The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  Twenty

  Ethan Kyzak had thought it got hot on the prairie back home. The Klingons had chosen to hold a conference in an oven.

  Sending him to Spirits’ Forge had been the captain’s idea. Putting him on the conference’s advance team, Vale said, would broaden his horizons—while giving him a taste of interstellar relations. So far, the lieutenant had discovered that venting an active lava tube through a building to create a forge did nothing to make it livable.

  Kyzak had also decided that he never wanted to taste Klingon cuisine, ever.

  “Y’all really eat it alive?” he asked in the kitchen off to the right of the mess hall. Clumps of gagh writhed in an open drum, stirred by one of the Sentries. The Klingon said nothing. Smelling what passed for food in the room, he understood why they left their face wrappings on.

  In fact, once his away team and the group sent by Kersh entered, the Sentries had made themselves scarce, taking station outside the building or adding to the numbers posted on the causeway. Food, protection, and a roof—those were their only responsibilities. The rest belonged to Admiral Riker and General Kersh.

  Out in the mess hall, Riker somehow looked cool and comfortable. Maybe it was the frosty reception, Kyzak thought. He’d been told to expect the Sentries would say nothing, reveal nothing. That was their routine. General Kersh’s greeting, if it could be called that, back at the landing site had really surprised him—as had the welcome from the people on her team. The Klingons were definitely still sore at Starfleet.

  Kyzak scanned the vats and churns with his tricorder. Everything checked out: nothing poisoned, nothing spoiled. If the guests could stomach the food, they’d live. He took another reading of the atmosphere. He could understand the Sentries wearing filters for long-term exposure to the fumes coming from the furnace room, but the guests should be able to manage without, so long as the event didn’t drag on.

  Without a word, the Sentry who’d tended the gagh finished her stirring and stepped toward Kyzak. She pulled a backpack out from behind the shelving unit he was leaning against. Reaching inside, she drew forth a red mass that smelled worse than anything he’d had the misfortune to notice. Pulling her mask down, she took a stomach-turning bite from it. Kyzak shrank back as the Sentry headed for the rear exit, chomping on her snack of whatever-it-was.

  “Lieutenant Kyzak.”

  Snapped out of his spell, the Skagaran stepped from the kitchen into the mess hall. Three members of Titan’s crew were moving an enormous table with an irregular polygonal surface at the behest of the one who had called to him: a being like nothing Kyzak had ever seen.

  Almost. People from North Star, his homeworld, had seen creatures that resembled Lieutenant Xaatix—only they were centimeters long and to be found crawling along on desert floors. The crustacean-like Xaatix stood a full two and a half meters tall, supported on a tripod of orange legs. Eight stubbier limbs were arranged symmetrically around her heart-shaped frame—and she was so thin that when she turned, he saw her almost disappear in profile.

  “Make sure not to let it drag,” Xaatix said in an elegant female human voice that emanated from the badge affixed to her chest. “You’ll scratch the legs. Or worse, the Klingons’ floor.”

  Seeing his crewmates overmatched by the awkwardly shaped furnishing, Kyzak hurried over to lend a hand.

  “Ah, Lieutenant Kyzak,” Xaatix said, her carapace color turning a warm maroon. “I’m afraid I don’t have the limbs for this work.”

  “That’s all right.” Hefting the underside of the table, he asked, “This way?”

  “No, around the other way. The Kinshaya insist that their representative face east-southeast.”

  “Uh . . . okay.” Kyzak fought with the heavy table. “Any particular reason?”

  “When the conference begins, that location will face Janalwa, their current capital.”

  “Oh.” With the help of the others, Kyzak moved the monstrosity into position and set it down. “Is that it, Lieutenant?”

  “It will be once we cut a hole in the table.”

  “A hole?” Kyzak watched as a crewman ignited a cutting tool. “Whatever for?”

  “The Kinshaya consider tables to be culturally insensitive,” Xaatix said. She waggled her carapace, causing her upper sets of claws to shake like castanets. “I admit I see their point.”

  Kyzak stepped away from the table as the cutting began and regarded Xaatix with mild unease. If there was ever a ship to serve on to meet all different kinds of folks, Titan was the one—yet he still didn’t know how to address everyone. In Xaatix’s case, he didn’t even know what to look at when talking. The being had no features that could be considered a face, much less any obvious visual receptors.

  He’d seen plenty of Lieutenant Xaatix on the way from the beam-in zone to the south, but walking along a solemn guardian-lined path wasn’t conducive to conversation. “So you are, uh . . .”

  “An Ovirian. And you are a Skagaran.”

  “Actually, I was wonderin’ about what you do.”

  “Ah! I am Titan’s protocol officer.”

  That was a new one on Kyzak. “I didn’t know we had such a thing. Do we, uh, get much call for a protocol officer?”

  “The Federation is a multicultural power, so my services are much in demand. I’m attached to a ship when there are major conferences.”

  Kyzak looked back at the kitchen. “But aren’t the Klingons running this show?”

  “It is the Sentries’ space, and they are the hosts. But we were told that they would not be involved in the meeting room.” Xaatix gestured with three limbs toward the table. “The Sentries sleep and eat on the floor. We had to fabricate all of the conference’s furnishings.”

  Kyzak nodded—and then pulled at his collar. The only circulation came from the south, through the anteroom: the front doors, swung wide, would be closed for the main event. “Don’t you think it’s stuffy in here? We get some hot summers where I’m from, but this beats all.”

  “The temperature is thirty point eighty-five degrees Celsius, and the humidity is eighty-five percent.”

  “You did that without a tricorder?”

  “An Ovirian trait. In truth, I consider this cool; my planet is close to its star. But I am aware of the biological needs of our attendees.” Xaatix swiveled on her tripod legs and began skittering toward the northern doorway. “Let us see what we can do here.”

  Kyzak followed Xaatix into a large room that was warmer still. In the middle of the wall to the right glowed the forge, a rectangular stone fire pit surrounded on three sides by protective walls that formed a chimney heading out of the fortress. The front of the fourth side was open, revealing the scorching light within.

  “That’s your culprit,” said Kyzak, who had spent time in a smithy or two on North Star. He approached it. “If we can open the flue a bit more, some of the heat will circulate out.”

  Before he could reach the kiln, the female Sentry who had been standing watchfully by stepped quickly in front of the fire, bat’leth in hand. Mouth covered by the cloth filter, she glowered at him.

  “Your fire needs adjustin’,” he said. “It won’t do.”

  The female Sentry said nothing. She wasn’t the same one from the kitchen, Kyzak realized. She was more powerfully built—and her gaze could have burned him as easily as the furnace.

  Xaatix stepped behind him. “It is a sacred place, Ethan. Perhaps we can find another way to cool our guests.”

  Kyzak looked around. “What about that?” He pointed to a wooden screen parked by the far wall and decorated with images of ancient Klingon battles. He looked to the Sentry. “Can we move that in front of the door?”

  She dipped her bat’leth slightly in the direction of the open door to the mess hall, indicating he could.

  “Well done,” Xaatix said as Kyzak stepped toward it. The Ovirian’s form turned mauve in approval.

  Kyzak was pleased to have impressed Xaatix. But he also couldn’t help but notice th
at the Sentry never moved from the fireplace, and her eyes never left him.

  Twenty-one

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  “I’m getting pretty damn tired of that Valandris,” Cross said, loosening his collar as he entered the hallway of his deck one sanctum. “It’s amazing the hold Kahless has over these people.”

  Seated on a stool outside the force field to Kahless’s holding area, Shift looked back at him in puzzlement. “You mean him?” She gestured to the clone, lying on the deck on his side, his back to them. “As I recall, they threw him into a sewage pit.”

  “No. The real Kahless—the one from legend, centuries ago.” Cross dragged over a chair and reached into the care package beamed over from Blackstone on a previous stop. Finding a metal vacuum flask, he opened it and poured himself a cup of industrial-grade coffee. “Valandris didn’t know anything about Kahless’s teachings before she met Worf—and there wouldn’t have been time for him to tell her much. Yet something’s gotten into her. I can sense it. A month ago, she only had ears for ‘Kruge.’ ”

  “I can answer that, you miserable wretch,” Kahless said, rolling over. Cross could see several empty Romulan ale bottles beside him. “The sayings of the Unforgettable are more than words. They are backed with feats, every one.” Hairy eyebrows arched in the low light. “Klingons respect his guidance because through battle, he found the inner being, the state that we all aspire to. He obtained that for which we can only grasp.”

  Cross wiped his mouth and grinned at Shift. “Can you believe this? It’s mumbo-jumbo—but as long as someone who looks like he killed his dinner says it with a growl, they lap it up. It’s honey to them.”

  “Well, Valandris won’t be in the fortress much longer,” Shift said. “We’ll have someone search her cabin and make sure she didn’t find any more of Kahless’s works.”

  The clone laughed. “Young fools.” He crawled toward a crate and used it to help himself up. “The Unforgettable’s words are on every ship in your misbegotten squadron.”

  Cross looked over at him. “How’s that?”

  “If the true Kruge was indeed a great warrior, he would have cared about the honor of his crews. All commanders keep some version of the qeS’a’ in their memory banks. It is good for morale.”

  “Huh. Well, mixed messages aren’t good for my morale. Shift, see that the files are deleted on all the ships. Call it . . . a doctrinal purge.” He paused and waved off the idea. “No, Klingons wouldn’t call it that. They’d say something else.” He altered his voice and spoke as Kruge. “I purged the clone. Now I purge his meaningless prattle.”

  Shift laughed. “You’re really getting into this.”

  Sitting on the crate, Kahless sneered. “Some captains even etch the qeS’a’ precepts on the underside of all upper bunks, so their warriors wake to the words.” He smiled. “Good luck purging that.”

  Cross sighed. “Forget it. I don’t care about Valandris—we only need to ride this beast a while longer. Everything’s set up. Kersh and Riker will bring the attendees to the conference. They’ll close the doors to Spirits’ Forge—and then it’ll all be over.”

  “Nonsense. The Sentries will never let you get near them,” Kahless said.

  “Near them?” Cross let out a laugh—a big, throaty Kahless laugh. “Thanks to you,” he said, adopting the clone’s gravelly voice, “the bodies of the Sentries are but ashes in the lava pits of H’atoria.”

  Kahless stood suddenly and threw something at him. Cross ducked and spilled his coffee, not remembering the force field between them. The bottle Kahless threw bounced off it and shattered on his side of the barrier, spattering Romulan ale everywhere.

  “Did you just throw a full one?” Cross asked, wiping coffee from his pants. “You’re drunker than I thought.”

  “Free me, that I can rip the tongue from your mouth!” Kahless snarled, full of fury. “You posed as me?”

  “I posed as the Unforgettable. You’ve made a career of it.”

  “I never used my likeness to slay honorable warriors!”

  “Your ‘warriors’ didn’t even die with weapons in their hands.” Cross beat his chest. “If I didn’t have the Unsung outside, I bet I could have talked them into climbing into the furnace.”

  Seemingly under a great burden, Kahless sank down on the crate. “Unarmed Sentries. Unarmed nobles. And now a peace conference. And you speak of this with pride?”

  “Ah, I see.” Lazing across the chair, Cross templed his fingers and assumed a catlike pose. “ ‘To come to the Peace Rock fresh from a kill of Man—and to boast of it—is a jackal’s trick.’ ”

  “What are you yammering about?”

  “Not yammering. Kipling. Student production—I was Bagheera in The Second Jungle Book. I would have done better as the tiger.” Seeing Kahless’s bewildered expression, he raised his hands. “What? Every word out of your mouth is a quotation. I’m just returning fire.”

  “Was there a serpent in your play? That—or perhaps a lowly insect—would better suit you!”

  “Careful,” Shift said.

  Kahless raised his fists. “Or what?”

  “Or I’ll have Blackstone beam you into a sun someplace next time we decloak,” Cross said.

  “You are going to do that anyway when you are done studying me.” The clone lowered his fists and shook his head wearily. “You will consider any deed, no matter how dishonorable, as worthy if it suits your little game.”

  “This is a big game,” Cross said, closing the vacuum flask and rising. “And of course it’s worth it. Our . . . partner was right when he said we shouldn’t let the Unsung learn too much about Klingon ways. You people waste time thinking about how you fight—when you should think about whether you win or not.”

  Kahless stared at him blankly for a moment. Then he looked to Shift. “Do you agree with this?”

  She stood. “I do.”

  The Klingon stared at her. “I suppose I knew that answer without asking. Then you are both damned.” He shook his head. “And me along with you.”

  Kahless knelt and reached for the broken base of the bottle he had thrown. Finding a little ale still there, he took hold of it and turned his back to them.

  • • •

  The illusionist and his apprentice rarely slept, it seemed. Huddled under the thermal blanket they had given him for warmth in the chilly hold, Kahless could hear them carrying on in their little compartment off the main hallway. They had taken the place as their private nest away from the Unsung on the decks below. They had left him alone with the metal crate and its bottles of Romulan ale to keep him company. Several of the bottles were still inside: intact, inviting, and waiting.

  Cross had given him the ale as both a taunt and as a way to keep him talking. In reality, the Betazoid had given Kahless an idea—and hope.

  Later scholars of the qeS’a’ had interpreted that when an honorable death was impossible, escape was a Klingon’s only duty. The problem was that since most warriors focused exclusively on avoiding capture in the first place, tales of escapes were rare. The clone had trouble sizing up his situation, thinking up a plan. But Worf and his Starfleet fellows had escaped captivity many times. Perhaps the reason they were less resistant to being captured came not from their different heritages, but the fact that they knew what to do when imprisoned.

  Kahless had been at a loss for tactics until the night he had been given the ale. In the pit of despair, he had opened the first bottle—and he had vomited, just from the smell of the liquor. He might have done so again after emptying the bottle—

  —had he actually drunk any. Insight struck him instead.

  Cross’s minions aboard Blackstone were monitoring him somehow, Kahless was sure; he could see no sensors anywhere, but he was certain they were there. How else could they project their accursed false images? He had to act in a way they could not see—and then he had to bore them.

  So he had feigned dr
inking. Earlier, he’d found a box of canteens in the storage area; by slipping one of the metal containers under his tunic and hunching in a corner, he’d found he could pour out a third of a bottle while appearing to drink it. Later, the filled canteen would go back into the box.

  In this manner, he had convinced Cross, Shift, and anyone watching that he was soused. Then had come the next step: finding a tool. Cross had given it to him in the form of the bottles—and an excuse to break one.

  In a deft move worthy of the Betazoid trickster, Kahless had palmed the broken base of the bottle he’d thrown, hiding it in his sleeve. In the hours since, he’d huddled under the thermal blanket he had been given, using the jagged edge to dig at the leather strap around his ankle. The work numbed his fingers; he had to be careful not to sever it too close to the injector, for fear of setting it off and being paralyzed.

  Doing something was better than doing nothing. The accursed manacle tore open, and he slipped it off his ankle quickly, fearing the injector might activate. When nothing happened, he carefully maneuvered it from under the blanket to a place where he could covertly examine it.

  There was no injector. Just a metal stud, pressed against his skin to simulate one.

  Another trick. The remote controller was a lie, a means to keep him quiet. The deceivers probably had no equipment handy for such a circumstance; they had made do with a bond that looked threatening.

  Kahless gritted his teeth and tried not to scream in anger. His eyes darted around the hold from crate to crate as he remembered the items he’d seen earlier when he’d been searching for something that would help him. With the H’atorian Conference soon to start, Kahless expected Cross and Shift would again don their respective disguises—and that the Blackstone crew would be focused on them, and not being detected by the attendees, rather than him.

  Kahless would show them he could not be caged. And he would have a tale of escape that could be remembered in song.

  Twenty-two