Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  Daylight and darkness were tough to tell apart on Thane, but it appeared to Worf that activity was winding down. Between the humidity and the animal stench, finding shelter was appealing. He followed Valandris into a large mess tent packed with diners. As earlier, Worf drew attention during his time in line at the server’s station.

  “Welcome, Worf. Did the Fallen Lord call you here?” the middle-aged woman asked as she scooped him a bowlful of something squirming.

  “No.”

  “It’s a time of wonder. Great things are finally happening.” She smiled. “Enjoy your gafgeg.”

  Worf was sitting against a post, trying to stomach the first handful, when Valandris plopped down next to him with her dish. He watched her eagerly devouring her meal. “I see you prefer food prepared in the Klingon way,” he said.

  “You can’t banish a taste for live food. Problem is we only have a few things that can be served alive. Most everything else on Thane will take a bite out of you if you let it.”

  That sounded about right to him. But something was still nagging him. “That server. How did she know me?”

  Valandris set her empty bowl on the ground beside her and gestured to the other diners. “Discommendated Klingons have found their way here from time to time—joining the community. Zokar is one—I think you’ve seen him.”

  “How would they learn of you, when no one else knew?”

  “I don’t know that. It has bolstered our numbers at times—and certainly assisted the gene pool.” Seeing he was finished, she stood. He did the same. “But it has also caused problems,” she continued. “My mother was one such arrival. My cousin Tharas—you’ve met him—is considered fifth generation, which I am through my father’s line. But because of my mother, I am considered to be part of the first generation of the condemned.”

  Following her out of the tent, Worf had to admit he had never thought about such a predicament. “I would have assumed the shame traveled through the father’s lineage.”

  “Your rules are annoyingly unspecific. Or at least that’s the way the elders here interpreted things. On Thane, one’s sentence is determined by whatever the most recent discommendation was, anywhere in your ancestry.” She shook her head in aggravation. “So thanks to my dear mother being discommendated for poisoning her abusive employer on Qo’noS, my descendants earn four more generations of shame.” She put her hands on her hips. “Tell me, would you have children then?”

  Worf understood. He had been reluctant to give his name to Alexander during his period of discommendation.

  “There have always been opposing strains in our society,” Valandris said, walking through the shadows of the village. “Some started families quickly, hoping to rush through the sentence. And there are those who detest the idea of creating a child who is condemned from birth.”

  Light flickered up ahead: one of the bonfires. She stopped and stared at it. He stepped to her side.

  Staring into the firelight, she asked, “How old were you when you were discommendated?”

  “I was an adult—already a member of Starfleet.”

  “Imagine being a child and having your elders bury you beneath guilt and self-hatred.” She continued to face the light. “The flame of your honor—it did not go out?”

  “The fire burned,” Worf said. “My father was unjustly accused.”

  “Our fire was never lit. We were unbeings. The elders thought that eliminating pride was the only way the community could atone for whatever-it-was. If not for hunting, we all would have gone mad.”

  Worf knew what she meant. “Klingons cannot exist without honor.”

  “Not as Klingons.” She turned to face him, the fire lighting her face. “But now things are different. We have our names—and we have our mission. We have something of which to be proud.”

  “Valandris,” he said evenly, “if your mission is to kill defenseless people and abuse honorable warriors like Kahless, then you still have nothing to be proud of.”

  Her expression soured. Abruptly, she started walking. “Come on.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Back to the kennel. If you like him so much, you can sleep with him tonight.” She looked back and added tartly, “But at least you’ll both have your honor to keep you company.”

  Forty-six

  FEDERATION CONSULATE

  QO’NOS

  “Astounding,” Martok said, studying the information on a padd. Korgh had brought two of the devices to the ambassadorial office, each containing what he said was highly classified material from the House of Kruge. Riker was behind the desk, poring over the other with Alexander—while Picard, still on screen, watched in mute curiosity.

  “An entire secret flight of B’rel-class ships?” The chancellor glared at Korgh. “How did you not know of this before?”

  Seated in a chair against the wall across from the others, Korgh sighed and looked down at the floor. The old man’s bluster was gone; he spoke as one humbled. Riker couldn’t believe it was the same person who’d been ripping into the Federation earlier.

  “I don’t think anyone knew of these ships,” Korgh finally said. “The family kept Kruge’s old office here in the city like a shrine. I had only entered it once in all my years as gin’tak—that was the day I found the hologram of my adoption ceremony.” He looked up. “Tonight, I had logged into his terminal, hoping to find in his writings wisdom that would help me in my new role. I was not expecting to find this.”

  “Project Phantom Wing,” Riker read. The padd contained schematics and production plans Korgh said he’d downloaded from Kruge’s computer. “Looks like a dozen birds-of-prey. Can that be possible?”

  “The House of Kruge has manufactured countless ships for the Defense Force,” Martok said. “If this were an experimental production run, he might very well have built it in secret.” He looked over at Korgh. “But why did no one learn of it after his death?”

  “Kruge cultivated a group of engineers for his operations,” Korgh said. “They were known as the Twenty. Fiercely loyal to him in life; perhaps that continued after he fell. I believe they are all dead.”

  “Then they took these secrets to Sto-Vo-Kor,” the chancellor said.

  Light-years away aboard Enterprise, Picard spoke up. “Someone must have known of it, because Mount Qel’pec holds no ships. Lord Korgh, is it possible the officers who rose up against the Kruge family knew about this Phantom Wing and went to Gamaral a century ago in search of them?”

  Korgh regarded the image of the captain politely. “Picard, I am almost sure that is what happened.”

  Riker and Alexander both looked to Martok. All were stunned. “That’s pretty definitive,” the admiral said.

  “It has burned a hole in my gut since I discovered the ships’ existence, hours ago,” Korgh said. “Commander Kruge would surely have appointed someone close to him to manage their construction. He never would have trusted the other nobles, that is certain.”

  “Could it be the same person who led the defeated forces at Gamaral? Do you remember his name?”

  “Ah.” Korgh ran his fingers through his beard. “I met him, while I was studying under Kruge. His name was General Potok.”

  Korgh spelled the name—and at the desk, Alexander quickly entered it into his interface. He received a low beep in response. “Chancellor, there is nothing in public Imperial records about a General Potok.”

  “There wouldn’t be,” Korgh said, appearing to recall something distasteful. “He was a reckless, imperious popinjay—I do not know why he had Kruge’s ear. He treated me as if I were a child, beneath contempt. His rebellion never surprised me—and his capture on Gamaral did not disappoint me.”

  He paused thoughtfully. “Apparently, Potok must have been more intrepid than I gave him credit for. It was he who developed the Phantom Wing for Kruge. When he failed to retrie
ve the ships in time to prevent his loss at Gamaral, he accepted discommendation—”

  “And then he returned sometime in the last century to reclaim the ships and destroy the hangar,” Riker added.

  “And a hundred years after one battle, he returned with the Phantom Wing to execute those who had caused his shame.” Korgh’s fists clenched. “Damn that Potok. He should have been expunged long ago.”

  Martok was equally enraged. “He violated the spirit and meaning of discommendation if he returned for the Phantom Wing.”

  Riker nodded. “And if he were using it now for revenge?”

  “Unforgivable.”

  “Just a moment,” Picard said. “Could even a dozen of these ships be capable of striking Enterprise and escaping? They are hardly new.”

  Korgh dismissed the concern. “Kruge’s B’rel-class vessels were years ahead of their time and are still used in the basic design of ships constructed on Ketorix today. If any of the Twenty joined his cause, they would have gone with him into exile. They could have continued making upgrades.”

  Riker nodded. “There’s also what the Hunters told the ­captain—that a group of Klingons might have stolen their transporter technology. They would’ve had a lot of years to plan.” He noticed Picard wasn’t looking directly at them. “What is it, Captain?”

  Picard looked back in their direction. “I was just checking Enterprise’s records. Apparently the Federation had an encounter with this general around that time.” He looked up, astonished. “There is a report filed by Spock.”

  Riker’s eyes bugged. “Ambassador Spock?”

  “None other.”

  “Really,” Korgh said, smiling mildly. “Perhaps that information will help you find Potok. I want the emperor returned as much as you do. And if my discovery helps avenge the members of my house, I am happy to have been of service.” He made his respects to the chancellor and departed.

  Martok got up to leave as well. “This is bad business,” he said darkly as he looked at the padd. “Discommendated seeking revenge. This idea must be put down, before . . .”

  Before what? Riker had wanted to ask. But the chancellor was already gone. Instead, the admiral looked to Picard. “That certainly took the fire out of Korgh,” he said. “He was ready to burn us at the stake earlier.”

  “He’s a politician now—and we already knew he was a good actor. But what an amazing thing to discover.”

  “Agreed. I’m not sure what to think.”

  “I think I have a hundred-year-old report to find. At least we know Starfleet saves things.”

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  THANE

  Returning to the pen, Worf found only a bone where the meat they had thrown to Kahless had been—and a muddy trail leading inside the kennel. There, amid the yipping of creatures locked in their cages, he found Kahless. Someone had detached the emperor’s long chain from the stake outside and had secured it to one of the sturdier wooden beams in the rafters. At the chain’s end, Kahless lay in a corner of a stall, snoozing in the muck.

  Worf looked up at the beam. He doubted it would stand up against a concerted effort—and he knew that while Valandris had posted a pair of guards outside, they would not be able to cover all four sides of the kennel. He started to pull at the chain.

  The movement roused Kahless. He let out a low moan and opened his eyes.

  “We are getting out of here,” Worf said.

  “I . . . cannot go anywhere,” the emperor said. “I am . . . a poor copy, Worf. The original Kahless . . . said to choose death over chains.” He let out a tired sigh and winced in pain. “I should . . . have fought . . .”

  Worf ceased his pulling. “Are you injured?”

  “Only my pride,” Kahless said, summoning the strength to roll onto his side. He winced. “Apparently . . . I have pride in every bone of my body, for they all hurt.”

  “It is inexcusable that they should put you here—or treat you so.”

  “Perhaps it is a lesson in humility,” Kahless said, coughing as he tried to sit up. “You can learn from labor. I have learned that the next time I am invited to a ceremony, I should stay home.”

  Worf quickly stepped out to fetch more water. The guards, a dozen meters away outside the pen, watched him with mild interest.

  He returned to find Kahless sitting upright, attempting in vain to salve the wounds on his wrists and neck. “Worf, who are these people?”

  Sitting on the ground beside the emperor, Worf quickly explained who the Unsung were. Kahless squinted at him, barely comprehending. It was not that Worf did not explain it clearly. It was, for the personification of Klingon tradition, simply beyond his understanding.

  “Madness,” Kahless said when Worf had finished. “The discommendated do not commune together. They slink off and hide, like the wretched wraiths they are.”

  Worf looked off into the darkness. “Not all hide.”

  “You can’t take offense, Worf. I know your story—you won back your name. It is as if it never happened to you.”

  “If that were truly the case,” Worf said, “then we could not be talking about it now. I remember what happened.” He would never forget.

  He decided to change the subject to their predicament, explaining where they were.

  “The Klach D’Kel Brakt,” Kahless repeated. “We will find no help here.”

  “I think they give me freedom because they know I cannot do anything with it. The only communications equipment here was aboard the bird-of-prey, and it is back across hostile territory.”

  “Guards?”

  “And wildlife. Still, I am willing to risk it—but I would not leave you here.”

  “I am not going anywhere soon,” Kahless said. “I was told that by the old man.”

  “Old man?” Worf remembered that Valandris’s people had beamed Kahless ahead to the village. “This is their leader?”

  “He talked like it. I’ve never seen him before.” Kahless’s words grew cold. “A scarred face, and by more than time. It was he who ordered me cast into the pit—and his foils here followed without question.”

  “The Fallen Lord?”

  “I heard him called that, yes. He was as old a Klingon as I have ever seen—but he was not weak. No, not at all.” He gripped Worf’s arm with urgency. “And those eyes, Worf—they held madness.”

  Kahless’s energy left him again, and Worf helped the emperor to lie down once more. “I know who it is. It must be General Potok.”

  Kahless opened his eyes. “Potok?”

  “He was the general opposing the Kruge family at Gamaral a century ago. He settled his people here.”

  The emperor nodded. “If he led the Unsung, that would explain why they killed the nobles.” He paused. “But not why they took me—and you.”

  Worf decided not to get into why he thought Valandris had taken him. Kahless, however, he was clearer about. “They disdain the empire and all its works. You were taken as vengeance, I’m sure.”

  “We know what they say about revenge,” Kahless said. “Then we have our answer—for what good it does.”

  Worf sat for a moment, reflecting on his conversations with Valandris. Something didn’t fit.

  “What is it?” Kahless asked.

  “Valandris. She spoke as if she hated the founders of this colony as much as she hated the empire. Wouldn’t she hate Potok too?”

  His words hung in the heavy air for long moments, the only response coming from the animals in the kennel.

  And then Worf heard another sound. A moan. A Klingon moan, not from Kahless.

  The Enterprise’s first officer stood and worked his way through the kennel, on his guard against the animals snapping at him from their compartments. Finally, at the darkest corner of the structure, he found the source of the moans in a filthy stall. An ancient Klingon hung limply, hi
s hands chained to a beam above.

  His long beard, once white, was encrusted with mud and crumbs. His only clothes, his pants, were little more than ragged strips. When Worf touched the old man’s arm, he moved only barely, shaking on the restraints. As he swayed, Worf noticed characters painted on his bloated belly, just visible in the low light. They formed words:

  I AM FAILURE

  I AM SHAME

  I AM POTOK

  Forty-seven

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING GAMARAL

  First Officer’s log, continued,

  Spock, U.S.S. Enterprise

  General Potok represents a unique case. He desired revenge against Captain Kirk and restoration of his people’s status. Instead, when I was able to convince him that one did not result in the other, Potok took his people into exile.

  Only one ship did not follow: the bird-of-prey brought to Potok by his young Klingon ally. I never learned his name, but he acted as if he was Potok’s superior—and had more firepower yet to deliver. I theorize this young Klingon may have been similarly condemned, but unwilling to accept his sentence. In the event, Potok did not recognize the younger man’s authority: he sent him and his vessel away.

  Because of Potok’s words and actions, I judge his people’s risk to the Federation to be minimal. As Khan Noonien Singh demonstrated, circumstances can change, and so monitoring is advised. But I would suggest that any who encounter this population remember Potok’s actions as reported here. End log.

  Picard sat back in the observation room chair as the recording concluded, leaving only a Federation logo and a stardate a hundred years past. What were the odds, he wondered, that the only known encounter with the discommendated losers of the Battle of Gamaral would have been with the crew of a previous Enterprise?

  “I can’t believe we’ve had that recording in our files all along,” Šmrhová said.

  “We didn’t know it was important,” the captain said. “We didn’t know Potok’s name. And Ambassador Spock back then didn’t know what battle Potok had lost. There was no way to connect the two—until Korgh gave us the key.”