Hell's Heart (29 page)

Fifty-five

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

E
N
R
OUTE TO THE
B
RIAR
P
ATCH

S
tellar cartography had been La Forge's second home since
Enterprise
began its trip to the Briar Patch. The starship had scanned for any hint of the Phantom Wing both while in warp and during periodic slowdowns—and while the engineer could have looked in on the progress from anywhere, he found the room with its holographic depiction of the cosmos the best vantage point. Having a visual representation of what was on all sides of the vessel helped give context to the impossibly large variety of emissions the ship was tracking.

But even with that assistance, it seemed impossible to narrow down the possible signals for study. Lord Korgh had certainly helped matters by revealing what sorts of ships they were searching for, but a rogue force that had a hundred years to prepare had plenty of time for modifications. La Forge had told his team to assume the Phantom Wing ships were a completely new class when it came to searching for their cloaking devices.

He was about to give up for the night when the door opened behind him. “Hi, Aneta. Back again?”

“I was going to say, ‘Still here?' ” The security chief walked to the railing near where he was sitting.

She had visited the room often, though they had seldom talked much during those times. The two of them had been in the same boat since Gamaral, with both their departments working double shifts in the hopes of redemption. It had been all they could do to prevent it from becoming a competition. When verbal javelins were coming at him from the Klingon High Council, the last thing the captain needed was finger-pointing within his own crew.

La Forge stretched, barely suppressing a yawn. “I'm just hoping we're going the right direction.”

“We follow the intel,” Å mrhová said. “It's all we've—”

A chime interrupted her, while in the void above and to her left, a white marker appeared.

“Something's happening,” La Forge said, working the interface to bring up the magnification.

“What is it?”

“There's a strong subspace signal emanating from a location in neutral space on the outskirts of the Xarantine sector. There shouldn't be anything there.”

“Signal? What kind of signal?”

“It's a powerful transmission. Vid. No audio.” La Forge looked up. “Computer, project incoming image from the isolated grid point.”

“Projecting image.”

Stark golden lettering appeared against a black background. Two lines, one in Klingon and the other in Standard, both said the same thing:

STAND BY.

La Forge touched his combadge without thinking. “La Forge to Picard.”

“Yes, Commander?”

“I think someone's about to tell us something.”
And they want to make damned good and sure we hear it . . .

U
NSUNG
C
OMPOUND

T
HANE

Worf had found it very difficult to slip away from the other warriors marching toward the clearing at the foot of the Hill of the Dead. But once there, he'd found it wasn't that hard to go unnoticed. So many armored members of the Unsung were
there, all relentlessly jostling to find their way to the front area facing the rear of the nearest bird-of-prey. Spotlights had been set up, highlighting both it and the throng. Whatever “Kruge” was going to tell the rest of the galaxy, Worf realized, he wouldn't be showing a disciplined army. The Unsung were more of a horde.

Maybe that's the idea.

In the rear of the group, Worf set down his
akrat'ka
and pretended to adjust his boot. Removing it, he found what he'd hidden inside and applied the bit of resin he'd found in the kennel to it. He affixed it to his weapon, just below where the blade met the shaft. He put his boot back on and made for the gathering.

Forcing his way forward took time—time he feared was running out. How long was it until midnight? It was impossible to tell from Thane's sky—but looking up, he was pleased to see there was no cloud cover. Pushing his way between annoyed warriors, Worf faced the bird-of-prey and prepared himself.

The younger children were boarding the other birds-of-prey, he saw: taking tours or going someplace? Whichever, it had left only warriors on the ground, two hundred or more, all holding weapons like his. He wondered if Valandris was here, somewhere, in this sea of helmeted heads.

Probably
. He had thought on occasion he was getting through to her. She had seemed strong and decisive, things a Klingon should aspire to. Her potential truncated from the start, her malnourished spirit had looked anywhere and everywhere for guidance. To Potok, who had failed to provide any. For some reason, to Worf. And, critically, to Kruge, or whoever the Fallen Lord really was. He still could not believe that—

Ahead, the landing ramp of the lead bird-of-prey opened, washing the ground in reddish light. Worf recognized the markings: it was the ship that had brought him to Thane.
Chu'charq
, Valandris had called it. Two members of the Unsung descended first, each bearing imaging devices. One turned to face the vessel, while another scanned the crowd. It
was time. With a glance at the sky, Worf repositioned his lance and turned so he was facing the recording unit.

If Worf was worried about anyone looking at him, he needn't have been concerned, for the Fallen Lord emerged next—­wearing black gear like everyone else. He had a helmet under his arm. At the sight, the crowd rumbled with approval.

The scarred Klingon paused at the foot of the steep ramp and called out. “There are no leaders in this movement. I am one of you. For today, I will appear as you. And we will appear united.”

Everyone around Worf cheered, fists pumping. He struggled to retain his position.

“You were condemned for crimes committed before you were born,” the Fallen Lord continued. “Crimes in fact committed by the lowest of the low—raised high by those in power. Dishonor is honor. The Empire is turned upside down. With justice meted out on Gamaral, you have begun to turn it back.”

Cheering began again—but “Kruge” raised his hand to forestall it. He put on his helmet and turned. “Behold,” he said, his voice amplified by his helmet's public address system. “Look upon another low thing raised on high by the Empire.” He looked back up into the ship. There, the emperor appeared, naked from the waist up and wrapped in chains. He looked about the assemblage as one in a daze.

Kahless?
Worf broke from his stance. What did the Fallen Lord intend?

“He is shy,” the old man said. “Encourage him, Valandris.”

Another black-clad figure appeared behind Kahless, holding a lance. She prodded his back. He moved down the ramp, foot by leaden foot, barely able to keep his balance on the sharp incline.

“In the Empire they perform a rite at the Age of Ascension,” the Fallen Lord said. “Today, we will show the Empire that
growing up means putting aside childish things—including pretending.”

He gestured toward the warriors nearest him, who responded by queuing into two parallel rows at the end of the ramp. Others around Worf got the same idea, quickly lining up. He struggled to make his way toward them, but everyone was in motion now.

Higher on the ramp, Worf saw Valandris stop her slow, prodding advance. Did
she
know what “Kruge” intended?

He looked on the weary emperor's bowed head and stepped clear. “You were born from blood on a knife,” the Fallen Lord said to Kahless. “Feel our blades—and end.”

“No!”
Calling out, Worf forced his body through the crowd like a machine. But there were too many, on either side of Kahless, jabbing him with their weapons. They were not the painstiks of the adulthood ritual. The blades were jagged and cut deep. He heard a mournful cry and could see Kahless no longer.

•   •   •

Cross looked to his right as the Unsung took their bloody turns. There was a commotion—and not simple overexuberance. There was violence, wrestling. He couldn't allow his scene to be disturbed. Drawing his disruptor from his holster, he took aim at the writhing thing on the ground and fired.

The body incinerated quickly. He knelt and pulled up a chain attached to a bloody, snapped collar. “Now begins the new day!”

An Unsung soldier lunged through the crowd, grasping for him. Valandris, who had been under some kind of spell, snapped out of it and rushed downward. The powerful attacker struck Cross in the midsection, knocking him on his armored backside. Valandris threw her body into the attacker—and the scrum was on. Tumbling, Cross saw the same person over and over again: when all of them looked alike, everyone in the mob
became the mystery assailant to be attacked, the Fallen Lord to be saved. Looking up, he saw a warrior sailing overhead, thrown by someone. No fighter, Cross rolled over, desperate to protect himself.

He was on his hands and knees in the dirt when the madness subsided a little. Unsung warriors who had been in the pile now left, all running up
Chu'charq
's ramp. A warrior reached for him. “Lord Kruge, is that you?”

“Of course it is,” he said, flustered. “Who are you? Who was
that
?”

His rescuer removed her helmet, and he saw that it was Valandris. “It could have been Worf, my lord. He escaped into the ship.”

Cross could barely remember to speak in character. “Execute him!”

She paused for a moment before disappearing up the ramp.

He was incensed; his show had been crashed. He heard a voice in his helmet comm. It was Gaw, the leader of his
Blackstone
team in orbit.
“Cross, are you all right?”

“Forget about me. Did you get the imagery from the recorders here?”

“That's affirmative.”

“Can you edit the riot out and use the rest?”

“We're on it.”

All was not lost. “Send it as soon as it's ready—with the message.”

“Don't you want to see it first?”

“We've got someone to kill down here,” Cross said. “Someone
else
, that is.”

Fifty-six

F
EDERATION
C
ONSULATE

Q
O
'
NO
S

R
iker reached a diplomatic staffer's desk just in time to see the transmission from the start.
Enterprise
had alerted him immediately, and the admiral had broken off his conference with the Federation's negotiating team to find a spot in front of a screen.

The “stand by” message disappeared, replaced with a soundless visual. A teeming throng of warriors, dressed as the assassins from Gamaral, stood with long weapons in their hands. Some stood in shadows, others in bright light as the camera tracked past. Words appeared in Klingon and Standard at the bottom of the screen:

WE ARE THOSE YOU WILL NOT FACE. WE ARE THOSE WHOSE DEEDS GO UNSUNG.

Riker tried to focus on the individual warriors. There were so many, gathered like a horde of ancient barbarians before an attack. Eyes locked on the screen, he tapped his combadge.
“Mister Ambassador, there's something you ought to see . . .”

T
HE
G
REAT
H
ALL

Q
O
'
NO
S

The ambassador was already watching it. Rozhenko had been invited into the councillors' retreat, a location off the main chamber where the Klingons practiced their version of cloakroom politicking. Lord Korgh had been holding court
there for the better part of an hour. Korgh had been open with everyone about the origin of the Phantom Wing; now he was recounting how General Potok and his discommendated companions and descendants were on a vendetta to destroy his house. He'd found a sympathetic audience; most were as outraged as he was.

But when the councillors' aides put the message up on the viewscreen, the room fell silent. The Klingons gawked at the size of the force as the captions changed:

KLINGON HONOR IS A FRAUD. THE SO-CALLED NOBLES OF THE HOUSE OF KRUGE WORE HONOR LIKE A COSTUME BOUGHT AT A BAZAAR.

“Those are the assassins,” someone said. “Korgh was right!”

KLINGON COURAGE IS A CHARADE. THE HIGH COUNCILLORS AWARD TITLES TO OLD COWARDS WHO NEVER FOUGHT FOR THEIR CLAIMS.

“They mean me,” Korgh said emotionlessly. He did not wait to see more. “I must go to the council floor.”

“What?” asked the ambassador. “Council isn't in session.”

“It is now,” Korgh called out. He was already on his way.

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

X
ARANTINE
S
ECTOR

Picard had endured terrible things in his career, from horrors with the Borg to Cardassian torture. But when a figure appeared on the bridge viewscreen in chains and being prodded down the ramp of a bird-of-prey, he steeled himself. Here, as
Enterprise
raced toward the source of the message, the captain knew he was about to see something just as ­terrible.

KLINGON TRUTH IS A SHAM. THE PEOPLE KNOWINGLY ACCEPT A COUNTERFEIT KAHLESS AS THEIR MORAL LEADER.

Silence made it all the more eerie as the image of the prisoner held for a moment before closing in. Nearby, he heard several officers gasp. It was the face of Kahless. Weary and ­battered—but also serene, resigned.

Elsewhere on
Enterprise
—and, Picard was certain, in the Klingon Empire and everywhere else—people were studying the images, looking for any possibility of forgery. But the face, and the nobility in that face, could belong to no other. It was unmistakably the emperor.

DISEASE IS TAKING THE BODY. LIMBS MUST BE SEVERED. THE SURGEON WEARS A MASK. THE UNSUNG ARE THE KNIFE.

Picard winced as the first lance pierced Kahless's skin. And then another, and another. He could hear the tumult the sequence was causing around him on the bridge, but he forced himself to continue watching, as regicide continued, in slow-motion.

THE OPERATION WILL BE PAINFUL. WE MUST PUNISH THE EMPIRE. WE MUST PUNISH THOSE FOOLISH ENOUGH TO ALLY WITH IT. WE MUST PUNISH ANY WHO SEEK TO BARGAIN WITH IT.

If Kahless was not already dead, the shot from the lead warrior's disruptor ended his agony. The scene shifted to show not just the single bird-of-prey, but all twelve ships of the Phantom Wing parked in a compound surrounding a large hill. The full scale of the force was now apparent.

WE ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE TRUE KAHLESS. WE ARE THE VOR'UV'ETLH WHO WILL NOT FALL. WE ARE THE UNSUNG.

YOU WILL NOT FIND US. WE WILL FIND YOU.

The viewscreen went black—and the original message re­appeared. Picard read it in a solemn whisper. “
Stand by
.”

T
HE
G
REAT
H
ALL

Q
O
'
NO
S

Martok was reportedly on his way to the council chambers; Korgh had already been speaking for minutes. It was not unprecedented for councillors to gather in the absence of the chancellor, particularly when an emergency threatened the Empire—but it was unusual for a single councillor, especially the most junior, to have the attention of the hall.

The message had been repeated into the chamber, and it had given Korgh more to talk about.

“You saw their numbers. Read their threats. Killing Kruge's cousins was not enough. They fashion themselves as the new
vor'uv'etlh
. A cult of self-appointed judges and executioners out to cleanse the regime!”

Korgh could not remember the last time anyone had mentioned the
vor'uv'etlh
in the Great Hall. If the topic was not taboo, it was certainly not the appropriate place: members from that sect had invaded the chamber and died there. But the message Cross had produced had invoked them first, and their name united the councillors like nothing else.

“And now Kahless is dead—no thanks to the Federation who lost him. I demand—”

“Demand what?” a booming voice replied. Martok strode into the chamber, taking his seat. “Who are you to make demands?”

Korgh turned, unafraid. “I was demanding action of all Kling­ons, Chancellor. We must act before these so-called Unsung can. Crush the life out of this resistance—before all the discommendated curs in the Empire decide they, too, should rise against us.”

“We will do exactly that. We are tracing the message to its source,” Martok said. “It appears
Enterprise
will get there first.”

“Ah.” Korgh turned back to the rest of the councillors, smirking. “I'm sure we all find that quite reassuring.”

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

X
ARANTINE
S
ECTOR

Enterprise
was barely out of warp when a tiny flash appeared on the bridge viewscreen.

“The transmitting station,” La Forge said from the engineering post. “It's just blown up.”

“What?” Picard looked to his right. “How?”

“Self-destructed. We're the only ship in the sector.”

Picard frowned. “A proximity sensor? Did we set it off by arriving?”

“Seems so. But I think it was just a repeater,” La Forge said, continuing to check his interface. “It was receiving the stand-by signal from somewhere else. Now that we're here, I know where it came from.”

F
EDERATION
C
ONSULATE

Q
O
'
NO
S

Riker sat back, stunned. There was no mistaking the message and its import. He was in a nightmare, comparable to that which had transpired when Chancellor Gorkon had been murdered. At least there were no Federation fingerprints on the apparent execution of Kahless. But Starfleet was responsible for Kahless being in danger.

And this murder had been broadcast to the whole Klingon Empire—and anyone else who had picked it up.

He ran back his recording of the message. It wasn't broadcast live, Riker noticed—nor with sound. The former didn't surprise him; the image seemed crisp and managed, designed for maximum intimidation. The silence was strange.

And so was something in the crowd.

The admiral hailed his flagship, which had been pa­­
tiently waiting for him in orbit.
“
Titan
. This is ­Commander
Tuvok.”

“Just the person I wanted to talk to. You have it?”

“We are analyzing it now.”

There wasn't any need to define what “it” was:
Titan
had seen the broadcast, and he knew Tuvok, a former intelligence officer, would have been all over the message by now. “I want you to take an enhanced look at the warriors. Right at the beginning, when they're panning across.” Riker shook his head in disbelief as he thought about what he was about to suggest. “I think I'm seeing things . . .”