Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  The Phantom Wing had been able to approach Enterprise with impunity over Gamaral, but the Briar Patch was a less friendly locale. The tachyons they were projecting had the potential to interact randomly with the metaphasic radiation of the nebula; ships might randomly uncloak, and that wasn’t all. “I don’t think they’d want to try to board using their transporter technology if it means going through the spray,” La Forge said. “Unless they’re suicidal.”

  “Are they?” Picard asked Chen.

  “That message they sent us was all about trying to show off their numbers,” she replied. “They wanted us to see how strong they were. I’d think a small colony would be careful about throwing lives away.”

  Perhaps, Picard thought. The Unsung had incurred no casualties at Gamaral, departing the planet and the Enterprise before any could occur. He didn’t know if La Forge’s tactic was working, but no one had molested them so far. A narrow corridor was all Enterprise needed. They would hit the settlement along multiple avenues of attack: from above, with support shuttles, and transported security teams. Overwhelm the Unsung quickly, try to bottle them up until Martok’s forces arrived—while finding Worf.

  “Two hundred thousand kilometers from target planet,” Flight Controller Faur reported.

  “Launch shuttles. Prepare to transport away teams.” The operation was under way. If he hadn’t selected the right plan, he would know soon enough.

  Sixty

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  How the hell did Enterprise get here so fast?

  Seated in the command chair aboard the bird-of-prey, Cross—as Kruge—looked in stupefaction at the information coming in. Korgh had worked out a detailed timeline for when things would happen following the release of the Kahless message. The Federation and Klingon pursuers should still be following the trail of self-destructing repeater stations into the Briar Patch; telemetry coming back from the nearer satellites that still existed suggested the pursuers were an hour away.

  Somehow the Enterprise had skipped to the end of the trail, interfering with his big finish—and driving his illusion-generating technical support ship from orbit. “Blackstone has descended and is nearby,” Shift, as N’Keera, whispered to him. “Enterprise is emitting something that may interfere with their cloaking device while in the Briar Patch.”

  “And ours.” Cross frowned.

  “Such a tactic would only work in space.”

  That, at least, was a comfort. Blackstone needed to stay relatively near to Cross and Shift to be able to project its illusions, and it needed to stay cloaked, lest the Unsung realize they were being deceived. His crack technicians had literally gone to ground.

  He would have to make an on-the-spot decision. Korgh wanted him to post Unsung members at various places in the compound to serve as a lure for the authorities; there was no time to arrange that now. But even if the trap was not baited, it could still be sprung. “Order all vessels cloaked,” he commanded.

  Hemtara passed the word to the Phantom Wing. “All birds-of-prey are loaded and cloaked—except for our search teams in the Spillway. Should we head for orbit, Lord Kruge, and strike the Starfleet ship?”

  “No.” The information from Blackstone gave him a chance to look the genius tactician before his subjects. “Enterprise is emitting a field that will disrupt our cloaking devices if we leave the atmosphere. We should circle the planet and depart on the other side. Their particles will not reach us.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  He glanced up at Shift—whose concerned expression as N’Keera certainly reflected the Orion woman’s real one at the moment—and then he looked at the card in his hand. The ace of clubs, soiled and sticky; he still had no idea why Worf had purloined the cards or left this one in the mud. Cross only knew he would never be able to do tricks with this deck again.

  THE SPILLWAY

  THANE

  In their years on Thane, the hunters had figured out some very good places to lie in wait. A recess had been hollowed into the massive natural arch, allowing Worf the ability to crouch on his hands and knees without being seen—though the space was so narrow he had reluctantly removed his helmet.

  Worf suspected the four Klingons advancing up the path still had theirs on, reasoning from the lack of discussion that they were using their helmet communicators to avoid making any more noise. But no one could be entirely silent here; he could tell from their footfalls in the sopping wet path that he’d guessed correctly about the direction they’d be coming from. Their pace quickened as they came within sight of the fallen transponder, and then slowed as they grew more cautious. Worf held his breath as he heard the clattering of disruptor rifles growing closer below.

  Close enough. Worf reached for the armored breastplate he’d removed, piled high with the bulbous sacs he’d cut from the dead avian mother’s body. It had been harrowing, trying to get them up the tree without breaking any—and now, holding the breastplate like a tray, he rose to his knees and turned.

  “I am Worf, son of Mogh!” Below, the four Unsung warriors looked up at him, startled to see the glimmering sacs falling toward them. They burst like balloons full of gelatin, spattering the armor of the entire party. Worf didn’t look. He was back inside the rim of the hollowed area, bracing for the onslaught he was sure would follow.

  It did, as one disruptor bolt after another struck the bottom of the petrified arch. Worf fumbled for the knife, hoping the structure would hold just a few more moments. He heard a worrisome crack—

  —and then a series of screeches that nearly shattered his eardrums. Smaller versions of the lesser valandris tore downward through the foliage—although smaller completely failed to describe their size. Each beast outweighed the warriors, and from what Valandris had told him, Worf knew that the scent of their food would drive them into a frenzy.

  With the sounds of chaos below—and his perch ­shaking—Worf grasped the dagger and got up. Seeing a warrior half-covered with the shiny goo below, he announced himself again and dived over the side. His target, already surprised by the avian attack, looked up at the wrong moment. The dagger smashed through his helmet’s faceplate. He howled in pain as the force of Worf’s landing took them both down.

  The Enterprise’s first officer yanked the blade free and rolled off as quickly as he could. Blinded and in agony, the warrior continued to clutch his disruptor rifle, blazing away. Worf rolled off into the swamp, fearful of disruptor fire—and more. The muck, never a safe place to be on Thane, was his only refuge. He sank down low and listened.

  The firing stopped. Looking back, he saw why: two massive avians had pinned the warrior he had struck, feasting on their final meal from their dead mother. Worf saw that one of the warriors was in the swamp, running for his life—while the other two were similarly collapsed. Worf waited until the avians, sated, departed. Then he rose—and quickly sank down again when he realized his tunic had been spattered with goo from the warrior’s armor. He quickly ripped it off and rose shirtless from the brine.

  The exile’s disruptor rifle had not saved him from Worf or the creatures—but it would serve Worf if only he could pry it from the man’s death grip. Breaking it free at last, Worf caused the corpse’s head to roll—and there, in the bloody mess behind the shattered faceplate, he recognized Valandris’s cousin Tharas.

  He looked back up the path toward the transponder. He needed it, if it still worked—and there were two more teams out there, neither of which could have missed hearing the chaos from the avian attack. The creatures had completely cleaned off the odd bits of goo that had spattered on the ground, making it easier for him to cross beneath the failing arch on his way to the transponder.

  He reached the transponder—and heard the characteristic noise that meant it was still sending its homing signal. He breathed in relief—

  —until he heard something else. “Worf
!”

  He turned back to see Valandris, helmet off and rifle in her hand, crouching over Tharas’s lifeless form. Her face was twisted with anguish. “I’m going to kill you.”

  Sixty-one

  Emotions raced through Valandris’s mind. Tharas had been her companion since childhood. His wit had been a rare thing on Thane, and it had infected her; any humor in her character came directly from exposure to him. He had been her partner in many hunts—and had been every bit as devoted to the Unsung’s new leader and mission as she was.

  She had seen friends fall before; such was life on Thane. But since the Fallen Lord’s arrival, no one had died, not even to a member of the planet’s menagerie. It had almost seemed like another of Kruge’s miracles, the fulfillment of a promise. Yes, Valandris had expected there would be casualties eventually in the Unsung—but never Tharas.

  And Valandris had not expected him to fall to someone she had wanted to trust.

  She focused her rage on Worf, fingering the trigger of her weapon. She searched for something cutting to say—but all that came out was, “You killed Tharas.”

  With a dozen meters separating them, Worf calmly stood, a disruptor rifle in his hands. “I slew him in honorable combat,” Worf said. “I announced myself—as a Klingon should.”

  “As what?”

  “It is one of the precepts of Kahless—the ancient Kahless, not the one that you assassinated. Klingons announce themselves.”

  She fired a shot past his head. “Drop the weapon!”

  “No.” Unflustered, Worf took a deep breath—and in a swift motion, pointed his rifle at her. “If you are going to kill me, try. I have been held prisoner much too long on this planet.”

  Valandris seethed, uncaring. Worf’s sudden move wasn’t the response she was expecting; she hadn’t faced any of the Starfleeters one-on-one before. The sight of the weapon roiled her further. “That is Tharas’s rifle.”

  “Yes.”

  “We grew up together,” she said, glancing down at Tharas’s corpse. “He was a little older—he even had a daughter. I heard the yelling over my helmet comm. I had to come . . . to help.”

  “You are alone. Where are the others?”

  “Recalled.” She stood, numb. “Kruge’s getting ready to leave, earlier than planned. A ship’s coming.”

  “A Federation starship?”

  “Enterprise—not that it matters.” She started walking, closing the gap with Worf a step at a time as they pointed their weapons at each other. “If you had let Tharas pass, his team would have gotten the message and left you alone.”

  “I could not have known that.”

  “I didn’t know what Kruge intended for Kahless until he gave his command to the muster,” she said acidly. “As long as we’re talking about who killed whom.”

  “You had akrat’ka. They are not toys.” Worf glowered at her through the darkness. “You would have executed him yourself, had your lord instructed you. Admit it.”

  “He is Kruge,” Valandris declared.

  “Your ‘Kruge’ is a false god. He will lead you to destruction and dishonor!”

  “Dishonor is already ours. We understand desolation like no others.” She shook her head. Life had made sense under the Fallen Lord. Now that fabric was beginning to fray—but only if she allowed it. She could not. “Worf, if we had met you earlier, things might have been different. But he showed us his way—”

  “I do not want to hear more about his way. If you knew the words of Kahless—”

  “One false god for another!” She walked faster.

  “The original Kahless,” Worf said, speaking with passion. “He told the people, ‘You are Klingons. You need no one but yourselves.’ ”

  Valandris stopped walking, several meters still separating them. Potok and the elders had never told them much about Kahless—only Kruge. She contemplated the sentiment. “He really said that?”

  “Kahless did.” His expression softening, Worf lowered his rifle a little. “He said many things. But his words were not about shaming the fallen or the helpless. They were about lifting people up.” He spoke somberly. “Kahless—even his clone—would have guided you, had you given him a chance.”

  It was impossible for her to imagine what her life would have been like if Kahless, rather than Kruge, had found the exiles. What mattered was what had happened. She began to see a balance. Taking a breath, Valandris lowered her weapon. “All right. A life for a life, then.”

  Worf frowned. “It is not that simple.”

  “No, it isn’t.” She looked up. Her ears sharp from years on the hunt, she had heard it before he did. There, rocketing across the sky through the foliage, was a Starfleet shuttle. An announcement over a public address system echoed across the jungle.

  “—is Lieutenant Aneta Šmrhová of the United Federation of Planets,” the human woman called out. “This site is under the authority of Starfleet. Any attempt to flee will be met with force—”

  The shuttle was gone as quickly as it had appeared, bound for Omegoq and the compound. They either hadn’t detected Worf yet, or had bigger concerns. Valandris knew the latter was definitely true. She turned and headed back toward her helmet.

  “Valandris, I cannot let you leave,” he said.

  “I heard the shuttle’s order. Kruge’s order came first. I have been recalled.” She slung her rifle and, with a last sorry look at Tharas, picked up her helmet.

  Worf raised his disruptor again. “All that has happened can be sorted out. But you must face justice.”

  “You forget, son of Mogh—I was convicted before I was born.” She gestured toward the transponder, near his feet. “Forget about me. You’re going to want to use that to make a call.”

  “The transponder is pinging. They will find me in due—”

  “That’s not it. You will be calling your friends to tell them not to enter the compound. They face death if they do—and not from our disruptors.”

  Worf peered at her—and then his eyes widened with recollection. “You mean, the explosives in the old freighter?”

  “They’re in all seven. Kruge’s going to set the whole village off the second your people are on the ground. The Phantom Wing is loaded and cloaked; they may already have taken off.”

  Worf’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “You said Klingons announce themselves. My people may not be Klingons anymore, but I’m not about to let you think you’re better than us.” Her expression softened slightly. “Besides, I never hunted with traps myself—I’d rather beat you in a fair fight. I have to go.”

  Worf did not see her putting the helmet on, or activating its comm systems; he was on his knees beside the emergency device, desperately trying to send a message. She could not stay to wait to see what happened next.

  “Valandris to Chu’charq. One to beam up.”

  Sixty-two

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  Being the last to leave appealed to Cross’s flair for the dramatic—but it also riled his stomach. Chu’charq was in the air, rising even as Federation shuttlecraft passed, circling the compound.

  He swallowed. “Give the shuttles a wide berth.”

  He’d been less worried about detection since the invasion began and more afraid of his cloaked vessels colliding with the newcomers. The rest of the birds-of-prey were already streaking for the other hemisphere; from his hidden earpiece, he heard that Blackstone was following Chu’charq.

  Valandris walked onto the bridge and set down her rifle. “All surviving searchers are aboard, my lord.”

  Hemtara looked to the empty chair nearby and then back at her. “Where is Tharas?”

  “All survivors are aboard,” Valandris repeated grimly.

  Telepathically, Cross sensed the turmoil in the warrior woman. H
e ignored it. “What of Worf?”

  Valandris looked away. “I did not kill him.”

  “You had the chance?” He glared at her. “Speak the truth!”

  “He saw how we live—what the Unsung are. He will spread that word.” Valandris looked back at him, unapologetic. “Your message to the Empire was powerful. The word of a witness will only strengthen it.”

  Cross frowned. Korgh had wanted to limit the audience for the Kruge illusion to the Unsung, but Valandris’s reasoning made sense. No matter: now that he was in the air, it was time to wait for his next cue.

  “Hover at the horizon,” he said. “Continue to scan for assault teams on the surface.”

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING THANE

  La Forge headed toward the bridge engineering station. The captain was directing the shuttles, which were scouting the best spots for landing and beam-ins. He’d been looking for cloaked vessels on the surface or leaving the planet. Enterprise was in geo­synchronous orbit, bombarding the area ahead of it with tachyons; the tactic had made scanning the planet below more challenging.

  But La Forge had seen something at the first-officer’s interface. Checking at the more robust engineering station, he called out. “Captain, I’ve got something. Stratosphere, about a hundred kilometers away from the compound.”

  “Departing?” Picard asked.

  “Stationary. It’s just a flutter.”

  Before Picard could respond, a call came up from the surface. “Enterprise, this is Lieutenant Konya, away team five.”

  “Go ahead,” Picard said.

  “We transported into the jungle to the homing beacon.”

  “Was Worf there?”

  “Negative. It was abandoned. Just boot prints in the mud . . .”

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  THANE

  Worf ran along the trail at a breakneck pace, heedless of the screeches and calls of the wildlife surrounding him. The transponder had survived plenty of abuse since the escape pod’s crash landing, but on checking it after receiving Valandris’s dire warning, he had realized that while the homing signal worked, nothing else on it did. He would not be able to send a message—and he was not about to try to retrieve the communicator in his helmet, abandoned up the now dangerously listing petrified tree. Nor could he consider carrying the hefty transponder. He had to reach Enterprise’s away teams.