The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  Cross rose. “Enough!” He traversed the steps to Valandris—and hoped his caution would be seen as savvy and not cowardice. “We have delivered the blow. Kersh’s bargain is in shambles.” He grabbed her face. “We have lost one of our own. But this is not the last battle, not unless you defy me. I would have no choice but to transfer my flag to another vessel.”

  “Zokar’s Rodak,” Shift suggested.

  “I have not defied—” she said, before stopping. Valandris locked her angry eyes with his, and he fought the urge to step back.

  No, he had to push, as Kruge would have. “You have defied me. On Gamaral, with Worf. On Thane. Do not think I missed what happened below. You gave up the element of surprise—and that is why our enemies yet live.” Others watched, spellbound, as he stood firm. “I will transfer to Rodak unless you submit. Then, when next you defy me, I will fire—on you.”

  She gritted her teeth. “There is fighting in orbit. I will take the gunner’s station.”

  “Do that.” Cross released Valandris’s face.

  Chu’charq continued climbing. Cross glanced back at Shift. She appeared concerned. The sooner they were out of the system, the better. And we sure as hell won’t be shooting at anybody on the way out!

  Thirty

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL RODAK

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  His command chair was elevated above all on the Rodak’s bridge, but Zokar’s anticipation had brought him down to the crew’s level. Every moment his bird-of-prey came closer to the Romulan warbird, D’choak, Zokar leaned a little more over the helm. Were the warbird much farther away, there was a chance the Klingon might have wound up on the deck.

  But it was not far away, and at his command, the bird-of-prey’s invisible wings shifted into the attack position. The warbird became a giant on their viewscreen, the ornate pattern on its topside clearly visible.

  “Target the generators. Secondary cannons, fire!”

  Energy tore outward from Rodak’s disruptors and pounded the Romulan’s deflector shields. Zokar kept up the bombardment as the bird-of-prey careened even closer—and a bolt got through, tearing into the thin section connecting the upper of the two clamshell hulls to the command section. A knife to the back of the neck.

  He shook his fist at the now-sparking vessel as Rodak swept perilously past. After forty years, he’d finally started to settle accounts. “Hard about for another pass.”

  “Contact from the surface,” Harch said. “It’s the ambassador’s shuttle.”

  “Not for long.” Zokar headed to his chair and sat back easily. This day was getting better all the time.

  U.S.S. TITAN

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  “Captain, I recommend getting clear of Gur’rok,” Aili Lavena said from flight control. “The Phantom Wing ships are running figure eights around us—and increasing the odds we’ll shoot at each other.”

  If only we could get the birds-of-prey to shoot at one another, Vale thought. Or slam into each other. It was widely assumed there was some kind of tech aboard the Phantom Wing vessels establishing the positions of their other cloaked ships, but nobody had yet figured out how that information was being transmitted. The captain knew that would be finding the Holy Grail—especially if there was a way to determine those positions across interstellar distances.

  For the moment, Vale felt paralyzed. Her crew at Spirits’ Forge had reported the Unsung transported away, with no further bird-of-prey attacks—but she was reluctant to move Titan from her orbital station. But Lavena’s observation was an important one. In the current climate, a Federation and a Klingon vessel accidentally exchanging fire could be extremely damaging.

  “Skirt the atmosphere,” she said. “We’ll heat our mosquitos’ hulls a little—and see if they still feel like swarming.”

  As Titan turned hard about and descended, Tuvok reported, “Captain, the Romulans are taking fire.”

  “So much for staying on the sidelines,” Vale said. “Is D’choak damaged?”

  “Not critically. Fire is now being directed at the Romulan ambassadorial shuttle. D’choak’s impulse engines are offline. It cannot get there in time.” Tuvok spoke gravely. “Neither can we.”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL RODAK

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  It was the most fun Zokar had ever had. Even handicapped by a crew that hadn’t set foot aboard a bird-of-prey before a year ago, he’d dealt D’choak a fist in the face. Now he was chasing game that was simultaneously bigger and smaller.

  Smaller for obvious reasons: the Romulan shuttle was speedy, but relatively defenseless. That he had not destroyed it yet owed to his need to avoid harassing fire from D’choak. And it was bigger because the shuttle might hold the ambassador. That was possible, wasn’t it? Maybe he’d damaged D’choak’s transporters, as he had Enterprise’s back at Gamaral. It was almost too much to hope for—but in Kruge’s army, hope came easily to him again.

  “Keep firing,” he said as Rodak closed in on the shuttle. “We’ve almost got—”

  “New contact!” Harch yelled—and half a second later, all aboard felt the barrage as a photon torpedo detonated to starboard. This delivery wasn’t from D’choak, Zokar realized even before Harch made the announcement: “It’s the Enterprise!”

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  “The Unsung vessel has broken off from the Romulan shuttle and is now firing at us, Commander La Forge. Exact coordinates feeding to you.”

  “Acknowledged. Our program activates the instant it fires again.” In transporter room four, La Forge looked over the assault team and made certain they were ready. “We’ll try to put you someplace safe. Good luck.”

  Working alongside Angela Moran, one of Enterprise’s transporter chiefs, La Forge watched as the program he had written went into action. Sensors spotting another disruptor blast from nowhere, Enterprise randomly probed the area for microfractures in the bird-of-prey’s rotating cloaking field. Finding them—and the cloaking generator and its component emitters on the skin of the starship within—the computer overlaid the schematics provided by the House of Kruge as it searched for its interior target site.

  It took milliseconds. “We’ve got it,” Moran said. “Transporter lock established on the catwalk in the deck six port deuterium storage area. Energizing.”

  A second into the process as Worf and Šmrhová stood on the pads as glowing masses of energy, La Forge raised an alarm. “Something’s wrong . . .”

  An alert came from the bridge. “Commander, the Romulan warbird just detonated a photon torpedo near the suspected target.”

  “I know,” La Forge said, hands racing across the controls. “Safety protocols just activated.”

  Before him, one of the figures on the transporter pad beamed out—while the other solidified into existence. Šmrhová looked about, stunned. “What happened?”

  “I’m not sure,” Moran replied. “Commander Worf transported—but you didn’t.”

  “What?” the security chief said. “Quick, try it again!”

  “Stand by,” La Forge said. “We may not get another shot.”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  The void enveloped Cross’s spacecraft, but space was hardly empty. He had first seen Titan and Gur’rok fighting off their invisible enemies—and then he had beheld the mess Rodak had gotten itself into.

  “Enterprise isn’t supposed to be here,” Shift said.

  Clearly, it was here. The sight of it affected his throat the same way seeing Titan had. The ambassadorial shuttle, screened by Enterprise’s arrival, darted toward the protection of the rapidly firing D’choak.

  Rodak’s position, superimposed by computer onto Chu’charq’s main viewscreen, indicated the vessel had come hard about in an attempt to strike back at its attackers. Cross had no intention of prolonging the battle. “Attention all ships,” he announced over his scrambled channel. “Our work here is done. Full s
peed to the rendezvous point!”

  Hemtara reported all the surviving ships of the Phantom Wing checking in. All but one. “Direct channel to Rodak,” Cross ordered. He would put a stop to this.

  RODAK

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  “Zokar, this is Kruge! Disengage immediately.”

  The bald Klingon pounded his bony forehead in aggravation. He was so close. Zokar pressed the button to respond. “My lord, we can hold out. Enterprise isn’t firing.”

  “How long will that last? And who told you to assault the Romulans?”

  Zokar froze. Warriors whose attention was not consumed by the battle turned to face him. “My lord Kruge, you told me to. Didn’t you?”

  “We have lost a starship to rank foolishness already today. You will follow my orders—now!”

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  Seeing the phantom disruptor shots cease, Picard breathed a sigh of relief. The captain had to find a way to help the distressed Romulan shuttle while at the same time not destroying a ship he was trying to put an away team on. By drawing the bird-of-prey’s fire, he had kept the Romulans safe—while the warbird had gotten only a single lick in against the cloaked ship. That still concerned him.

  “Titan reports it is no longer taking fire,” Glinn Dygan said from ops. “The same appears true for the Klingons and Romulans.”

  “More good news.” But what of the away team? “Report, Mister La Forge.”

  “Only Commander Worf transported over, Captain. When the Romulan torpedo detonated nearby, something must have happened at the beam-in site to make the safety protocols deem Šmrhová’s destination unsafe.”

  The captain’s eyes widened. He had worried about that single shot. “Did our systems report Commander Worf as safely transported?”

  “They did—but that only counts for the second he materialized. Now that the bird-of-prey has broken off, the window to send anyone over or to get Worf back has closed.” La Forge went silent for a moment. “And I’m not reading anything from his tracking device.”

  Picard had just gotten his first officer back. To lose him again . . . ?

  Thirty-one

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL RODAK

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  Zokar rubbed his forehead as his bird-of-prey prepared to go to warp. It had sickened him to leave so many targets behind, though the course out had showed him how much damage the squadron had done.

  Gur’rok, Kersh’s flagship, had predictably been dealt the most serious blow. The Vor’cha-class ship’s bridge had taken several glancing hits; even though the Unsung had heard Kersh was still alive on H’atoria, they could rest in the knowledge that they’d left a mark she would see.

  The Titan was in far better shape, and the Enterprise was undamaged. He cursed Picard’s name for showing up as he had. The only good thing about it was that the vaunted captain had not pressed his advantage. The Starfleet vessel’s intervention, he now realized, had been calculated to herd him away from the Romulans, not to disable Rodak.

  That made no sense to Zokar. He had humiliated Picard at Gamaral. If a so-called legendary captain would give up a chance at a rematch, then legends at Starfleet didn’t amount to much. Something wasn’t right—

  —but there was no time to think about it now. “Kruge has sent over the rendezvous coordinates,” Harch said. “We are ready.”

  “Get us out of here.” Zokar would do his second-guessing someplace else.

  • • •

  “Worf, wake up!”

  Lying on his side on a cold metal deck, Worf opened his eyes—and immediately closed them again as searing waves of pain coursed through his body.

  “Worf, are you all right?” He felt a small hand jabbing at his shoulder. Forcing his eyes open again, he saw the concerned face of a brown-haired Klingon child. “You fell,” the young girl said.

  Head pounding, he strained to roll over onto his back. More pain concentrated in his right leg—and he grasped for it. His hand found a bleeding gash. He saw twisted metal all about.

  “Hold on.” The girl left his sight for a few moments. When she returned, she had a section of cloth, a protective cover from some piece of equipment. Tentatively, she dabbed at the cut with it—and Worf jerked in groaning agony. She hopped back, scared. He clamped his hand hard over the fabric—and in the act, he felt that the wound ran much of the length of his right thigh.

  “Remember me?” the girl said, crouching closer. “I’m Sarken. I saw you on Thane.”

  Worf blinked. He had a head injury, too. Everything was hazy. “Where—where am I?”

  “On one of Lord Kruge’s birds-of-prey. I live here.”

  He forced himself to sit upright. It was a large, high-ceilinged rectangular chamber, dominated by an enormous metal drum lying sideways and bolted to the deck. Deuterium storage, as planned. But looking up, he saw a large section of catwalk had given way.

  “I saw you appear up there,” Sarken said, pointing into the low light. “I was playing in the corner and saw you. You showed up on the catwalk right when something hit the ship. That section up there gave way, and you fell.”

  Worf noticed a huge, scraping dent on the giant deuterium tank where the catwalk had slammed against it on the way down. Sarken pointed to one of the jutting pieces of scrap metal that had been a walkway support. “That part’s what cut your leg.”

  In his pain, Worf remembered the tracking device. It was not clipped to his belt. Bewildered, he tried to move around and search for it—an act that only caused more agony.

  “Are you looking for this thing?” Sarken held out the shattered remains of the tracking device. Scraped off his uniform in the fall, it had been smashed by a falling girder.

  Tapping his combadge also did nothing. So much for his glorious mission. “Did . . . I arrive alone?”

  “I saw another glow up there—but that section of the catwalk was already falling, and it went away.” She bit her lip as she noticed the mek’leth bound in a sheath on his back. “What’s that for?”

  “Right now, it is helping to keep me upright.” Worf scooted around so his back was supported by the bulkhead and sagged against it. At least the field hypo in his pocket was in one piece. He applied it to his leg and did what he could to clean his deep cut. “Sarken, are others nearby?”

  “My people live mostly on the higher decks. I came here to hide during the battle. I don’t like looking outside. Since my father died, I’m all alone.” Her little eyes searched his. “What are you doing here, Worf? I thought you came to Thane to be one of us. Then I heard they were hunting you.”

  “We had a disagreement. Is this Valandris’s ship?”

  “I wish it was. She yells a lot, too, but I like her.” She pointed upward with her thumb. “This is Rodak.”

  “Who is in charge here? Kruge?”

  “No. He’s with Valandris. And nobody’s really in charge, but old Zokar acts like he is.” Her nose crinkled. “Him, I don’t like. He’s rude, and he smells funny.”

  Worf looked around. There was no hope of accessing the trunk line for the cloaking device now, with the catwalk gone. Main engineering, he knew, was aft of his location, but while there might be opportunities to sabotage the cloaking device or to signal the Enterprise from there, it would most certainly be staffed by the Unsung. There had to be something else nearby he could exploit.

  Worf tried to stand—and immediately collapsed onto his hands and knees. “Careful,” Sarken said, keeping him from slamming his head into the fuel cylinder. She looked at his head. “That knot looks mean.”

  It felt it. Worf found any ambitious movements made him dizzy. He needed time to recover, but the chamber wouldn’t stay vacant forever. He looked to the girl. “Sarken, they will come here to check the damage soon. But if Zokar finds me, he will want to fight, and I cannot. I need somewhere to rest.”

  “I know plenty of hiding places. This ship’s full of them. It’s more fun than the jungle on
Thane.” She thought for a moment. “There’s a closet in the workshop across the hall. Nobody goes there.”

  Worf nodded. No, the Unsung would likely not be sophisticated enough to need the bird-of-prey’s technical workshop and its stores. “I will need your help to move,” he said. “What kind of animal is a sarken?”

  She brightened, delighted to be asked. “It’s a fast little thing. It burrows to outsmart its predators.”

  “Then, Sarken, I will need to act as your namesake. We cannot let the hunters see me. Is that understood?”

  She responded with a gap-toothed smile. He could tell it was the most fun she’d had.

  Thirty-two

  TRADING POST KURABAK

  CHELVATUS III

  Once again, Shift had come through for Cross. She’d suggested the perfect hideaway for him to direct the Unsung toward after H’atoria: Chelvatus III, a world on the fringe of the Empire. Species from neighboring powers operated in the world’s bazaar with the unspoken permission—and frequent patronage—of the operators of the Klingon mine that was the planet’s main concern.

  It was yet another place Shift’s gangster owners had taken her to in her earlier life, and the location provided a chance to rendezvous with Gaw. Parked outside the settlement, the cloaked Chu’charq had beamed “Kruge” and “N’Keera” to the surface for another of their meditative walks. Cross didn’t expect that anyone in the bazaar would question an aged, hooded Klingon out and about with his nursemaid, and that was generally correct. But it didn’t take a Betazoid to recognize a heightened level of nervousness about all unfamiliar Klingons. He wondered if that was in reaction to Spirits’ Forge.

  Cross and Shift spied Gaw and his associates in a trading pavilion, fencing some of the goods purloined from the Azure Nebula storehouse. The Ferengi’s reaction to them, after H’atoria, was predictable.

  “That was insane,” Gaw said. He clasped his hands together and feigned terror. “Please tell me we don’t have to go on any more raids, Cross. Please.”