• • •
Cross climbed normally as he scaled the ladder from Chu’charq deck two. When no one was around to watch, he could abandon the old man’s mannerisms and act thirty-nine again. Young—for a practitioner of the Circle of Jilaan—but as of now, one of the most accomplished in years. He thought of Ardra, still rotting away in the detention center at Thionoga after her failed attempt to swindle the Ventaxians. The one time he had visited her in prison as a young illusionist looking for guidance, she had belittled him as an amateur; now he could only imagine how she would respond to what he and his own acolyte, Shift, had done on Korgh’s orders.
And he had done even more on his own behalf.
Fakery, its practitioners had long known, could be done quickly or done well. Everyone from the forgers of Ferenginar to the special effects gurus of old Earth had known that simple fact. A truly convincing illusion took time and preparation.
The visuals of Kruge and Korgh participating in the rite of adoption, for example, had taken months to get right. Little imagery existed of the young Korgh; they’d been forced to do computer age regression. Kruge was a well-known historical figure, meaning there was a lot of material depicting him—but that also meant that a public used to his visage would be especially hard to fool. Generating a charred centenarian Kruge good enough to convince the Unsung had been easy by comparison.
The choice, then, was speed or quality—unless luck lent a hand. Kahless had been asleep in Chu’charq’s ready room the night of his “execution.” It was a simple matter for Cross’s team to beam him up to Blackstone’s imaging chamber to build a perfect visual model of the Klingon. But for the execution on Thane to appear real, there needed to be a living body over whom Blackstone could superimpose its holographic mirage.
They had found that person in General Potok. He had been beamed from the kennel to Chu’charq, where he’d received a sudden promotion to emperor thanks to Blackstone’s technical magic. Little else had been necessary. The old man’s condition neatly matched Kahless’s weary stagger, improving the illusion immensely. And most important, his facial expressions of defeated dignity were spot-on.
Potok had died for real, wearing the mien of Kahless. Cross had taken for himself a prize far beyond the riches Korgh had promised him. He unsealed the door leading to a short hall. A force field, erected by his truthcrafter assistants, barred the open doorway to the storage room at the far end.
“Good morning, Emperor,” Cross said, still dressed as Kruge.
Stalking around the storage room, Kahless shot him a caustic look. “You again.”
“The wrong me. Just a moment.” Cross snapped his fingers and turned back into himself. “I hope you’re making yourself at home.”
“The couch in the ready room was better.”
“I couldn’t keep you there. You were moaning about chains or something. I had to beam you back to Blackstone until they could make you a space here.”
“Where you could keep me as a pet,” Kahless grumbled, “without your imbecile followers knowing you faked my death.” He glared. “You should have killed me for real.”
“Oh, I would never do that.” The Betazoid sat down cross-legged in front of the force field and clasped his hands together excitedly. “I told you. You’re unique. Maybe in the whole quadrant. You’re a god come back to life.”
“Kahless the Unforgettable was no god. He was a man.”
“Whatever. Demigod, if you want. He’s got that status—or don’t you people swear by his name? Come on, you know you do.” Cross gushed. “Kahless, you’ve been playing a role, like me—only yours is a role you were literally born to play. With all the lines already imprinted in your head. For an actor, that’s a situation I can only imagine!”
Kahless yawned and stretched. “You bore me.”
Cross looked at Kahless—and yawned and stretched, himself. “You bore me,” he said.
“Mockery.”
“No, mimicry. I’m a Method actor. I like to learn everything about who I’m playing.” The door at the end of the hall behind Cross opened. Shift stepped in, dressed in a light saffron robe; he smiled seeing her as herself again. He took her hand and stood. “I was telling Kahless of my ideas for him.”
Kahless slowly got what Cross was saying. “You . . . intend to play me?”
“I’m thinking about it. This Kruge character is fascinating—but he’s not likely to fool anyone beyond the Unsung. Meeting Worf told me that.” He rubbed his neck. “And talking like Kruge is pretty gruff. It’s hard on my throat.” He smiled. “But you, my friend clone—you already have a following. And if you come back from the dead, it’s not trickery. It’s prophecy.”
Kahless looked at him blankly. “I will not help you,” he said, crossing his arms and turning away.
“You help me every time I look at you. Your whole life is citing lines. Those shouldn’t be too hard to memorize.” He smiled. “We’ll beam you in some food soon. Eat this time—you’re starting to waste away.” With a laugh, Cross turned and led Shift back down the hall.
The door sealed behind them, they embraced. She looked searchingly at him. “We’re still working for Korgh, right? He just had Odrok send our next moves.”
“Oh, absolutely. We’ve got a team sitting in Blackstone eating replicator food and waiting to get paid.”
“But Korgh thinks Kahless is dead.”
“And he can think that.” He chuckled. “My business partner has a lot of ideas—but he only knows a fraction of what I am and what I can do.”
Shift, he knew, was still learning that herself. She still looked worried. “Korgh is in deep. He could be deadly.”
“Then I’ll give him a line from another great figure, dear—a Terran dramatist. ‘Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, for they are subtle and quick to anger.’ ”
“You’re horrible.”
He was going to elaborate, but she stopped his mouth with a kiss.
Sixty-five
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E
ORBITING THANE
Twelve birds-of-prey, La Forge thought. There might as well be twelve million.
Working in main engineering long after his shift had ended, La Forge had tried every trick in his book. He’d even broken out Montgomery Scott’s book. He’d tried just about every tactic ever recorded for sensing the locations of cloaked objects, to no avail.
Enterprise had been able to work backward to pursue the vessels to Thane. But the Unsung had fled the nest, with no known destination. There was only their message, promising mischief against the Klingons, their allies, and anyone who negotiated with the Empire. That offered little guidance as to where they’d go next. If the Unsung—or whoever had modified the Phantom Wing vessels for them—had figured out how to keep the starships cloaked in the unpredictable medium of the Briar Patch, there was little to be done. The Enterprise could crisscross the galaxy showering the sky with everything from alpha particles to tachyons and it wouldn’t find them.
There was no use trying to go to sleep. Giving in, La Forge replayed for the umpteenth time the Enterprise’s sensor logs from Thane, just before the explosion. Why was there only one contact and not more?
Next he turned once again to the broad scans Enterprise had made of the surrounding space after the conflagration in the compound. More noise from the metaphasic madhouse that was the Briar Patch. Unless . . .
There it was again. The flutter. Less than a hiccup, it had happened while he was looking at something else on the bridge. It was subtle, far beneath the threshold at which the ship’s computer would have flagged the incident. Stranger, while the readings suggested the thing causing the anomaly was in motion, it wasn’t moving too quickly.
It reminded him of the way birds-of-prey with imperfectly functioning cloaks were sniffed out. You could track their course in part because how the ships of that class
traveled was a known variable. This particular glitch didn’t fit that profile. It was on the move—departing the planet—but not like a high-performance attack craft. This contact moved like a support vessel.
There’s a thirteenth ship out there.
La Forge replicated some coffee and went back to work. If he couldn’t find the Phantom Wing, he’d settle for nabbing someone who knew where they were.
• • •
Admiral Riker had sent Picard a message from Titan after departing Qo’noS; an Enterprise shuttle had conveyed the message to the captain inside the Briar Patch. Picard had seldom seen his former protégé more somber. Understandably so: he had been dealt a major diplomatic setback, perhaps the worst since Command had made him a special envoy-at-large.
Riker reported the words that Galdor—Picard still had trouble thinking of him as Korgh—had been speaking both privately and publicly about the Accords. There would be no sundering of a century-long partnership over the Kahless incident: that was not the story here. The ties between the Federation and Empire were many, the mutual interests plentiful. The greater danger was to the singular treasure that James Kirk and Azetbur had discovered on Khitomer: trust. The asset had compounded in value over the years. Any drain on the account meant less was available to be drawn upon the next time something threatened both parties.
Martok could take care of his own political fortunes, but the job had grown more difficult. His take on the situation was summed up in the one request he had made of Riker: Fix this.
The admiral had shared the request with Picard without comment. It was already Starfleet’s goal. The captain didn’t feel the need to repeat the message to Worf, who was sitting uneasily in his ready room. The first officer had just finished providing a detailed a description of the Unsung. Their ships, weapons, tactics—as well as their culture and goals, as he understood them.
Picard sensed there was more. “What else, Number One?”
Worf hesitated before speaking. “Valandris is strong and independent,” he finally said. “Her kidnapping of me, her warning about the trap—these were acts of defiance, declarations of self. Yet she longed for a leader, someone other than herself. They all did.”
“And that is why they kidnapped you?”
“Apparently. It was not a role I wanted, and they were already under the spell of whoever is impersonating Kruge.” Worf frowned. “I do not understand it. True power comes from within. I can see needing a teacher—like those Klingons I encountered who lived under Romulan control. But not a ruler.”
Considering the question, Picard said, “A religion on Earth suggested the existence of a place called Limbo—literally, the limb or edge of hell. It was a temporary place for those who could not ascend to heaven without the intervention of a savior. Perhaps that is what the Unsung were seeking: someone from outside to intervene.”
Worf shook his head. “If they had not been deprived of their culture, they would know they do not need anyone else. In ‘The Story of the Promise’ the historical Kahless tells us we need only to depend on ourselves.”
“But does he not also promise in that story that he will return?” Picard paused thoughtfully. “I don’t presume to interpret your beliefs, Worf, but I would assume that the original Kahless must have thought his presence would have been of assistance.”
Considering it that way stirred something in Worf’s memory. “I was required to perform a feat to guarantee Jadzia’s admission into Sto-Vo-Kor.”
“Surely her heroics were enough?”
“She had not fallen in combat. That made my act necessary.”
“Intercession by a third party does have a place,” Picard said. “Perhaps the Unsung, in their way, were reaching out to you for help.”
“Kruge was there. There was nothing I could say to move them.”
“No.” The captain looked kindly on Worf. “Get some rest, Number One. There are busy days ahead. Dismissed.”
Worf rose from his chair and stepped toward the door. Just before exiting, he paused and turned. “Captain, there is something I hadn’t thought of.”
“What’s that?”
“Kahless the Unforgettable is said to guard Sto-Vo-Kor. He helps determine who enters.” He opened his palms before him. “But Kahless the clone is like Jadzia.”
“He did not fall in battle.” Picard’s eyes widened as he comprehended the scope of the matter. “What feat could possibly be grand enough to get the reincarnation of Kahless into Sto-Vo-Kor? And what mortal would dare presume to take it on?”
Worf stared at the deck for a long moment and took a deep breath. “I will think of something.” The door closed behind him.
CONTINUES IN
BOOK 2:
THE JACKAL’S TRICK
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
In 2014, I approached editor Margaret Clark with an idea for an ambitious three-volume epic that would, among other things, severely test the alliance between the Federation and the Klingon Empire. Months followed during which I zeroed in on the story I wanted to tell, aided greatly by her suggestions—as well as the helpful guidance of John Van Citters of CBS. I appreciate their support, as well as that of Ed Schlesinger, Scott Pearson, and the whole Pocket Books team.
For inspiration, I am also indebted to the filmmakers behind two of my favorite installments, Star Trek III: The Search for Spock and Star Trek VI: The Undiscovered Country, as well as the creators of Star Trek: The Next Generation episodes dealing with Kahless and discommendation. Gratitude also goes to many Trek authors past and present whose works I consulted, with particular nods to Michael Jan Friedman and Keith R. A. DeCandido, whose Kahless and The Klingon Art of War volumes, respectively, provided useful background. I also drew upon the Klingon language works of Marc Okrand, as well as the linguistic advice of Felix Malmenbeck. Locations are based on Star Trek: Star Charts and Star Trek: Stellar Cartography.
Finally, kudos go to Trek mavens James Mishler, Brent Frankenhoff, Robert Peden, and Michael Singleton for their feedback and proofreading assistance, as well as to Meredith Miller, proofreader and Number One on my bridge.
Volume One down, two to go. Engage!
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Jackson Miller is the New York Times bestselling author of the novels Star Trek: The Next Generation: Takedown; Star Wars: A New Dawn; Star Wars: Kenobi; Star Wars: Knight Errant; Star Wars: Lost Tribe of the Sith—The Collected Stories; as well as Overdraft: The Orion Offensive and the Star Wars: Knights of the Old Republic graphic novels. He has also written the eNovella Star Trek: Titan: Absent Enemies. A comics industry historian and analyst, he has written for franchises including Halo, Conan, Iron Man, Indiana Jones, Mass Effect, Planet of the Apes, and The Simpsons. He lives in Wisconsin with his wife, two children, and far too many comic books.
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Cover art by Doug Drexler and Ali Ries
ISBN 978-1-5011-1579-0
ISBN 978-1-5011-1604-9 (ebook)
Hell's Heart Page 35