“You got what you wanted,” he said morosely. “We’re all here. Truthcrafters don’t crack—but you guys press pretty hard.”
“You should be happy,” Shift said. “We haven’t asked you to spill your precious secrets about how the ship really works.”
It wasn’t for a lack of interest, Shift knew—or intent. There simply hadn’t been time. Thot Roje was certain the operation had to go forward immediately, before Korgh’s tower of lies started to collapse. But she was certain the Breen would eventually find out all about Blackstone and how to replicate it.
She just wasn’t going to tell Gaw that—or that Cross was dead. “Look on me as just another practitioner. I have some people I want to trick. You’re helping me.”
“Truthcrafters pick their own practitioners, Shift.” Gaw glared at her. No dearie this time, she noticed. “I want to know about Buxtus.”
“I told you, he’s not in good shape. But we’re helping him. Just do your job.”
Blackstone lurched, startling all the truthcrafters aboard—already a jumpy bunch. “There, we’re under way.” Shift patted Gaw on the back. “I’ll see you in a while.”
“I’ll be counting the minutes,” Gaw grumbled.
Shift reset her vocoder and walked forward to the bridge. Thot Roje was in the center seat, issuing instructions not just to the Breen around him, but also to those aboard the Fervent-class Kinshaya battlespheres parked inside the hollowed asteroid.
“Squadron, activate all engines,” Roje said over his helmet’s comm. Shift guessed his voice was feeding out to the massive spheres, all of which were coming to life. “Prepare to exit station.”
“Check-in with Spetzkar special operations forces completed,” said Chot Dayn from a nearby station. There were no Kinshaya aboard the ships; skeleton crews of the Breen’s finest were crewing—for the moment. “All vessels report perfect functioning. I am hardly surprised. You had months and months to practice start-up and nothing else.”
Shift glared at Dayn, knowing he could not see her icy expression. Yes, the Kinshaya ships had sat unused for a long time, but the day had finally come—thanks to her. Why couldn’t he be happy?
Roje outranked Dayn and gave him the attention he deserved: none. “Make sure everyone in the squadron understands the order of operations,” he commanded. “Helm, take us out.”
Ahead, the space doors parted, allowing Blackstone to exit. Once clear by several kilometers, the ship halted. Aft sensors gave Roje a visual on the squadron as it left the asteroid. Thirty-one battlespheres, as formidable as any force the Kinshaya had lately fielded. It was even one of their holy numbers.
“A great day,” Roje said. The line was barely audible, and Shift wondered whether he intended for his vocoder to catch it. The Breen, she had learned, were intensely private. That was hardly surprising, given the steps they took not to be understood by outsiders and the premium they placed on looking identical. There was another reason for discretion: because Breen were measured by performance and loyalty, many of her fellow citizens were constantly looking over one another’s shoulders, judging. She hadn’t spent much time in the Confederacy proper, but she’d had a devilishly hard time getting to know any of her fellow Breen well.
Roje had been different. Maybe it was because she rescued the intel chief years earlier; perhaps it was because he saw her as clay with which to craft not just the ideal agent, but the ideal Breen. He had shared his motivations. An agent provocateur for the Breen in the Dominion War, Roje had performed heroic acts of mischief across the Alpha Quadrant—until a change in the alliance’s fortunes sent him to Cardassia. There, cadres of Breen agents he had trained for years were thrown against the Cardassian Liberation Front—and then, Cardassian civilians.
It had been a far bloodier business than Roje had imagined it would be. Most of his companions died. In the unkindest cut, the Founder suddenly called the whole thing off. Roje had scrambled to escape Cardassia Prime, not trusting a treaty to protect his exit. The effect on him was profound. He had never lost his disdain for Pran—now domo—whom he blamed. And he had sworn many times to Shift that he would never leave his agents in the lurch.
He had done right by her, standing by, patiently waiting for news—and appearing just when she needed to be extracted from Ark of G’boj. Shift was glad to return his loyalty with an operation that had the potential to save his career.
“Squadron, engage cloaks,” Roje commanded.
Outside, the giant globes vanished from view. The Breen had obtained the cloaking devices from the Romulans, who knew nothing about the Kinshaya ships, much less their devices’ deployment aboard them. That was intentional: Roje wanted the Kinshaya to be the Breen’s client, not the Romulans’.
Shift looked at the screens on the bridge. The same tracking systems that had allowed Blackstone to track the Phantom Wing while cloaked—thanks to Odrok’s hack of the birds-of-prey’s stealth positioning systems—were now allowing the Breen aboard the illusion ship to follow the movements of the Kinshaya warships.
“Our crews report everything functioning normally,” Dayn said.
“Make sure they are certain of the sequence of events,” Roje said. He looked back at the chot. “Are you?”
“I know the plan,” Dayn replied. “To the extent that any being can follow something born of madness. I cannot believe the domo approved it.”
I’m going to enjoy shutting you up, Shift thought. She looked to her friend and superior. “The truthcrafters are prepared, Thot Roje. And so am I.”
“Thank you, Chot Shift. It is good to have such supportive help.” Roje shot a passing glance at Dayn. “Take your positions. Helm, engage our cloaking device and set a course for Janalwa. Let’s make history.”
Twenty-two
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
ATOGRA SYSTEM, KLINGON SPACE
Picard had been anticipating Cometary Body Atogra-1066, although not because there was anything important about it. Rather, by reaching the year of the Norman Invasion, he had a helpful mnemonic to remember where in the search they were. There were still many candidate comets to examine, sadly: it was his fondest hope they would run out before he reached the French Revolution.
Nothing had appeared to be unusual about the cometary body, a dirty snowball outgassing as it approached its sun. Rather, Dina Elfiki’s analysis had found something unusual about 1066’s tail.
“There is an irregularity in the dust trail left by the comet,” she said as Tuvok arrived on the bridge. “Grains escaping the nucleus should follow a dispersal pattern that varies depending on the solar wind and conditions on the body. But in this comet, we’ve detected an irregularity that can’t be explained by natural causes.”
Tuvok stepped over to the science station. “It appears that something following along behind the comet deflected the dust outward for a period in a uniform manner.” His eyes narrowed. “A wake caused by the shields of a starship.”
“Someone was following the comet, but is no longer,” Picard said. “Theories?”
Tuvok was still considering. “Lieutenant, nothing unexpected has been found on the comet?”
“Nothing at all,” the science officer said.
From the security station, Aneta Šmrhová spoke. “Captain, there is one interesting thing about it. The comet is large enough to hide behind.”
“Blackstone,” Tuvok concluded. He considered the sequence of events. “I theorize the fire it took from Jarin damaged the ship and its cloaking device. If her shields still worked, the comet’s tail would have offered a temporary haven while it underwent repairs.”
“Further evidence they did come this way,” Picard said. “When did they depart?”
“It couldn’t have been too long ago,” Elfiki said. “The trail would have dissipated. I can project a range of times.”
“Make it so.” He turned to Glinn Dygan. “When you have it, contact the Klingon Defense Force. Find out if anyone else was near this area at that time and if the
y detected anything.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Picard invited Tuvok and Šmrhová to join him in his ready room. Once all were seated there, he brought up on his computer the image of Buxtus Cross, their only solid link to Blackstone. His eyes scanned the lengthy report. “Lieutenant, has Starfleet been able to find anyone else who knew this person?”
“From his youth, plenty,” Šmrhová said. “He made quite an impression. And we know a lot about his Starfleet time. He fits the profile of someone attracted to con artistry.”
“A thespian too.” Yes, Picard could see a trade like Ardra’s appealing to Cross. “The last person to see him was a Starfleet legal advocate,” Picard read. “Emil Yorta.” He paused. “I don’t see an interview with him.”
“He’s not in the service anymore. I’ve been trying to find him.”
“We should certainly like to speak with him,” Picard said. “Commander Tuvok, what do you make of this situation? You’ve operated Houdini—and you were present at Cragg’s Cloud. Can you understand what the Blackstone operators would be doing and thinking?”
Tuvok thought for a moment. “I must preface by saying that any conjecture is based on our theory about why Blackstone was in the nebula.”
“Understood. Continue.”
“We know from Commander La Forge’s research that Blackstone was present at Thane and H’atoria when the Unsung were. Cross admitted having knowledge of them, including the ability to track them. We also have confirmed from forensic evidence that the Unsung were aboard the Ark of G’boj, having participated in a battle with her Klingon crew.”
Šmrhová added, “We’ve found Klingon blood and score marks from disruptors. Also, trace elements from materials used in Unsung battle gear, matching what we found in Enterprise’s transporter rooms and on Gamaral.”
“A discarded pouch was also discovered,” Tuvok added. “It contained the same foodstuffs found by Titan at Spirits’ Forge.”
“The Phantom Wing was at Ghora Janto while Blackstone was at Cragg’s Cloud.” Picard said. “So they must have split up immediately afterward.”
“Yes,” Tuvok said. “Cross and Blackstone were in the nebula specifically to rob Ark of G’boj, judging from what we saw on the Bynars’ data collection devices. They were taking inventory.”
“Which brings us to the moment we lost touch with Blackstone,” Picard said.
“Here my conjecture begins,” Tuvok said. “The Blackstone crew was caught unawares by the attack of the Jarin. Cross certainly did not see it coming. It is also logical that whoever destroyed Jarin was not a Blackstone ally—otherwise, they would have used that force to reclaim the treasure on Ark of G’boj.”
Picard’s eyes narrowed. “A third party involved.” He looked out the port at the comet tail. “Blackstone may have been in there hiding from them, rather than the Klingons.”
“A possibility.”
Picard rubbed his forehead. “Now we’re also searching for Object Fourteen?”
“I do not know if the Jarin attacker was cloaked, Captain. The fire that destroyed the bird-of-prey came from a position within the nebular cloud. The cloud was opaque.”
“Noted.” Picard looked to his screen. “So from Blackstone we have Cross, the Bynars, and this person.” He advanced the image on his display to show a depiction of an Orion woman. “Cross’s assassin, whom he called Shift. Her dossier is far less complete than his, I see.”
“Ark of G’boj didn’t have surveillance sensors on the bridge, so that image is based on our observations,” Šmrhová said. “No hits in our databases.”
“Orions,” Picard said, musing with his fingers on his chin. “We were wondering how the Unsung knew which pirate targets to strike.” He gestured to the screen. “Could she be our connection?”
“It is possible,” Tuvok said. “It is also possible that she could be aligned with the ship that destroyed Jarin. She did not seem surprised by its arrival.”
“What would her motive be for killing Cross?” Picard asked. “What secret was she protecting? Is it the same one as the Bynars’?”
“Cross was about to tell us how to find the Unsung. A reason finding Blackstone is imperative. It may have that capability too.”
The captain took a deep breath. The silence was broken by the chirp of his combadge. “Picard.”
“Glinn Dygan, Captain. The Klingon Defense Force has just responded to our inquiry. They detected no vessels in the vicinity of Atogra during the time the suspect vessel was hiding in the comet tail,” Dygan said. “They had no ships in the area.”
The captain sighed. That would have been too easy.
“But there is something that was nearby, sir. A Breen ship.”
Picard asked, “Breen?”
“Aye, Captain. The Gorkon reported an encounter with one of the Breen searchers, a Reikin-class fast-attack warship named Sustax. It appeared to be lingering in the Cabeus system.”
“Where is the Sustax now?”
“The ship lacked its required Klingon escort. Gorkon accompanied the Sustax to the border.”
“Stand by, Glinn.” Picard looked to Tuvok and Šmrhová. “If the Breen detected Blackstone, what are the odds they would tell us?”
“They are not a helpful nation.” Tuvok contemplated for a moment—and raised an eyebrow. “It is curious they would be off on their own—and I am unaware of anything near Cabeus that would merit their attention.”
“Perhaps the better question,” Picard said, “is that if the Breen detected anything at all, what would be the odds they would tell the Klingons?”
“Approaching zero,” Šmrhová said. “Their participation in this search has smacked of opportunism. I wouldn’t put it past them to offer to rearm the Unsung’s ships for them, so long as they harass the Empire.”
Picard’s jaw clenched. He’d suspected that the Unsung needed help to do what they had done, but a state sponsor hadn’t occurred to him. They had struck at the Romulans, and the diplomats on H’atoria. The Breen had escaped unscathed.
Too far a leap. He settled for a shorter one. “Maybe they did find something—something that they wanted to keep to themselves. Let’s go take a look at Cabeus. I’ve seen enough comets for one lifetime.”
Twenty-three
CABEUS
Weltern’s time was nearer than anyone had expected. Kahless had temporarily suspended his late evening teachings as the exiles gathered around the Klingon woman, assisting in her impending delivery.
Chu’charq was repaired and running. Weltern could have chosen its sickbay for her labor. But the Unsung had lived decades in the natural setting of Thane and thought nothing of the birth taking place on the rock floor of the cave. The only nod to comfort was in the fact that they had placed her near the opening, where the air was better.
Kahless wondered if the exiles had ever been aware of how good a life they had had on Thane. Many Klingons, he knew, would long to live in such a setting, free to hunt unlimited game, relieved of the demands of interstellar empire. But then he remembered all the things that had been taken away from them.
Worf was worried, judging from his expression as he approached Kahless from one of the birds-of-prey. “I have a dilemma,” the commander said.
“Let me guess,” Kahless replied with a wry smile. “You have been asked to help deliver the child.”
“I have done that before,” Worf said with a barely perceptible shudder. “It was not what I was expecting.” He stepped closer to speak confidentially. “Valandris wants me to double-check the work on the dilithium crystals aboard Chu’charq and other vessels when the time comes. I am not sure what to do.”
Kahless nodded, understanding. “You fear to unleash these people once more into the galaxy.”
“Your teachings have been welcomed by many, but not all.” Worf nodded in the direction of the corner of the cavern where the bellicose Harch and his cronies stalked and smoldered. They had avoided Kahless’s talks—and, surprisingly, ev
en the personal combat exercises the clone had led in the middle of the cavern floor.
Those had been an idea of Worf’s, and they had brought more exiles into Kahless’s gatherings. Young and old had responded, joining the ranks for exercises and mock duels. Only Harch and his bitter friends remained aloof—barely hiding their thoughts as they eyed the ships while repairs progressed.
“The false Kruge had a year to indoctrinate the exiles,” Worf said. “You have had far less time in which to undo it.”
“It is worse than that. We are having to undo a hundred years of Potok’s wrongheaded approach.” Kahless took a deep breath and let it out. “I am reaching them. But you are correct. If we would depart, I must reach them all.”
“And if I attempt to use the ships’ systems to broadcast our presence,” Worf said, “your efforts will be for nothing—and they may all be killed.” He frowned. “I cannot slow down the recrystallization process to give you more time. But if necessary I can sabotage some portion—”
“These people have been sabotaged enough.” Kahless passed Worf. “Go back to the ships and continue the work. I will leap into the fire.” He looked back. “Er—not in the way that other Klingon did.”
With that, Kahless strode purposefully toward the objectors. Seven of them, including five males ranging from fifteen to forty, stalked about a flaming gas vent, mouthing their frustrations. In the middle was black-haired Harch, who spotted the emperor and spat on the ground.
“Go away, clone, before we kill you again. We aren’t interested in your tall tales!” Harch gestured to the blade strapped to his upper arm—a d’k tahg, from the ships’ stores. “Begone!”
“I have come to sharpen that blade for you,” Kahless said. “It grows dull.”
Harch yanked the blade from its scabbard and waved it about, slicing the air as his companions cheered. “I could sharpen it in your skull!”
Kahless was unmoved. “That is not the blade I meant. I refer to your mind.” He smiled, baring his fanged teeth. “Yours is dull and unable to cut water.”
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