The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  The rest went quickly. Workers had already disposed of the fallen cannon by the time Riker and Ssura had left the hangar, and a fresh unit had been hoisted into the assembly line to replace it. Others were working on the damage to the floor. Har’tok and his brother had been invisible in the eyes of the Klingons; soon, no hint would remain they had ever been in the compound.

  After Riker sent Ssura to Titan to brief Vale, Korgh had finally shown some hospitality, inviting the admiral back to the house’s industrial headquarters. Picard had visited the place days earlier, with Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen, before the massacre at Gamaral. That was a topic, Riker found, that seemed to come up in every conversation with the lord of the house, no matter how ancillary.

  “It was important that I attend my beloved grandson’s ceremony today,” Korgh said as he walked through the building with Riker. “Bredak’s father, General Lorath, is out hunting down the assassins that escaped Captain Picard. Not once, but twice.”

  But who’s counting? Riker wanted to say.

  Korgh approached a large pair of heavy doors. “I know you are not here to honor my grandson—but to talk of the conference. Are you ready at last for us to hold it?”

  “Yes, I have agreements to attend by all the parties involved.”

  Korgh looked at him skeptically. “Even the Kinshaya?”

  “We had a sense they might attend at one point. Now we hear it’s a religious holiday for them—”

  “When is it not?”

  “—but I’m hoping their ecumenical authorities will allow someone from the new civilian government to attend. Even someone representing a trade group.”

  Korgh gave the doors a mighty shove. Riker beheld the atrium of the family museum beyond—and the massive statue at its center. He tried not to react to it. Chen’s report had warned him that the focal point of the atrium was an oversized statue of Commander Kruge slaying one of the griffin-like Kinshaya as it writhed in agony. He had little doubt why Korgh had chosen this point in his tour to finally bring up the conference.

  “We should speak frankly, Riker,” Korgh said, leading the way into the room.

  “Please.”

  “It was your idea that this conference be set on H’atoria, a holding of my family. And I know why.”

  “I’m sure you do. It’s located along the free-flight corridor we’re proposing.”

  “That’s not the only reason.” Korgh looked up to the graven Kinshaya and smirked. “You chose H’atoria because you thought it was the only world where both Klingons and Kinshaya would attend a summit. And that is because in the Kinshaya mind—if such a thing exists—H’atoria is their planet.”

  Riker couldn’t deny it. The Kinshaya and the Klingons had passed the planet back and forth, most recently in the wake of the Borg Invasion. “They may think that, sir—but the reality will be obvious to all. You’ve resettled the world. It is Klingon.”

  “Had they said they owned Qo’noS, would you be wanting to stage your event in the Great Hall?” Korgh laughed and shook his head. Then he looked past Riker and brightened with recognition. “Ah, cousin!”

  Past the statue, Riker spied Kersh approaching from a long corridor, lined on one side with doors. Communicator in hand, she looked none too pleased by Korgh’s form of address. “I am not your cousin, Korgh. You will call me General.”

  “And I am a lord—your lord. And there are so few now left in our family, General, that you should welcome reinforcements to the line, adopted or natural.” He glanced at her communicator. “What kept you?”

  She gestured behind her in frustration. “I had to find a secure area to contact Qo’noS about the attack. I tried to enter my grandfather’s office here, but the door was locked.”

  “And it will remain so.” Korgh stepped past her and pointed down the hall. An ancient Klingon woman stood before one of the doors with a cart; Riker presumed she was a cleaner. “Those offices were for the heads of the family while there was no single ruler of the house,” Korgh said. “J’borr is dead, as are all the others; the may’qochvan is ended. Only I will have offices in this building. I—and my sons and grandchildren.”

  “This is something we should discuss,” Kersh said, her tone acidic.

  “We just did.” Korgh averted his gaze to the ceiling of the atrium, lit by braziers. “But I will grant a boon in respect of your lost patriarch. Once the terrorist crisis is over, I will convert J’borr’s space to a trophy room. Until I have more grandsons who need accommodations, of course.”

  Kersh fumed. Wasting no time, she got on with her report. “About your terrorists—”

  Korgh’s eyebrow went up. “They are not my terrorists.”

  “Yours, ours, the ones delaying your precious trophy room!” She growled in disgust. “The Defense Force told me there have been no further sightings of the Unsung and the Phantom Wing.”

  Riker nodded. That tracked with what Starfleet had reported.

  “But,” she continued, “there have been eleven different incidents involving discommendated Klingons since the Unsung broadcast their threat.”

  Eleven? The news stunned Riker. Chancellor Martok had been keeping lids on lots of things. “Are they all like what just happened in the hangar?”

  “No. Four were acts of violence, vandalism, or sabotage in which Unsung sympathizers were implicated. The others are less clear.” Kersh looked to Riker. “These are cases where citizens attacked discommendated Klingons, out of fear or a desire for revenge for Kahless’s murder.”

  That’s almost as bad, Riker thought. “This is getting out of hand.”

  “So glad you’ve noticed, Admiral,” Korgh said. “Fires tend to spread.” Riker watched as the old Klingon cast his eyes toward one of the tapestries on the wall. Like the others, it depicted Commander Kruge in some twenty-third-century battle, but it had been crafted to look ancient. He stepped toward it and contemplated silently.

  Kersh glowered at Riker. “These imitators are a danger—as we’ve just seen—but we cannot get distracted. Destroy the Unsung, and we end the menace they inspire.”

  “That’s the plan,” Riker said. “Admiral Akaar has already submitted to the Defense Force a proposal to network Klingon and Starfleet ships together into a tachyon detection grid, similar to what we used during your civil war to thwart Romulan intervention.”

  A touch startled, Korgh looked over his shoulder. “I thought Enterprise could not sense the Phantom Wing vessels?”

  “No, but between your engineers and ours—”

  Kersh snorted. “This group has ranged from the Klach D’Kel Brakt to Gamaral. That’s the width of the Empire. There aren’t enough ships in the galaxy to screen that much space.”

  “The idea would be to select likely targets and then use local ships to interdict,” Riker explained.

  “Likely targets,” Korgh repeated, still facing the tapestry. “Like your conference, perhaps?”

  The admiral inhaled. “I wasn’t going to suggest that.”

  “But obviously it could be a target,” Kersh said. “Your diplomats and ours together.” Her voice quickened. “It could be bait for a trap. The tachyon grid could be positioned there.”

  Riker’s eyes widened. After working so hard to make the conference a reality, it felt wrong to treat it as a trap. “The other guests would not appreciate that amount of firepower in the sector when they can only bring a single vessel. The Kinshaya would surely never fly into a sea of Klingon and Federation ships. Security is important, but we can’t let it scuttle the thing it’s trying to protect.”

  “That is not the only problem,” Korgh said, turning. “The terrorists could strike anywhere else along the frontier while our vessels are preoccupied at H’atoria. They could even strike here.” He shook his head. “No, I won’t allow it. Our worlds must remain protected. But you’ve given me an idea.”

  Riker watched as Korgh approached them. “The conference will go forward,” he said, “and on H’atoria. I know of a site on the
surface no enemies could breach; its reputation alone should keep the Unsung away. Spirits’ Forge.”

  The admiral wasn’t sure what Korgh was referring to, but Kersh was. “I know those people,” she said. “They will never agree.”

  “They answer to me,” Korgh said. Before Riker could inquire, he went on. “As do you, General Kersh—in this matter. You will be the Empire’s lead negotiator during the conference.”

  That flummoxed her. “Me?”

  Riker’s mouth opened. It took a few moments for him to find the words. “General Kersh is not part of your diplomatic corps.”

  “But she represents this house and has always defended its territory.” Korgh crossed his arms. “You were in the room, Admiral, when Chancellor Martok gave me the sole right to choose the negotiator representing the Empire.”

  Kersh sputtered. “But I don’t even want Riker’s damn corridor!”

  “Lord Korgh . . .” Riker started. Kersh was worse than the worst-case choice he’d envisioned. Korgh was setting the conference up to fail—just as he’d feared. “I’m not sure—”

  Korgh cut him off. “The decision is mine. These are our worlds you’re looking to send traffic past, Riker. Kersh has a stake. As general she will be able to coordinate offworld security.”

  Kersh formed her words slowly. “I . . . would have to have orbital surveillance assets in place. If we cannot station ships, then satellites.” She glanced away. “We could use Starfleet’s help in that.”

  “Our great alliance at work.” Korgh stood between the two and slapped one hand on Riker’s shoulder and the other hand on Kersh’s. “I’ll leave you two to the details. I’ll take care of Spirits’ Forge.” Korgh withdrew his hands, pivoted on one heel, and walked off with the vigor of someone half his age.

  Kersh watched him leave before looking back at Riker. Her right upper lip went up in a look of disdain.

  Joy, Riker thought. This keeps getting better and better.

  Nine

  Korgh peeked through the double doors back into the atrium in time to see Riker and Kersh transporting out. Once they were gone, he opened the doors and laughed long and hard, his guffaws echoing throughout the chamber.

  It had been a day of surprises, but it had worked out for the best. The only surviving adult heir of Commander Kruge’s cousins, Kersh had threatened to become a thorn in his side. As she was a high-ranking officer with the Defense Force, he could not count on her loyalty to the family first—especially to a branch whose legitimacy she’d challenged in the Great Hall before Martok and the entire Council. Drafting her into the negotiations ensured she wouldn’t have time to cause trouble.

  Someone else had nearly eliminated her threat altogether, without Korgh lifting a finger. While the old Klingon delighted in the attack by the nobody Har’tok and his nobody brother, he had not put them up to it. It was happenstance—although perhaps not entirely coincidental.

  For years, as gin’tak, he had quietly allowed discommendated workers employment in the various Kruge family factories. It was a dishonorable practice, but a rule obeyed by no one was no rule. Critically, it had given him a source of discommendated Klingons with technical skills who could become émigrés to Thane. He never dealt with them directly; Odrok, or one of her minions, would arrange passage on a multileg journey terminating with a transporter ride down to the surface of the planet of exiles. Most invitees went, vanishing in the night, missed by no one. Those who refused to go were soon silenced, killed in industrial “accidents” or their sleep. The practice had kept Thane’s talent and gene pool fresh while Korgh waited to unleash the Unsung on the Empire.

  Har’tok and his brother had gone to work for his factory independently after somehow hearing of the secret passage. The lord hadn’t known they were discommendated; his house’s factories employed hundreds of thousands, and he did not keep track of everyone. They had never been approached to emigrate. But while Korgh hadn’t put the disruptors in their hands, it was his policy that put them into position—and it was the message his Unsung puppets sent that declared it open season.

  Korgh thought the occurrence interesting, underscoring the fire he had lit under the current order. But he loathed random elements. While another strike against the House of Kruge might otherwise fit into his narrative, he didn’t want attention drawn to the factory’s lax personnel policy. That policy was no more: there was no Thane colony any longer, and Korgh had no need to restock the exiles. He had just summarily ordered all discommendated workers ousted from all factories house-wide.

  It would anger them, surely, and their coworkers might figure out there had been dishonored curs in their midst. The result would be more unhappiness and paranoia, and that served him. Lynch mobs were fine as long as they did their business off his property.

  His property. It felt good to think it. He had been gin’tak for the House of Kruge for so long, kowtowing to nobles whose existence offended him. The atrium he had spent so much time in, with its treasures, was now all his. He walked down the long hallway, seeing the names of the fallen nobles beside their office doors. He would have to have those plates removed once things quieted down. But there was still another act to come, and, hearing movement behind the door to the office belonging to Kersh’s late grandfather, J’borr, he determined to get to it. Using his master key, he opened it.

  A cleaning cart sat parked inside the door. Beyond, dressed in the rags of a slave laborer, the cart’s owner sat at a grand desk surrounded by panels depicting various areas of the Beta Quadrant. She was old—a hundred thirty—yet her eyes were wide and intelligent, and her wrinkled hands worked actively across the interface before her. She was not surprised to see him. “My lord.”

  “Odrok.”

  Korgh sealed the door behind him. He had transformed J’borr’s office years ago into a secret lair where he and Odrok, his engineering and intelligence expert, could work on their plots without being disturbed. It was as safe a place as any. Incredibly old, J’borr had never set foot in the office that belonged to him—and until Kersh’s attempt earlier, no one in his line had even asked about it. No one would have thought anything of the gin’tak entering, nor a laborer.

  He stepped before one of the star maps and studied it. Decades earlier—after having gone through the pain of losing the Phantom Wing squadron on Gamaral—Korgh had ordered Odrok and her engineers to make modifications to the stealth positioning systems aboard the birds-of-prey. Designed to allow the vessels to inform one another of their positions while cloaked, the systems had been modified so that Odrok could track the Phantom Wing’s location from light-years away.

  The signals involved were only detectable by those who knew where to look. He did, of course; Korgh vowed he would never lose the squadron again. He knew the technical support vessel of his hireling con artist, Buxtus Cross, was also with them. The support ship had to follow the Phantom Wing in order to project the illusion that Cross was the reborn Commander Kruge. Korgh had no way of tracking the support ship, but it generally stayed close to the squadron; otherwise, Cross would just appear as his simpering Betazoid self. Only “Kruge” could command the Unsung.

  Korgh idly studied the star map. He pointed to a blinking location on the screen. “This place—where are they?”

  “The Phantom Wing is in the Azure Nebula,” Odrok said. “They have been destroying a series of hangouts belonging to Orion pirates.”

  “I did not approve this.” Cross had specific orders: his Kruge character was only to direct them against targets Korgh named. This was new.

  “The Unsung are restive. Cross cannot keep them aboard their ships so long without action.”

  “Birds-of-prey have training rooms!”

  Odrok frowned. “They are Klingons who have lived their whole lives outdoors, my lord, free to hunt. Our ally cannot control them indefinitely.”

  I suppose not. It was good that the charade was not far from its scheduled end. “I imagine Cross heard of these pirate nests from that
Orion wench of his. Did they leave survivors?”

  “Certainly not.”

  “Fine. His wait is soon to be done.” The Azure Nebula was a good hiding place for them, Korgh thought; comfortably close to his next target. “I have scheduled the H’atorian Conference—and I already have a plan for the Unsung in mind.” Quickly, he told her his intentions.

  Odrok nodded. “Spirits’ Forge. I would not have thought of that.” She looked on Korgh with admiration. “I will signal Cross.”

  The lord turned toward the door. Odrok stood up. He looked back. “Something else?”

  Her expression was plaintive. “You mentioned waiting,” Odrok said. “I was going to ask about . . . about me.”

  “What now?”

  She gestured to her shabby robe, the uniform of a laborer. “Must I continue to dress like this to enter? The House of Kruge is yours. This building is yours—and vast, and empty. No one would know if I lived openly here.”

  This again? Odrok used to only complain about her lot in life when she was drunk. Yet she seemed sober now. “We cannot compromise the work you have been doing for me.”

  “I have assumed many new identities before. No one would connect me with my past work for you—and I could continue my monitoring of the Unsung, just as I am doing now. I could pose as an advisor.” She looked at the floor. “Or something else.”

  Korgh laughed. “A kept woman, then.”

  She looked directly at him. “I was thinking more of your wife.”

  Korgh stopped laughing, and his eyes narrowed. “My wife is dead.”

  “So you are free to take another.”

  Korgh shuddered. He had never considered Odrok in that fashion. When they met she was half again as old as he was—thirty to his twenty—and while a hundred years had brought that ratio down to nearly nothing, he still saw her as something other than an equal.

  She stepped out from behind the desk and walked to his side. Korgh looked about. “I do not understand this prattle, Odrok. Were you drinking? Where is the bottle?”

  “There is none. I told you back on Qo’noS I wanted to come out of the shadows. I have been your secret agent too long.”