“Relax,” Cross said, pointing toward a back alley. “We’re almost done. Let’s get out of here.” Outside town, they walked to the secluded area where Blackstone was parked under cloak and climbed the invisible boarding ramp, out of sight of anyone.
For the whole year Cross and Shift had been living on rugged Thane, they had always been just a transporter beam away from Blackstone’s high-tech refuge. The place was modern, full of the latest equipment—and yet there was something different about it, as if its designers had reached the present by following a different path from the past. There were computer interfaces in its labyrinthine confines, but there was also wrought iron and glass crystal. There was the magnificent imaging chamber off the control center, capable of producing visual replicas more convincing than any holodeck, while the next room held shelves stuffed with ancient books and scrolls. Curtains hung in place of automatic doors—while other doors were hidden from the eye, cleverly placed behind purloined art objects from a dozen worlds.
“I love coming here,” Shift said as she walked through the control center. “Everything you do here amazes me.”
“That’s a good apprentice.” Gaw gave the little floating orb knickknack atop his workstation a whirl and smiled at her. “She cares about the people who make the magic—unlike some slave-driving practitioners I know.”
Eight of the truthcrafters were in the control center. Representing several different species and ranging from young computer prodigies to old hands, they were hard at work making sure that Cross and Shift looked like Kruge and N’Keera. “Take five, everyone,” Cross said, canceling the illusion.
Looking like himself again, the Betazoid led Shift and Gaw up a spiral staircase into his loft. Part pleasure palace and part shrine to the past, the room showcased Cross’s interest in live theater.
Shift stopped before a paper mounted under transparent aluminum on the wall. “What’s this one?”
“It’s the front page of the very first edition of what would later become the major newspaper for San Francisco on Earth.”
Gaw stared, only barely interested. “What’s a newspaper?”
“An information delivery system. Imagine, here’s the city where Starfleet is headquartered, and the most important news that day in 1865, in the last days of a major civil war, was that ‘the three graces’—Sophie, Irene, and Little Jennie Worrell—were opening The Grotto Nymph at Worrell’s Olympic.” Cross cited from memory: “ ‘A Nondescript Fantastico Morceau of Absurdity, arranged expressly for this House.’ ”
Shift read from the ancient type. “Also starring ‘Sylva, the fairy queen, with a conventional brevity of skirts.’ ” She laughed. “What is this?”
He smiled at her. “Armies were annihilating each other half a continent away—yet this announcement took up more than half the front page. That’s what I love about humans, Shift. They get it. They’ll play make-believe while they’re killing one another. Or they’ll make up grand dramas about killing one another. Or they’ll use make-believe to kill one another.”
Gaw sighed and shook his head at Shift. “We cross half the galaxy to get this damn stuff for him.”
“A pittance,” Cross said. He leaped backward onto his cushy four-poster bed. “Your fortune’s safe and sound, right here.” He patted his vest pocket with his right hand. The pocket went flat. “Whoops!” the illusionist said, acting surprised that the important thing inside was gone. Then he flipped around his left hand and displayed the small device he’d been given by Korgh. “Ah, there it was, all the time.”
Gaw groaned. “Stop messing around. You talked to your patron. Was he angry about how Spirits’ Forge turned out?”
“Amazingly, no.” Cross sat up. Gaw knew the Betazoid had a partner in the Klingon Empire, but by agreement, Korgh’s communications with Cross were neither monitored nor recorded by Blackstone. “I was ready to be chewed out. But he seemed all right.”
“I should hope so,” Shift said, looking back from the bookcase she was kneeling before. “How could we have known those other ambassadors would take off before the meeting had a chance to start? It wasn’t our fault.”
“He didn’t care,” Cross said. He toggled a tiny switch, activating the device. “Here’s the proof.” He flipped it to Gaw.
Gaw fumbled the catch and had to go searching on the carpet for it. Bringing the small device close to his face, he donned his pince-nez and peered at the tiny screen. “These are coordinates and times and dates.”
“He just sent them. The House of Kruge ships freighters full of latinum to its outposts where hard currency is needed to deal with the neighbors. Their routes are all very hush-hush—but my contact’s got connections. That device now contains the routes for the Ark of G’boj, carrying—well, more than you can imagine.”
Gaw smiled broadly. “I love this kid.” He looked to Shift. “Did I tell you I love this kid?”
Shift watched them. “So we grab the Ark—and slip away.”
“To start the sequel,” Cross said, hopping off the bed. “Did you forward my list to the myth team, Gaw?”
“List?” The Ferengi was reluctant to stop looking at the coordinates.
“My Kahless list.”
“Yeah, yeah, we got it. More background on Kahless the Unforgettable, blah, blah.”
“It’s important, Gaw. Really important. I’ve gotten the clone to tell me some more about his first appearance. The Clerics of Boreth were confident their cloned Kahless could be convincing on the biological side of things—but he didn’t have any answers that weren’t in the ancient texts they’d stuffed into his head. So I need backstories developed for all the Kahless legends.”
“The myth team.” Shift pointed downward. “Those four people down in that little office that smells bad?”
“That’s them,” Cross said. “If someone asks me about things in the scrolls, Blackstone will feed me the answers. But we won’t stop there. I’ll talk about the side characters. What they looked like, sounded like. What the weather was doing. They won’t trip me up the way they exposed the clone.”
“Didn’t the clone submit to genetic testing?”
“Which the true Kahless would never have submitted to—at least, in my interpretation. He’d rather fight than be humiliated like that.”
The Orion’s brow furrowed. “What if that happens? The clone said it was losing a fight that gave him away.”
“The effects team is working on that,” Gaw said. “Anyone who tries to lay a hand on him will get a face full of force field, projected by Blackstone.”
“I’ll have to knock a few bumpy heads, but they will kneel down before me.” The actor crossed his arms and scowled solemnly. “Beware the wrath of Kahless!”
“And then what?” Shift asked. “Your partner knows about us—about what you can do. This Kahless thing won’t be good for him. He could ruin everything.”
“Not without ruining things for himself. My dear, he’s up to his neck in this with us. If he reveals our sham, we’ll reveal his. I don’t think he’ll find it worthwhile.”
Gaw passed the device back to Cross and headed for the staircase. “I’ll go light a fire under the myth team. People will be glad to hear payday’s coming.”
Following Gaw’s departure, Shift looked pensively at Cross. “It . . . would be good to know where Korgh’s been going with all this—so you know what to expect when your Kahless act begins.”
“We’ll talk with him one last time before we bring down the lights on the Unsung.” Cross waved his hands in excitement. “I can’t wait, babe. This is the greatest thing anyone in the Circle has ever tried. It’s one thing to fool unsophisticated species—or superstitious dopes like the Ventaxians and the Kinshaya. But it’s quite another to do it to one of the premier powers in the galaxy.”
She looked back at him. “Someone pranked the Kinshaya?”
“Oh, yeah.” He approached the bookcase she was kneeling before. “It’s in here somewhere in the Annals of the Circle.” He t
humbed lovingly through one of dozens of ruby-colored books with golden lettering.
“I was wondering what these were,” she said.
“Remember when I told you about the convocations—where all the practitioners compare their greatest feats? The best one makes it into the records we all share.”
“You get ideas from these?”
“A good practitioner never swipes a trick.” He smirked. “At least, not without adding a twist or two.”
Shift examined the titles. “It looks like your people have pranked everyone. The Ferengi, the Cardassians—the Gorn?”
“Who would dare, right? Who indeed.” Cross grinned. “It takes a real operator to go up against someone who could rip your arms off.”
Shift pulled out another journal. “Interesting. The Mystical Manifestations of Jilaan before the Kinshaya, 2293.”
“I’ve never read that one—but whatever it is, you could learn a lot from it.” He kissed her on the cheek. “Let’s get a real meal before we have to get back.”
Thirty-three
THE GREAT HALL
QON’OS
“Thank you all,” Korgh said as he lingered before the gaggle of admirers and well-wishers in the atrium. “Remember what I have said. The valiant warriors of Spirits’ Forge deserved much better than to die at the hands of the Unsung criminals. I demand recompense for the damage to the sacred isle—and for the thousands of Selseress who died because of Starfleet’s bumbling torpedo disposal.”
He had made up the Selseress body count, but no one had called him on it. He closed as he always did lately, crossing his arms in what had become his signature pose of denunciation. “Everything the Federation touches goes wrong. We must remember how to stand on our own before they pull us down.”
“Praxis is past,” came the chant in response. “Praxis is past.” He nodded, smiling. The line had been part of one of his earlier jeremiads and had become quite the catchphrase. In three words, it symbolized an Empire ready to be great once more and solely in charge of its destiny.
Korgh’s security personnel extricated him quickly from the facility and escorted him across the street to his apartments. Less than an hour after his speech to the High Council, he was relaxing with a bottle and watching the coverage of his latest oratorical triumph. And it had been a triumph—for while an operational failure, Spirits’ Forge had gone far better than Korgh had hoped.
He’d known he wasn’t going to be able to prevent the H’atorian Conference; his influence had grown enormously in a short time, but not that much. Since the House of Kruge administered most of the frontier worlds affected, Martok had grudgingly respected his right to select the empire’s negotiating representative. Had he genuinely sought the conference’s success, Korgh certainly would have chosen one of his sons: Lorath, the eldest, or Tengor or Tragg, both of whom administered factories for the house.
Instead, he’d sent Kersh. And the Unsung, to kill her and ruin the conference. She’d survived, but it was her standing, and not Korgh’s, that had suffered. He’d heard the whispers from the other High Councilors: they’d chosen right in honoring his claim to the house.
The attack against the Romulans, while not something he had prescribed, had also worked in his favor. He hadn’t given Cross instructions to attack other guests at the event besides Kersh and the Federation’s attendees, but they had. The happy result was the series of messages on his padd.
An official notification from Martok that the Romulans had requested the right to join the Klingon and Federation forces hunting the Unsung in imperial territory. A backchannel communication from Tocatra directly to Korgh, asking him to advise the chancellor to agree with the plan, giving the Romulans a chance to save face. Even a plainly worded message from the Breen, who had slipped away with the Kinshaya just in time to miss the chaos: they wanted to attend the task force as observers, fearful of being left out.
A transformation was at hand in galactic politics, and he had created the waves. He was set to change everything—and Korgh owed it to the eccentric Cross and his thralls in the Unsung, who had done everything he had asked of them.
It only remained to settle accounts with Cross, as promised, and to wrap the Unsung operation up. Wrap it up in a way planned long ago, which would not only protect Korgh and his family from exposure, but advance their fortunes still further.
Cross, he knew, was thinking of his own fortune. Korgh was sending one his way. The young Betazoid liked to think he was so smart and mysterious, hiding behind his tricks and his truthcrafters. But Korgh was old, and knew more about the Circle of Jilaan and its ways than Cross could possibly imagine.
If you live long enough, nothing surprises you. Starting with Gamaral, Korgh had been the one to deal the surprises. And he was far from finished.
U.S.S. TITAN
ORBITING H’ATORIA
“I’ve been saying it’s about time we got the band back together,” Riker said as he walked from his office into Titan’s sector command hub. There was no laughter, but he wasn’t expecting any. He approached the large oval table around which several personnel from the Enterprise stood across from their opposite numbers on Titan’s staff. “Sit down, everyone.”
As all complied, Picard smiled. “It’s good to see you safe, Admiral.”
“This briefing has officially gone on longer than the H’atorian Conference,” Riker said, settling in a chair at the head of the table. “I want to thank the Enterprise for saving the Romulan ambassador. My commendations to Titan for bailing us out down below.” He looked to the Trill security chief. “I’m sorry for the lives lost on your team, Ranul, but they made a difference.”
After an acknowledgment of the heroics of Xaatix and Kyzak, Riker went over the status of the investigation on H’atoria. Work to recover the remains of the destroyed bird-of-prey had been hampered by lack of cooperation. The High Council was furious at the loss of the honorable Sentries, and Korgh was fanning the flames, even accusing Starfleet of causing Selseress casualties when none were in the area. “The only thing our investigations can confirm,” Keru said, “is that the downed vessel was part of the Phantom Wing. It matches the material and engineering specs that Korgh released.”
Less was known about the fate of the Sentries. No bodies had been found, but there was evidence of a massacre in the petrified forest north of the fortress, suggesting the corpses had been incinerated. How the Unsung knew when and where to attack at all was another question.
“Will, you said Lord Korgh decided only a short time ago to hold the event at Spirits’ Forge,” Picard said. “Could there be a mole in his operation?”
“It’s entirely possible. I was in his factory less than an hour when those two copycats came after us. Maybe there’s someone higher up.”
Lastly, there was no indication of the course the Phantom Wing took from H’atoria. La Forge sounded hopeful that Worf had survived beaming aboard the Phantom Wing ship; transporter logs indicated a successful transporter lock. But no signals from his tracking device had been detected.
“I wish I had gone across too,” Šmrhová said. “I would have taken my chances.”
“The computer didn’t like what it saw,” La Forge said. “I’m not sure we should use this tactic again.” The engineer’s tone was bleak. Riker knew that both La Forge and Šmrhová blamed themselves for Worf’s original kidnapping by the Unsung. Worf had volunteered for this mission, but it hadn’t made dealing with the results any easier.
Riker moved on to a topic where La Forge could respond in the affirmative. “You said you got a reading on Object Thirteen?”
La Forge nodded. “It came from one of Kersh’s satellites—they didn’t notice it at the time but spotted it in the records after the attack.” He touched a control on his padd, and the location appeared on one of the holographic displays above the table.
“It was detected in H’atoria’s atmosphere,” Tuvok said. He stared at the image intently.
“Yes, once they kne
w the Unsung had been on the planet, they recalibrated their sensors and had another look.” The commander increased the magnification, and the small sphere that was H’atoria ballooned into a broad arc, with the island appearing in relief. “The contact was one point seven kilometers from the fortress and four hundred meters off the ground.”
Riker tried his best to remember what he’d seen in the conflagration. “Does it match the locations of the ship Titan hit? Or any of the places where we saw vessels firing?”
“No, it’s off to the side. I’d say they were watching the action.” La Forge had never felt Object Thirteen was a bird-of-prey; that was why its presence evoked such interest.
Tuvok stood. “Admiral, I would like permission to be excused to perform an analysis. This new information may connect with a line of inquiry I have been following.”
Riker gave his consent. Tuvok never did anything without a good reason—and the admiral wanted every possible lead followed. He said as the Vulcan departed, “I was just speaking with Admiral Akaar and Kellesar zh’Tarash.”
A low murmur came from the table. “The president,” Picard said. “Has this ascended to that level?”
“The Federation has been at peace with the Klingon Empire since Kirk visited Khitomer. The Accords have expanded, making it possible to keep the peace. With significant exceptions, the two parties have taken the same approach to those who would threaten us. If we want space to be about exploration and not warfare, we have to come together—not be divided by internal politics. Theirs,” he said, “or ours.”
Dalit Sarai straightened at that remark. Everyone present knew she’d been a supporter of the disgraced former Federation president. Riker continued, “The president is concerned. I’d thought the conference would help to strengthen the Accords—but it hasn’t. The Unsung are disturbing the peace—that’s obvious—but if we fail to catch them, reactionary forces inside the Klingon Empire could do the Accords irreparable harm.”
“We?” Picard repeated. “Not we and the Klingons?”
“We,” Riker said. “Starfleet is working with them. But Lord Korgh has made it a test of our honor. One hour ago, according to Admiral Akaar, Chancellor Martok gave permission for Typhon Pact forces to join the hunt in the Empire’s frontier regions. The Romulans, perhaps more.”
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