Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  Exploding from the woods, Worf raced toward the village. Shuttles were hovering above it, shining floodlights on the ground. He could see the shimmering glow of transporter effects here and there all across the area.

  He tripped over the rise near the farthest watchtower and tumbled over the hill. Worf was up again in an instant, waving his arms and yelling. It was no use when they were still so far away, but he kept going while he still had breath.

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  THANE

  “Starfleet assault teams have been transported to the surface,” Hemtara said.

  “Begin priming sequence,” the Fallen Lord ordered.

  Valandris, now at the tactical station, looked at the mass of life signs now in the compound and took a breath. She had tried to help Worf, but Kruge’s word was law. She toggled the control. “Explosives armed. Detonation in thirty seconds.”

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING THANE

  Picard was about to return to the matter of La Forge’s mysterious reading when Šmrhová called in from her shuttle. “Contact, contact. We see Worf.”

  La Forge saw it too. “I have his coordinates.”

  “Beam him directly to the bridge,” Picard commanded.

  Picard stood and watched, rapt, as Worf materialized before him. The commander, who had been in full run, skidded to a halt just before the port bulkhead.

  Shirtless, muddied, and bruised, Worf held himself up against the support column and spoke through gasps. “Explosives . . . trap. Get everyone offworld!”

  Picard didn’t think twice. “Recall all forces, now!”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  THANE

  Cross couldn’t resist turning the vessel about and walking, with Shift’s character’s aid, to the forward port. Hell broke loose. He saw the light first: a pillar of fire, expanding upward and outward. Omegoq, which had been home for a year, had hosted its last performance.

  As distant as they were, the shockwave would certainly reach them if they lingered. They would find out about Starfleet casualties later. Chu’charq lurched and turned, heading off into the darkness. Soon it would be in space, heading for the preplanned rallying point. He gripped Shift’s hand.

  “The Fallen Lord must retire to his quarters,” she said. “He does not travel well at warp.”

  “I understand,” Valandris said.

  She really didn’t. His and Shift’s illusions only worked while Blackstone was nearby—and the birds-of-prey were much faster. Blackstone knew their destination and would follow them. Cross and Shift would remain in quarters until the support vessel caught up.

  He could then return to working on his other project—one even his patron Korgh didn’t know about.

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING THANE

  Watching the explosion from orbit would have been quite the spectacle, had Picard not been worried about the away teams in the area. He had seen the flash on the view­screen, but his attentions—and those of his crew—were on ­retrieval.

  The repairs that had been made since Gamaral to the transporters held up; everyone on the surface had been recovered. Even Konya’s team, which, though distant from the epicenter, had been beamed out just as the fireball swept across the swamp. Šmrhová had gotten the word in time. Several shuttles had been battered horribly in escaping the fiery miasma, but matériel and personnel losses were zero.

  Finally able to take a breath, Picard looked again at the magnified images on the main viewscreen. For several moments, the crater with the settlement had outshone the planet’s sun. Now it was a smoking caldera, black smoke billowing across the surface of the world.

  “No contacts anywhere,” La Forge said, breaking into the silence.

  “Do you think the birds-of-prey were in that?” Dygan asked.

  Worf, sitting bare-chested on the bridge, shook his head vigorously.

  Picard agreed. “Ops, continue scanning in all directions.” As Crusher entered the bridge, he turned to Worf. He asked, “How are you, Number One?”

  “Captain,” Worf said, bleary-eyed and panting. “I must report . . . an incident.”

  Picard glanced at La Forge and Crusher and grinned, all three marveling at Worf’s devotion. “I’ll take that report in sickbay.”

  ENTR’ACTE

  KORGH’S TARGET

  2386

  “A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green.”

  —Francis Bacon

  Sixty-three

  THE GREAT HALL

  QO’NOS

  “Kruge?” Korgh laughed loudly. “You have recovered enough to joke, son of Mogh.”

  “I do not joke,” Worf said on the viewscreen. “That is who the Fallen Lord claimed to be. I did not believe him.”

  “I should hope not!”

  Korgh tried to act amazed as he sat in Martok’s private office alongside Admiral Riker and Ambassador Rozhenko. While Enterprise remained at Thane, continuing its investigation along with several newly arrived Klingon vessels, Worf was in a shuttle on the perimeter of the nebula in order to share his report. He appeared haggard but unharmed.

  “He looked convincing, based on what little I have seen of Kruge before,” Worf said. “But whoever or whatever he was, what matters is that the Unsung believed him. They said he arrived aboard one of the Phantom Wing vessels and that he supplied them with the rest.”

  Korgh glanced over at Martok. The chancellor had been watching Korgh keenly since the conversation began, perhaps trying to see if anything sparked an untoward reaction. That wasn’t going to happen. As soon as Korgh had learned that Worf had survived, he had prepared a variety of responses based on what the Federation commander knew.

  “Perhaps one of Potok’s comrades left Thane decades ago,” Korgh said, “and returned later in this disguise. That would explain why the younger generations didn’t recognize him. Deception for a bunch of young fools who had never met him. It was not Kruge.” He scratched his beard calculatingly. “You said that Potok had disappeared without a trace. Perhaps this was his scheme.”

  “I do not think so,” Worf responded. “But it is possible that, in a hundred years, one of his lieutenants could have done as you suggest.”

  From the responses around the room, it appeared to Korgh that Martok and the others concurred. At their agreement, Worf announced that he needed to return to the Enterprise, and Thane, to continue the investigation. The Phantom Wing needed to be found, and the Unsung’s origins needed to be cleared up.

  “If this Kruge can be proven a fraud, then perhaps Kahless might yet live.”

  What a strange idea, Korgh thought. “Is there any evidence of deception?”

  “None,” Worf said, looking weary. After a short silence, he continued. “When I was escaping the Unsung, I thought I heard his words, urging me on.”

  No one seemed to know what to say to that. Finally, Rozhenko said, “It is good to see you, Father.”

  “And you.” Worf looked up. “I am sorry I failed Kahless, Chancellor. He will be avenged.”

  Martok nodded magnanimously. “We will both see to that, Worf. Qapla’.”

  The transmission ended, leaving three Klingons and one human alone with their thoughts. Of all the High Council members, only Korgh had been invited to confer with the chancellor and the Federation representatives about Worf’s news. He had already figured out why, but Martok made it plain.

  “I have decided to keep this Kruge nonsense secret, Korgh. Even from the council.” Martok appeared troubled; he’d clearly been thinking about it. “Starfleet will keep Kruge’s name out of its public reports. You know how many admirers your adoptive father yet has in the Empire. The assassins gave us a gift by not putting their imposter on screen in their message.”

  Picturing Kruge in the message would have made m
y life difficult, Korgh thought. Which is exactly why it was not done.

  “We had no choice but to reveal the Unsung were the Kling­ons discommendated after Gamaral,” Martok said. “But I will not have people who admired Kruge giving those wretches their sympathy because of some hoaxer.” His outrage grew as he spoke. “This cult tears at the very idea of discommendation. It goes beyond empowering dishonored Klingons. It makes honor itself cheap, as if its loss is no more meaningful than casting away a dull d’k tahg.”

  “I agree,” Korgh said. “We must crush the Unsung before they poison any other minds. They must be completely annihilated. Not a trace of their heresy must remain.” Turning his head, he glowered at Riker. “Do you think your Starfleet bumblers can manage at least that, now that you know who and what you are hunting?”

  If he was insulted by the effrontery, Riker showed no sign. “We can.”

  Korgh kept pressing. “I wasn’t going to criticize Starfleet in front of Worf, who strove valiantly. But you must admit your people have failed everyone you tried to protect.”

  Martok waved his hand dismissively. “Enough, Korgh. Starfleet retains the confidence of my government.”

  “Ah. I wonder,” Korgh observed mildly, “if they also had the confidence of the emperor, when he was being stabbed to death.”

  The ambassador gawked. “That’s out of line!”

  “Is it?” Korgh pointed at Riker. “Your Starfleet allowed discommendated vermin to lurk in their space for years. Don’t deny it. I saw the report Picard shared. Spock knew they were there!”

  “But not,” Riker said, “what they would turn into.”

  “He should have known. A gamble by a know-it-all Vulcan, who had no idea about our customs. Spock is one of the architects of this crime!”

  “Stop!” Martok stood, pounding his desk with both fists. “I will not have this. Spock forged the Khitomer Accords with the Empire!”

  Korgh took a deep breath, calming himself before speaking in level tones. “Indeed Spock did, Chancellor. But even at that moment, he had already given haven to these renegades.”

  “The Briar Patch wasn’t even Federation territory at the time,” Riker said.

  “And do you think our people—who have seen their emperor executed with their own eyes—will find that argument compelling?” Korgh stood. “I do not.”

  Steaming, Martok watched Korgh walk toward the door. “What are you doing now?”

  Stopping, Korgh turned and faced the others. “I am going back to my fellow councillors. I will not tell anyone of the Kruge imposter; you are right about that. But you are wrong to put so much faith in the Federation, and I will say so.”

  Riker studied him. “Does this mean you’re going to fight the H’atorian Conference?”

  Korgh let the question hang for a moment. “No. But those who listen to me will have the same demand I will. The Accords are the Accords. But for this treaty, I will insist that the Empire bargain independently from the Federation.”

  Alexander’s eyes widened. “Since the Typhon Pact was formed, the Khitomer signatories have always bargained as one.”

  “Not this time. I further expect a greater role for my house, as this involves worlds we administer. I will select the exact conference site on H’atoria or elsewhere—and I will choose the Empire’s lead negotiator.”

  Martok glared, defiant. “You will not dictate to me.”

  “Of course not. The council merely advises,” Korgh said. “That will be our advice. And if you were not already in a corner, Martok, you would not have invited me to this room.”

  Halfway out the door, Korgh looked in at the Federation representatives. “I hope you two have been enjoying your stay on Qo’noS. The food here is the best in the galaxy.”

  • • •

  It was amazing how quickly word spread in the First City. Korgh had refrained from giving a speech on the council floor while Martok was absent: that would have been too much. But he gave a rousing talk in the hall outside the chamber, before councillors, staffers, and opinion-makers in the media. If his words in private had not convinced Martok, his public words definitely would—once enough people repeated them.

  He saw evidence of his performance on the way to dinner with his new friends. Whereas the death of Kahless had sent Klingons to the streets, singing their emperor’s name and bemoaning his passing, Korgh’s words had sent them someplace specific. Mourners young and old gathered outside the confines of the Federation Consulate. Few people were on the worksite, since its expansion and renovation project had paused in deference to the emperor’s passing. But those who were there got an earful of invective. The protest was peaceful—but not quiet.

  It salved his wound: learning that the Unsung’s trap had failed to kill anyone. Then again, that had been a secon­dary goal anyway. It fit the image of a bloodthirsty band of ­barbarians—and it cleansed the planet of evidence. The equipment he’d had delivered to Thane over the past year had been anonymously sourced and smuggled there, but it didn’t hurt to make sure.

  Korgh was almost to his quarters when word reached him that Martok had agreed to his terms. The Empire would speak for itself at H’atoria. Thwarted, Riker and Rozhenko were leaving aboard Titan to prepare for the conference, their bargaining power halved.

  It had probably seemed to Martok like a small sop, and perhaps it was: Korgh wasn’t really interested in influencing the discussions of the conference. No, what it represented was a tiny break, a small fracture cleaving the partners. The thin end of the wedge. Korgh had gained his house, but his plan had always been to do more than that. Kruge had despised the Federation and would have reviled the alliance; Cross had incorporated that into the character he played. Korgh would carry forward his mentor’s policies—and the Unsung would be the tool by which he would drive the Empire out of the Accords.

  It was Spock who had forged the peace with the Klingon Empire a century before. Now Korgh would make Spock the one responsible for the Accords’ undoing. In giving aid to Korgh’s former allies, Spock had unwittingly given him a weapon. A weapon he was far from finished using.

  The new lord could see all manner of possibilities before him. The Federation might be reduced to junior partner in the future to keep the Klingons’ goodwill. The Empire might join—or lead—a newly configured Typhon Pact. Or it might create a pact of its own. Only two things were certain. The next Klingon century would look far different from the last—and his family would be its driving force. His sons and grandsons would never have to fight, as he had, to claim their legacy.

  The door to his suite slid open. He could hear rustling. “I know you’re here, Odrok,” he said as he stepped across his threshold. “Show yourself. There is more work to be done.”

  Sixty-four

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  UNNAMED WORLD, SON’A SECTOR

  Having lived on Thane her whole life, Valandris had never seen a sky so dark. The vessels had found a hiding place on the surface of a rogue planet, a world shrouded in perpetual night as it floated between star systems. Lord Kruge’s mastery of strategy was absolute, as always: Starfleet and Kling­on forces would investigate a number of places before they got anywhere near here. They’d even felt safe about deactivating their cloaking devices. The cloaks would be needed in the days to come.

  Leaving home had been a new thing for her people, but the Fallen Lord had sent them on journeys during the previous year: fetching his other birds-of-prey and emptying his stashes of weapons and munitions. Valandris had even gone with one of Kruge’s acolytes from above, a nameless, elderly female engineer, through the wormhole to the Gamma Quadrant. While Valandris and her companions learned new hunting techniques from the local species, the woman had stolen the technology that had made boarding Enterprise possible.

  But while she had grown used to travel, this was the first time that all the Unsung
had left the nebula. They were living on ships again, just as their discommendated forebears had. The good news was that the birds-of-prey were designed for standard crews of thirty-six, meaning the Unsung population divided comfortably between them all—even given the fact that the Fallen Lord had claimed deck one on the port side of the main body of Chu’charq for an additional private study. She felt honored to be aboard his flagship, even though she knew it was the luck of the draw that had put her there.

  She watched him now, speaking in the mess hall on an open channel to the other eleven ships. Leaving Thane appeared to have revitalized Kruge. He had held forth on what they had left behind and on the sacrifice of the fallen, including Tharas. She liked hearing that. Then Kruge had turned energetically toward the future that lay before them.

  “You have left the crèche,” the scarred Klingon proclaimed. “And soon you will strike again, bringing down more of those whose devotion is to selfish things. The past is dead. Under my guidance, you will reach the pinnacle of existence. The Empire promised you seven generations of misery. I give you eternal power.”

  “Hail Kruge!” Valandris got caught up herself in the whoops and calls from the crowd—and she could hear over the comm cheering coming from the other vessels.

  N’Keera helped him make his way from the assembly. “He must meditate,” she said. The Fallen Lord regarded Valandris mutely as he walked past; she wondered if her failure to kill Worf still offended him.

  In truth, she knew it was no failure. It had been a choice, and she still did not know why she had made it—especially after seeing Tharas dead by Worf’s hand. It was something about the ancient Kahless, and the words he’d spoken to the Klingon people, she recalled. But she could not remember the exact wording, and as the cheers went up again for the exiting Kruge, she wondered why she had made that decision.