The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  SPIRITS’ FORGE

  H’ATORIA, KLINGON EMPIRE

  Kyzak wanted to visit Lieutenant Xaatix’s planet someday. The Ovirian was more nimble than he had imagined, her slender form allowing her to whisk quickly back and forth through the facility, ably sidestepping foot traffic from Titan’s advance team and the Klingons. Under her orders, the austere mess hall had been completely transformed. She was leaving nothing to chance.

  “Something is definitely wrong,” Xaatix said as she darted inside the kitchen. “The temperature in the meeting room has gone up by a degree and a half.”

  “Well, you can’t blame the kitchen.” Kyzak looked around and shrugged. “It’s not like there’s cook fires or anything.”

  Xaatix clucked with aggravation. “It’s the forge. Nothing to be done.”

  Kyzak agreed. His tricorder readings had found an increase in carbon monoxide—just a trace, nothing to endanger any of the species present. But every time he’d gotten anywhere close to the kiln, one of the Sentries had warned him away.

  Seeing the one Sentry in the kitchen leave, Kyzak sidled up to Xaatix. “There’s something about the food that ain’t right.”

  “Klingon foodstuffs differ from those you and I are accustomed to,” Xaatix replied. “Many things are consumed raw or even alive. So long as our guests’ digestive systems can handle it, as guests they are expected to eat as their hosts do.”

  “It ain’t that, Lieutenant—though that’s taken some getting used to. No, it’s the food the Sentries have for themselves. It’s not the same.”

  “Explain.”

  “Well, I mean it’s crawling around, some of it. But they’re eating different stuff. They keep it in packs.”

  “Packs?”

  “Yeah. I keep seeing them hiding them away.” Looking around to make certain no one else was present, he stepped over to a cabinet and opened the doors. It was stuffed with canvas backpacks. He drew one out.

  Xaatix skittered closer. “Open it.”

  Feeling his stomach wrench, he reached inside and grabbed a jellylike mass. He couldn’t tell whether it was the flesh of something or a complete living being. He knew it didn’t want to stay in his hand, and the feeling was mutual. He held it up, hoping it was somewhere in the vicinity of Xaatix’s visual receptors.

  “This is no Klingon dish,” she said. “Come with me.”

  Kyzak shoved the goo back into the bag and flicked his hand in the air to try to dry it. Carrying the pouch, he followed Xaatix as she swept through the meeting area and into the entry hallway. A grim unmasked Klingon stood just inside the double doors open to the front terrace, looking bored.

  He noticed Xaatix with annoyance. “What do you want?”

  “You are Trokaj, General Kersh’s security chief?”

  “That’s right. Are you Starfleeters coming for lessons in protecting people?”

  “Sarcasm is unnecessary,” Xaatix said, turning an impatient shade of orange. “I have a query about the food served here.”

  “Would you prefer your meat cooked for you? Or I could borrow the spoon we use to feed my grandfather who has no teeth.”

  “This is wasting valuable time,” Xaatix said. The Ovirian stepped back a bit, taking the conversation away out of earshot of the Sentries posted outside the front doors. “The Sentries appear to be keeping their own food separate from what’s being prepared for the conference.”

  “What difference does that make? The food they’re preparing is safe. Is that what you’re wondering about?” Trokaj picked his teeth. “I’ve tried it.”

  Kyzak remembered seeing the Klingon doing exactly that several times. “You were testing it? Don’t you trust the Sentries’ food?”

  “Of course I do. I eat because I’m hungry.”

  “Why would the Sentries not eat the same thing?” Xaatix asked.

  Trokaj looked down at the pouch Kyzak was holding open and rolled his eyes. “The Empire is vast. No doubt they eat some foods native to H’atoria.” He glanced down hungrily at the stuff in the bag. “Is it any good?”

  Kyzak slid his hand into another compartment in the pack. “Look here. Plates, cups—looks to me like a camping kit. Do the Sentries go on maneuvers?”

  “The Sentries never leave Spirits’ Forge. That’s the whole point.” Trokaj glanced at the bag. “It is odd.”

  Kyzak glanced through the crack between the front door and its frame. There were electrical contacts on the jamb and the inside of the door, connected to a small circular device on the wall inside; likely part of a security system. Through the crevice, he could see the two Sentries standing guard at the edge of the veranda. “Maybe we should just ask those guys about it.”

  “Only the captain of the guard talks to outsiders,” Trokaj said. “The captain would be at the arrival area, meeting the visitors.”

  Xaatix pressed him. “Surely there’s someone you know to talk to?”

  “I don’t know anyone here. Nobody does. I told you, these warriors don’t leave. This posting is for life.” Trokaj snatched the bag from Kyzak’s hands. “Now stop meddling with their things. This is a sacred place.” The Klingon reached inside for a red handful, sampled it approvingly, and ambled back inside toward the kitchen, munching as he went.

  Kyzak and Xaatix walked back through the meeting area. At the entrance to the stuffy room containing the forge, the Skagaran peeked inside. A Sentry remained standing before the kiln.

  “The heat does not concern me,” Xaatix said. “I can tolerate temperatures upward of six hundred and twenty-five degrees Celsius without discomfort. But I would rather our attendees not suffer the slightest—”

  A bell pealed. The attendees had arrived at the far end of the causeway. At once, the Sentries began to withdraw from the fortress. Kyzak understood that they would take station outside, ceding the facility to their guests for the duration. He edged away as the Sentry guarding the forge exited past him, barely giving him a glance.

  Kyzak waited a few moments and slipped into the room. His efforts to close the doors to the kiln were immediately unsuccessful; the doors were permanently bolted open. The Sentries were serious about always wanting to see the fires of their sacred forge.

  There’s got to be a way to open the flue some more, Kyzak thought, to air this place out. He knelt as close as the heat would allow, but craning his neck, he could find no mechanisms.

  He hustled out into the meeting room. “Lieutenant,” Kyzak asked Xaatix, “how far are you willing to go to make sure your guests stay comfortable?”

  “It is my entire purpose. I can’t imagine anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “You might think twice once I tell you what it is.”

  U.S.S. TITAN

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  “Please repeat your statement, Captain Picard.” Tuvok gave the commander of the Enterprise his full attention. “I understood you to say the Unsung were coming here.”

  “Not exactly,” Picard replied. On Tuvok’s screen, the captain’s image crackled and wavered. Aneta Šmrhová was just barely noticeable beside him. Enterprise was racing toward H’atoria at maximum warp. “We fear they might be there already.”

  Tuvok blinked. “I have been scanning for Object Thirteen, using the method Commander La Forge devised. The Klingons’ surveillance satellites have done the same. We have seen no indication of it.”

  “You might not, unless you looked for a week or two,” Šmrhová replied. “This information comes from an analysis of data from Klingon listening posts in the region surrounding the Azure Nebula. We have two candidate signals suggesting a trajectory to H’atoria—arriving several days ago.”

  That seemed thin to Tuvok—but then he remembered that the Unsung definitely had been in the Azure Nebula, and La Forge’s method had tracked them there. “We are scanning for the Phantom Wing with every known protocol. I am not certain what more we can do.”

  The image broke up for a moment. When it returned, he heard Picard saying, “—to take
all precautions possible on the ground.”

  “Admiral Riker has just shuttled down to H’atoria,” he said. “The Sentries have not reported any untoward activity on the planet. While the Unsung have combat gear that hides life signs, a daylight ambush appears unlikely.”

  “I hope you are correct. We will arrive shortly. Enterprise out.”

  Tuvok’s brow furrowed. He disliked relying solely on the Klingon Sentries, no matter how vaunted their skills or unimpeachable their credentials. Vale had fortified Riker’s diplomatic support staff with several officers with security experience, but more needed to be done.

  “Computer, please locate Captain Vale.”

  Twenty-three

  SPIRITS’ FORGE

  H’ATORIA, KLINGON EMPIRE

  At the far end of the land bridge, Valandris stood outside the guardhouse and watched in masked silence as the visitors descended the stairs one by one. Shuttled down or transported from spacecraft high above, each new arrival was greeted at the foot of the stairs by a trio representing the hosting delegations.

  The Klingon officer was definitely General Kersh, who looked none too happy to be here; the other two, a male and a female, wore Starfleet uniforms. She had no idea about the dark-haired woman, but the male human was surely the Starfleet admiral: she had seen his image in her briefings and knew his name. Valandris, who was named for a deadly bird of prey on Thane, wondered what kind of an animal a riker was.

  It was all Valandris could do not to cut down the greeters with her bat’leth. But it was not the time Kruge had appointed.

  The visitors included members of several species she had never seen. The Ferengi, with ears like the craters of Thane, hadn’t impressed her at all. Neither had the Romulan woman, old and officious, being helped down the steps by an aide.

  “Ambassador Tocatra,” Riker said.

  “Greetings, Admiral, General.” Tocatra looked at the other Starfleeter. “And this must be Commander Troi. Can you read my mood, empath?”

  Troi looked at Riker and then cautiously back at the Romulan. “You are anticipating an exchange of views,” she offered.

  “Very diplomatic,” Tocatra said, her speech precise and elegant. “You may have one of those views now. If I expire from the fumes on this path, General, my government will expect you to pay for my funeral.”

  Kersh snorted derisively. Riker waved toward the guardhouse. “We do have breathing filters if you prefer.”

  “Nonsense. If you can do it, I can.” Tocatra and her companion headed off toward the fortress.

  Next came the Breen representative, whose appearance did impress Valandris. Covered from head to toe in a silver-gray environmental suit, the Breen exuded menace. A glowing green slit of light stood in place of eyeholes, and his faceplate terminated in an angry metal snout. As armor, the Breen’s gear was much bulkier than what the Unsung preferred—but Valandris expected it made them formidable warriors.

  “Ambassador Vart,” Riker said. “Pleased to see you again.”

  The Breen responded with a series of electronic squawks. Valandris wondered how Riker could tell any two Breen apart, much less understand their gibberish. Their presence sparked confusion—and it appeared to be by design. According to what she had read in one of the more recent updates to Chu’charq’s database, the Breen Confederacy comprised multiple different species, all of which sought perfect equality by wearing the same obscuring gear.

  Whatever the thing said, Riker acted as if he understood. Without a word to General Kersh, Vart moved along after the Romulans.

  She watched Riker whisper something to Troi. Valandris began to perceive the woman was a confidant of long standing. Both Starfleet officers’ eyes were fixed on the staircase. When Valandris saw what was making its way down to them, she was glad of her facial filter—for her mouth fell open.

  Kinshaya.

  She’d been told what to expect, but the first thing Valandris thought when she saw the three-member Kinshaya entourage was that the creatures were born to be hunted. Walking on four large legs with multicolored wings sprouting from their backs, the Kinshaya were clearly built to flee predators. Yet they were too large-bodied to fly anymore, as she understood it.

  Had there been Kinshaya on Thane, Valandris doubted anyone on her world would have wanted to leave. She little wondered that the Empire had gone to war with them many times. The Kinshaya had to be good eating.

  “’Aya, infidels,” said the lead creature to the hosts. “You bring shame to the name of Galoya, bringing me amid Klingon devils during the Year of Prayer.”

  Kersh ground her teeth. Riker quickly spoke up. “Not at all, Envoy Galoya. Your presence, your sacrifice in coming here, will begin a new age for your people, opening many frontiers for travel.”

  “You are deluded, Admiral-infidel, for this planet is already ours. It was annexed to the Holy Order five cycles ago.”

  “And immediately after that you all ran away screaming,” Kersh said. The Klingon general could take no more. “Mind yourself in this place.”

  The Kinshaya cocked her head to the air. “I hear the buzz of insects. Maintenance of this world has clearly suffered. The Order must attend to it soon. Or perhaps the war-god Niamlar will simply cleanse the planet altogether of—”

  This time, it was Troi who intervened. “Will you walk with me and tell me about your trip, Galoya?” She looked on the lead Kinshaya with benevolence. “By what title are you known?”

  “I am assistant to the vice-deputy director for Janalwa’s office of public sanitation, drainage division.”

  Kersh gawked. “They sent a sewage engineer?”

  “Those insects again,” Galoya said, wings flapping at nothing. Joined by Troi, she led her companions onto the causeway.

  Kersh looked at Riker. “Well, you wanted them to send someone.” She laughed heartily and walked up the path.

  The processional on its way, Riker turned to follow—until he stopped right before Valandris. He looked into her eyes. “You’re the captain of the guard?” the bearded face asked.

  Valandris did not respond, hoping that would make him leave her alone.

  Instead, Riker somehow took her silence to be a response in the affirmative. “I appreciate your hosting us. I know there may be some hard feelings about the Kinshaya being here.” He nodded in the direction of the winged envoy. “Their attacking here, right after the Borg devastated H’atoria, was completely without honor. It was abhorrent to the Federation—and to me, personally.”

  Why tell me? Valandris wondered.

  It was as if the admiral had heard the question in Valandris’s mind. “I wanted you and the other Sentries to know that in bringing the Kinshaya here, I meant no offense to you, or your great fortress. I believe what we will discuss there will ultimately bring more security to this world than shields or transporter inhibitors ever could. You’ll be able to keep station here knowing that enemies who once wanted control of this space have relinquished their claims.” His confident gaze melted into a grin. “If I do my job right, that is.”

  Valandris stared at him. Then she simply gestured with her bat’leth toward the fortress.

  “Well, thanks for letting me practice my speech.” Turning from her, he started walking along the causeway after the others. “Qapla’.”

  “Qapla’,” she replied, before she knew she had.

  When Valandris finally started to follow, many paces behind, she had arrived at the conclusion that whatever kind of animal a Terran riker was, it was likely known for its calm and shrewdness.

  • • •

  Riker was halfway along the fog-enshrouded path when he saw Troi had stopped to wait for him.

  “Ran out of things to say to the Kinshaya?” he asked.

  “I was afraid if I kept simply nodding my head I might stumble off the causeway.” As Troi began to walk with him, they passed between a pair of motionless Sentries. “The Kinshaya clearly don’t respect the Federation—or this process.”

&n
bsp; “They sent someone. The Kinshaya are the weak link in the Typhon Pact; you can count on either the Romulans or the Breen to be pulling their strings.”

  “I expect one or the other was behind the political uprising on Janalwa stalling out.”

  “Likely. But that cuts both ways. If we can make the Romulans or the Breen want the free-flight corridor, then their client—or puppet, or whatever—might come along.”

  Troi grinned. “I like it when you’re positive. I’ve missed this.”

  “Well, remember that,” Riker said, gesturing to his combadge. “Because a few minutes ago I got word from Vale that the Unsung may already be in the area.”

  Troi’s eyes darted around. “Where, here?”

  “Above, below, we don’t know.” No one was present but the guests walking up ahead and the Sentries stationed on the causeway; the guard Riker had spoken with was walking about twenty meters behind. “Enterprise is on its way. They are working on something.”

  Her eyes went to him. “Are we working on something?”

  “You could say that.” He gripped her hand. “Like I said, just keep smiling.”

  Twenty-four

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  It was time. Cross emerged from his lair. Finding his coffee mug atop a crate, he finished off the cold liquid and strolled over to look in on Kahless.

  The Klingon was behind the force field, lying on his side in an apparent stupor, covered by a blanket. Cross pounded the wall beside the force field with the metal cup. “Are we still friends, Big K?”

  Kahless passed gas loudly and proceeded to snore.

  I’ll take that as a yes, Cross thought. The clone would run out of Romulan ale fast at this rate.

  He looked all around the deck one hold. Shift was nowhere to be found, evidently having left early to prepare for their big day. He might as well get on with it. “Okay, Blackstone, let’s have some wardrobe. Alakazam.”

  U.S.S. TITAN

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  Tuvok sat at the bridge tactical station and waited. And waited.

  He had done all he could. Captain Vale had responded quickly to the news he’d received from Enterprise, directing Commander Sarai to contact all the vessels in orbit. Every ship was now running the sensor protocol. Vale had activated Ranul Keru’s contingency security plan. It was out of Tuvok’s hands.