The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  “Precisely.”

  Ernor chuckled. “Some of your more feeble guests may expire on the walk to the fortress—or die in fright from our food.”

  “These are diplomats. They’ll say they want to experience life here just as we do, but secretly bring along their own supplies. And you may make sport betting on how many breathing masks will be brought out on the walk.”

  • • •

  Ernor had led Korgh to the fort, where the lord first paid respect to the forge inside, where warriors tempered new weapons. Afterward, he reviewed the space and personnel in preparation for the upcoming event. The mess hall would indeed suffice; the party would not be large. Neither Kersh nor Riker would doubt the security. The Sentries were ascetics, but definitely not priests: every waking hour not spent guarding the land bridge, they practiced in the petrified forest directly behind the fortress.

  After bidding Ernor farewell, he kept on his face-covering as he scaled the staircase to the southern highland. His transport was far overhead, no doubt waiting for his signal.

  Instead, he produced from the folds of his cloak a different communicator, the one that Odrok had designed for him. He set the channel and activated encryption. “You know who this is,” he said. “Have you arrived?”

  Several moments passed before a response came. “Cross here.” Cross was using a similar encryption-enabled communicator, provided to him by Odrok in one of her many runs to Thane to supply his conspirators. “Chu’charq is overhead.”

  “In orbit?” Korgh looked up suddenly.

  “No, directly above you. Careful looking up, or you’ll bump your head.”

  Korgh casually glanced about. He could see H’atoria’s native avians circling, but not a bird-of-prey. If the wildlife sensed its presence somehow, Korgh could not. No sound cut the ocean air. “You don’t need to be this close.”

  “Valandris wanted a better look at this place. Don’t worry, if any sensors could spot us, they’d be screaming already. My associates in Blackstone are hovering off to your right.”

  Korgh did not look.

  “You know, this is as close as we’ve ever been. Sure you don’t want to find a place to talk? We’ve never met face-to-face.”

  And we’re never going to, Korgh thought. “Just prepare to do the job my assistant informed you of. I have started to put your payment into motion.”

  “My people will be glad to hear it,” the Betazoid said. “Remember, we don’t take Klingon darseks. We need something we can spend easily.”

  “You will have it.” Korgh looked around before kneeling. Pretending to adjust his boot, he slipped a small device onto the surface. “You see what I am doing?”

  A few moments passed. “Yeah, Blackstone sees you. You’ve put something down by your foot, right?”

  “Take it.”

  Korgh waited several seconds and watched as the object transported away in a tiny blaze of orange.

  “Okay, Blackstone just beamed it up. They tell me it’s some kind of gadget. What is it?”

  “It is the key to your payment. When this task is finished, I will tell you where to find the lock it fits. And then we will both have what we want.”

  Fourteen

  U.S.S. TITAN

  KLINGON/ROMULAN FRONTIER

  “Commander Tuvok.”

  “Commander Sarai.”

  Without another word, Dalit Sarai entered the turbolift that Tuvok had just vacated. Pausing in the hallway for a moment, he looked back at the dark-haired Efrosian woman just as the doors closed in front of her. The Vulcan then spent the entire walk down the hall wondering why he had looked back.

  Vulcans did not surrender to emotion. Except, perhaps, during pon farr, when logic took a biologically enforced holiday, or when the mind suffered from some illness like Bendii Syndrome. Yet several times in recent weeks, Tuvok had been forced to dismiss thoughts of an indignant nature. After speaking with his spouse, T’Pel, and meditating on why he was experiencing annoyance, he had traced back the first incident to Titan’s last visit to Starbase 1 orbiting Earth.

  Admiral Riker had returned from a Starfleet briefing with his portfolio as sector commander. He had promoted Sariel Rager and Aili Lavena, two of Titan’s ablest officers. Christine Vale was given command of Titan. She had been the de facto holder of that post since Riker’s promotion, and Tuvok felt the move both overdue and deserved.

  Approximately forty-eight seconds later, Commander Sarai had stepped forward, introducing herself as Titan’s new executive officer.

  Tuvok’s life had never been ruled by ambition—at least not his own. His parents had pushed him into Starfleet while he was in his twenties; he had found the experience unpleasant enough to be worth abandoning all the work he’d put in. Decades later, when he returned to Starfleet, he chose to set his own course rather than chase promotions; he had always spoken frankly regardless of the consequences to some imagined future. It was more important that he remain true to himself while advancing the mission, be it intelligence work or exploration.

  His presence on Titan was proof of it. After returning from the Delta Quadrant with Voyager, he could have sought and gotten a command of his own. Instead, he taught at the Academy, and later took an intel assignment on Romulus. It was following that mission that he agreed to serve with Riker aboard Titan on an interim basis.

  The temporary posting had lasted seven years—and counting. He had gone to the Delta Quadrant and back in that amount of time.

  Titan had become a home for him and T’Pel. It had been more than an adequate challenge of his training and skills. When Riker’s sudden elevation to admiral, months earlier, had created a vacancy at executive officer, Tuvok had assisted not out of ambition, but because of duty. He had done what was expected of him, and more.

  But then Commander Sarai had become executive officer when the position was formally filled. He did not know if he had even been considered for the post.

  Logically, he had no objection. It was a title he had neither desired nor sought. The Efrosian had the training and skills; she had performed well under duress during Titan’s recent encounter with the Solanae. Leonard James Akaar, Tuvok’s former colleague aboard Wyoming and now commander-in-chief, had personally given her the post. He and the admiral had had their disagreements, but Akaar never would have done so without reason.

  And yet Sarai had managed to alienate several of Titan’s officers in record time. Tuvok she had treated with cool respect. But her unforgiving personality had struck a nerve with others. It was common knowledge that she supported Ishan Anjar, the disgraced politician who had argued for a more aggressive posture for Starfleet.

  Was resentment a reasonable response? Had the resentment been earned? Logic told him the answer was no—yet the question had occupied his mind, and that he resented without compunction.

  Tuvok’s step quickened as he reached the officer’s club at the end of the hall. The stage was empty, but a piped-in vocalist was saying something about the thrill being gone. With a shift change approaching, the club was nearly barren at this hour—but he still saw whom he was looking for, drinking alone at the bar. “Good evening, Admiral.”

  Riker looked up, dark circles under his eyes. “Commander, are you singing the blues?”

  “I do not experience color as metaphor.”

  “Of course not.” Riker smiled, set his glass down, and stretched his arms on the railing of the bar. “Were you looking for me?”

  “The computer said you were here. I did not know if you were returning to your operations center.”

  “No, I’m done for the day. Deanna and Natasha are long since asleep, so it was just me and a sandwich.” He nodded in the direction of an empty plate. “Now it’s just me.” He shook his head. “Did I say I was done for the day? You wouldn’t believe the mess this conference has become.”

  Riker described the arduous negotiations he had undertaken since departing Korgh’s compound. “We had to promise Tocatra, the Romulan envoy, t
hat Starfleet would only send one vessel—and that the Klingons would send no further forces beyond H’atoria’s normal sentry presence. The Breen would only attend if the Kinshaya did—and the Kinshaya would only disrupt their holy year to send someone if we read their sacred text into the record. All sixty-eight volumes of it.”

  Tuvok knew the Kinshaya of old. “Predictable.”

  “And that’s just to get them to the table. We haven’t talked about the shape of the table yet.” Riker sighed. “Sorry. You wanted something?”

  Tuvok thought carefully before deciding how to phrase his answer. “Since we entered Klingon space, I have been drilling Titan’s crew against attacks by boarding parties as Enterprise experienced. This is a necessary task—if repetitive.”

  “The whole ship’s been doing a lot of waiting around. ‘They also serve, who only stand and wait.’ ”

  “John Milton. I understand our assignment is important to Starfleet and the Federation. But Titan otherwise saw no tactical situations requiring my aid at Qo’noS and Ketorix, and the Klingons will be running security at H’atoria.”

  Riker nodded. “I started brushing up about Spirits’ Forge yesterday. Those Sentries of theirs wrote the book on standing and waiting.”

  “Precisely. I have come to believe that my skills might be better utilized in this crisis—particularly those involving my first area of expertise, science. Captain Vale made that observation herself—and it is with her permission that I mention it to you.”

  He peered at Tuvok. “Well, there is something,” Riker said. “I could detach you to work with the Unsung task force.”

  Tuvok’s eyebrow arched. “I understood that Enterprise and the other vessels involved with the search were here at Chancellor Martok’s invitation and coordinating with the Empire.”

  “They are. But we can multiply our contribution if we’re not limited to searching just where our capital ships are. Smaller ships may be able to chase down additional leads.”

  “Leads, sir?”

  “For you to discover,” Riker said, stopping to down the rest of his drink. “You bring us something, and we’ll make sure you get all the assets you require.”

  Tuvok considered for a moment and nodded. It would be a better use of his skills. At H’atoria, the Titan and the Klingons would be focused on warding off threats. The same responsibility over Gamaral had made it impossible for the Enterprise to pursue the departing attackers. Someone needed to be on offense.

  “The idea is sound. I will speak with Captain Vale.”

  “I was about to say that.” Riker pushed his stool back from the bar and stood. “The job’s yours, but I’m never going to question her authority again. I’ve learned my lesson.”

  Following Riker to the exit, Tuvok understood. Being an admiral was a learned skill, just like being a captain or first officer. It was possible that an independent assignment might give him the challenge he needed.

  They turned in different directions in the outer hallway. Tuvok paused and called after Riker. “Admiral, your exertions are worthwhile. The struggle for peace is important.”

  “If I didn’t believe that, I’d be crazy to keep at it. Good night.”

  Fifteen

  SPIRITS’ FORGE

  H’ATORIA, KLINGON EMPIRE

  Like all those who stood watch at Spirits’ Forge, Ernor slept lightly. It was a consequence of having spent years at a time on watch detail. He was always a heartbeat away from acting.

  It didn’t matter that no one had molested H’atoria or the fortress since his posting here. He had stopped no one but a few soggy Selseress from swimming too close to the island; his Sentries carried disruptors for such purposes. But his duty was to the fortress, to his house, to the Empire—and most importantly, to his honor. Kahless the Unforgettable had made the upholding of personal honor his most important precept. Ernor would stand watch even if no invader ever set foot on H’atoria again.

  His state of constant awareness had meant that he never slept deeply enough to dream. He did not miss it. Apart from battle, what could a Klingon long for other than to be stationed at so legendary an outpost?

  There was something else, though he had never imagined it would come to him.

  Ernor slept, as all Sentries did, sweltering on the naked stone floor in sight of the central furnace. Fueled by a tap into the volcanic rift that now threatened to undermine the island, the kiln cast a glow across the room at night. Still enervated after Lord Korgh’s inspection, Ernor rolled over and opened one eye.

  The shadows changed. When the room grew inexplicably brighter, his other eye opened. Sensing a presence in the room, Enror bolted upright, d’k tahg in hand.

  “Who dares?”

  “I am Kahless,” came a voice, resonating through the room like thunder. “And I have returned!”

  The other sleepers woke to see what Ernor saw in front of the furnace: the glowing form of a Klingon warrior, his body crackling with eldritch energy. He seemed unaffected by the heat from the kiln behind him—and while he resembled the late and lamented clone of Kahless, the figure’s eyes glowed a brilliant white.

  “What are you?” Ernor raised his weapon. “How did you come here?” The part of the island that held the fortress was shielded; no one could have transported in. “Are you the clone, who was assassinated?”

  The mysterious visitor stepped away from the furnace, extended his hand, and spoke again in that harrowing voice—louder than any Klingon could shout, using words that appealed directly to their souls. “I am the Unforgettable. It was the fall of my messenger that drew me back.”

  “That—that is not possible!” Ernor looked around to see if his companions were seeing the same thing. They, too, were spellbound.

  “I came from Sto-Vo-Kor. I came to see you, Ernor, and all the Sentries. The Empire is in crisis. The time is nigh. You are needed.”

  “Needed!”

  “There is a great battle ahead. I have no need of monks or politicians—but rather those warriors who most exemplify the tenets I set forth.” Energy coruscating across his body, the apparition stepped toward the listeners. “You are those warriors.”

  “We are ready, Kahless!” shouted one of Ernor’s younger companions.

  Dazzled, Ernor did not know what to say. He watched as the specter—sometimes there, sometimes not—pointed to a door on the northern side of the room. “Destiny lies beyond.”

  Ernor found his voice again. “That leads to the petrified forest, in which we train.”

  “No, the Barge of the Dead is beyond—and I will take you there. Muster what troops would join you on the greatest adventure.”

  The captain of the watch turned. “Many of our number are guarding the pathway on the isthmus. I will call to them—”

  “I will appear to them soon. But you must go first.”

  That made sense to Ernor—as much sense as any of this did. No one outside the room would ever believe what was happening, not without having the same experience. But happening it was, just as the ancient texts that he and his comrades studied had foretold. His faith, his years of diligence were finally being rewarded. He looked to the wall. “I will come. Let me get my bat’leth.”

  “The only weapon you need is your honor. I will arm you.”

  The Sentries looked at one another in excitement and awe. They were to be an army, following behind Kahless: the answer to the dark times that had befallen the Empire. What more could any Klingon wish?

  Ernor knew the answer. Nothing!

  He ran out into the darkness. And he was not alone.

  • • •

  “I am Ernor, son of Glak. And I die for—”

  For nothing, Valandris wanted to say as she cut the Klingon’s neck. He had needlessly shouted his presence below her rock perch, giving her the advantage she needed to drop down and surprise him. The son of Glak, whoever that was, collapsed into the darkness and shouted no more.

  It had been bloody work, far more difficult than
any of their attacks on the Orions. They had the advantage of their black armor and masks, but they’d been forced to do without energy weapons so as not to alert the Sentries watching the land bridge, on the far side of the fortress. And even unarmed and disoriented in the dark, the Sentries had fought wilder than any animal of Thane when the Unsung pounced upon them from their hidden positions among the craggy pillars. She could see Zokar a short distance away, gutting another unfortunate. It was his fourth or fifth kill. She was sure he would tell her the final count soon enough; there was no one left to fall.

  The H’atoria mission had come as a surprise to all of the Unsung—and yet it was so wonderfully characteristic of Kruge and his plots that every single warrior in the squadron had desired a role. Back in the Azure Nebula, Kruge had returned from the Orion camp to Chu’charq with a metal crate containing what he said were ancient Klingon scrolls. After private meditation up in the deck one sanctum he shared with N’Keera, Kruge had described a vision sparked by the aged texts.

  The vision had been of an island rounded at either end with a land bridge at the middle, much of it separated from its ocean by roiling lava trenches. The undead minions of Gre’thor lined the isthmus causeway, but the real power was in the larger landmass to the north. There sat an infernal stronghold, a pleasure pit where the unworthy came to mock honor and the honorable. It was a real place, Kruge had realized—and while its appearance had changed, he knew it was a planet that had belonged to his house.

  They had arrived some time earlier, the ships of the Phantom Wing hovering cloaked in air, reconnoitering. The famous Sentries of Spirits’ Forge had not detected them. After a time, Kruge had asked to be transported down into the hensyl’s den itself, utilizing the same transporter systems that had allowed the Unsung to infiltrate the Enterprise at Gamaral. The aerial force field protecting the northern knob of the island had been of no use at all in stopping him—or in preventing her forces from setting up their ambush.

  Valandris and her companions had objected to Kruge taking an active role in luring the Sentries outside. But he held firm—and amazingly, he had succeeded. They did not know how he had done it, but it was hard to discount the power of someone who had defeated death long before any of them were born.