Hell's Heart (33 page)

ENTR'ACTE

KORGH'S TARGET

2386

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

—Francis Bacon

Sixty-three

T
HE
G
REAT
H
ALL

Q
O
'
NO
S

“K
ruge?
”
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 my 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

P
HANTOM
W
ING
V
ESSEL
C
HU
'
CHARQ

U
NNAMED
W
ORLD,
S
ON
'
A
S
ECTOR

H
aving 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.

•   •   •

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.