead, you wanted Kahless.”

  “We killed your clone!” Harch yelled.

  “Kahless the Unforgettable.” Worf tried to straighten, gripping the taut chains to steady himself. “The original Kahless. He will return to bring Klingons to a place of honor.”

  “You cannot still believe that,” Valandris said. “You are the only honorable person here—and this is happening. Where is your Kahless now?” She took the chain Weltern had offered. “Worf, words will not protect us. They are not magic!”

  “You . . . are wrong,” Worf said, his voice ragged. “There is magic in the words, in which all Klingons believe: batlh, qajunpaQ, vIt—honor, courage, truth. Or the words with which we call for Kahless to return from the dead: torva luq do Sel!”

  Something clanked above.

  Valandris looked around. “What was that?”

  Another odd sound. Worf looked up at the overhead, just above him. He squinted, half-dazed—and the group went silent.

  “What do you see?” Valandris asked him.

  “A point of light.”

  Looking up, she saw it too—a pinprick in the overhead, at the juncture of four bordering metal plates. Most of the bird-of-prey’s access panels were on the deck, but some were above. Worf looked at it, unbelieving—and said his words again, adding an ancient name: “qeylIS, torva luq do Sel!”

  An ebony boot slammed downward, smashing the panel open. As one, the astonished warriors slackened their holds on Worf’s bonds and watched the figure plummeting from above onto the tabletop. He landed between two of the chains holding Worf. He wrested the chain from Valandris’s hands.

  He looked like the clone they’d kidnapped on Gamaral and enslaved on Thane. Only he was slimmer and dressed all in black, the garb the Unsung wore on their missions that required stealth. Such gear, she knew, had been stored in the deck one cargo bay, the place where Kruge had kept his mysterious prison—and its sensor-dampening properties were proof against life-sign scans. Had he been alive
and between decks all this time?

  Worf was not expecting him. He stared, amazed and speechless, as the new arrival began wresting the leashes away one by one.

  The Klingon’s words boomed through the hall. “I am Kahless, clone of the Unforgettable—and I have returned!” He smiled at Worf. Then he looked around at the Unsung, his eyes wide and full of purpose. “I have returned—and I will judge who here is worthy!”

  PREY

  CONCLUDES IN

  BOOK 3:

  THE HALL OF HEROES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The crafting of illusions has always had a major role in the Star Trek universe, and I was delighted to get the chance to work it into my larger story about the alliance between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. I thank my Pocket Books editor, Margaret Clark, both for the opportunity and for her patience. I further appreciate the helpful suggestions of John Van Citters of CBS, as well as the contributions of Ed Schlesinger, Scott Pearson, and the Pocket Books crew.

  Inspiration again came from a variety of sources, most significantly the fourth season Star Trek: The Next Generation episode “Devil’s Due.” (Teleplay by Philip LaZebnik. Story by Philip LaZebnik and William Douglas Lansford.) As it was originally a story for Star Trek Phase II later adapted for TNG, I enjoyed the chance to show the illusionists at work in both eras.

  And in addition to the works cited in the last volume, I greatly depended on Rick Sternbach and Ben Robinson’s Klingon Bird-of-Prey Owners’ Workshop Manual from Gallery Books. Readers interested in the settings aboard the Phantom Wing will find them all in its pages. Locations are based on Star Trek: Star Charts and Star Trek: Stellar Cartography.

  Thanks go again to Trek mavens James Mishler, Brent Frankenhoff, Michael Singleton, and Robert Peden for their feedback and assistance, as well as to Meredith Miller, proofreader and Number One on my bridge.

  Two down, one to go. Engage!