The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  Vale shook her head. “Sharing the same space. I guess we got our free-flight corridor.”

  “Only we never envisioned it would be ships of war crossing,” Riker pointed out. “Chancellor Martok agreed because Tocatra and D’choak were attacked. It’s a matter of honor. Now he’s got to answer to people like Korgh, who would be happy to see the Accords nullified.”

  Picard frowned. “We don’t meddle in Klingon politics—we made that clear during their civil war. And while we should welcome the fact that the Typhon Pact wants to help,” he said, shaking his head, “I don’t see how this ends well.”

  Riker stood and paced in front of the ports that lined his command center. “Ambassador Spock wasn’t wrong to let the exiles go. We weren’t at fault at Gamaral. Or Thane. Or here,” he said, gesturing out the port to H’atoria. “But many people of the Empire are now convinced that we were. If we want to preserve the Accords, we have to find the Unsung. And fast.”

  Thirty-four

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  EN ROUTE TO LANKAL EXPANSE

  They were on their way, at last, to the treasure. Aboard Blackstone, Cross and his team had calculated the best place at which to intercept Ark of G’boj. He returned, as Kruge, to the Unsung and delivered the coordinates as part of their next mission.

  After the events at H’atoria, they had been ridiculously easy to convince. Kersh’s conference might have failed, he’d said, but her treachery continued. Cross told the Unsung that the Romulans had given her a bribe, carried aboard Ark of G’boj. An Unsung sympathizer on Chelvatus III had provided “Kruge” with the Ark’s itinerary, he said. The Kradge could be avenged, and Kersh bloodied, in one simple strike.

  Cross figured bringing the Unsung with him would prevent any double cross by Korgh—and the new mission had solved another problem. He’d considered transferring the troublesome Valandris to another vessel: Cross couldn’t be the one to leave Chu’charq, not with Kahless aboard. But Valandris had accepted the Ark mission with zeal, and for a moment he saw the devoted woman he had once known. That was fine. He would only have to deal with her a short while longer.

  On the other hand, Chu’charq would be losing a different passenger soon—one that no Klingon knew was present. Kahless had been reaching the end of his usefulness even before the H’atorian operation; since then, he’d spent most of his time drunk or asleep. Just before the squadron went to warp, while Chu’charq’s shields were down, Blackstone would initiate a site-to-site transport, delivering the clone to an icy end in space. The role would belong to Cross, once and for all.

  Appearing again as himself, Cross ascended the steps to his deck one sanctum and quickly peeked in on his compartment. Shift was napping, the edition of the Annals open and on her chest. He thought she looked lovely asleep.

  By contrast, the sleeper at the other end of the hall never looked good, but at least Kahless wasn’t snoring this time. Cross had been on Chelvatus for the better part of a day and hadn’t seen him since his breakfast feeding; Kahless had refused enough food lately that they’d given up on more than one meal a day. Through the force field, Cross saw the food still on the plate beside the blanket-covered mass. More bottles—they had to be the last—lay empty nearby.

  So much for a last meal, Cross thought. It was better to do it now. Shift had seen a lot of killings in her life, and he figured to spare her the last moments of their houseguest.

  Still, he could never pass up good material—and Cross desired to hear any last words the clone of Kahless thought suitable. He called out, to no response.

  Again: no movement. Shift appeared barefoot in the doorway behind him, yawning. “What’s wrong?”

  “The clone’s playing games—or he’s dead.” He picked up a mug and pounded it against the wall. “Kahless! Wake up!” Getting no response, he looked to Shift. “Give me the thing.”

  Shift located the control mechanism they’d crafted and passed it to Cross. “Get up or I’ll have that manacle give you a shot that’ll really put you out.”

  Still nothing.

  Shift retreated to their room and emerged with a disruptor. “Okay, I’m dropping the force field,” Cross said. She slipped past him. “I’ve seen this drama before. If this is a trick, it’s your last.”

  Shift poked the body with her toe—and then in a quick move swiped the blanket upward. Below, amid overturned empty bottles, were three large sacks of dry pellets, fuel for one of the devices on the lower decks.

  Immediately on her guard, the Orion searched the storeroom. Crates climbed to the overhead, where pipes crisscrossed beneath vents. When placing the clone inside, neither Cross nor Shift could imagine the fat Klingon making it up there. Shoving containers aside, Shift overturned an open box, spilling the canteens. One popped open, losing its contents.

  She sniffed. “Romulan ale.”

  Befuddled, Cross stepped into the area. One empty bottle was partially wrapped in the ankle binding. Cross picked it up and saw that the manacle had been severed in half. Pulling it off the bottle, he saw Klingon letters scratched into the label by a shard of glass. Cross recognized the saying instantly.

  Death before chains.

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

  ORBITING H’ATORIA

  Enterprise, which had remained in Klingon space following the H’atorian attack, was now part of Admiral Riker’s larger task force, comprising all Starfleet vessels in or near Klingon space; for the better part of a day, it remained in rendezvous with Titan for the captains to work out their next steps.

  His postmeeting shift ended, La Forge had returned to stellar cartography, the place that he spent almost every off-hour, searching for the Unsung. So did Aneta Šmrhová, who had spent so much time there she had taken to sleeping on the deck.

  Responsibly, La Forge had demanded that she get some rest in her quarters, lest he sic Doctor Crusher on her. Then he had promptly brought in a cot for himself. He figured he might as well: if he was going to waste time on sleep, the engineer felt it might as well be looking at the artificial star field before he closed his eyes.

  With no one else in the room, he collapsed on the cot and—

  Light caught his eyes. He bolted upright to see a figure materializing on the catwalk beneath the holographic stars. “Tuvok?”

  The Vulcan crossed the platform and stepped down into the darkness. “When I found out where you were, I asked Captain Vale to transport me directly here.” He stepped over to an interface. “There is something you must see.”

  H’atoria expanded again, just as it had in the meeting aboard Titan. La Forge stood. “The Object Thirteen contact.”

  “Correct. As I stated in my report, I noticed an anomalous reading while in orbit over the planet. One that I saw again—here.” Tuvok touched a control, and the flashing point overhead now had a streaming line projecting from it.

  Tired artificial eyes opened wide. “That marries right up with Object Thirteen.” La Forge looked more closely. “It’s projecting something. A signal of some kind.”

  “A high-intensity signal, meant for a vessel we were also not able to see—coming from a type of ship you encountered nineteen years ago. Projecting a signal that I encountered ninety-three years ago . . .”

  INTERLUDE

  THE HAWK’S RUSE

  2293

  “Witchcraft to the ignorant . . . simple science to the learned.”

  —Leigh Brackett

  Thirty-five

  U.S.S. EXCELSIOR

  STARBASE 24

  “Commander Rand, I appreciate your suggesting me for this duty.”

  The blond-haired woman in the red uniform smiled gently at Tuvok. “Here’s a suggestion, Ensign,” Janice Rand said. “Don’t thank me too soon.”

  The young Vulcan raised an eyebrow. “I expressed gratitude at the culturally appropriate time.”

  “Ensign, not every ‘very important person’ who boards a starship is an easy assignment,” she said. “Every so often you get a D
ohlman of Elas.”

  “I am unfamiliar with the reference.”

  “One of Captain Sulu’s cautionary stories from the old Enterprise days. I think I’m glad I missed that one. Your guest today is someone I think it would be good for you to meet. But let’s just say that the previous times he was aboard Excelsior, things were a little . . . rocky.”

  “Rocky.” Tuvok contemplated. “Should you not have assigned Lieutenant Valtane as escort? Geology is one of his specialties.”

  She chuckled. “Good luck, Ensign.”

  Tuvok walked the length of the hallway toward the transporter room. He had joined Excelsior’s crew as a junior science officer near the end of the ship’s three-year mission exploring planetary bodies in the Beta Quadrant. His timing was less than fortunate. The quadrant was home to both the Klingon Empire and the Romulan Star Empire, traditional adversaries of the Federation. Ever since the Kudao Massacre, it had become a hostile place for scientific pursuits. More than once, Captain Sulu and his ship had been redirected to aid in some matter of state or mission of mercy relating to the testy situation.

  Now Excelsior was tasked to head for Yongolor, homeworld of the Kinshaya, sworn and ancient enemies of the Klingons, after a brief stop at Starbase 24 to pick up a diplomat. Tuvok, already unclear on how much pure science he could pursue in a possible war zone, was equally vague on why he was chosen. But Commander Rand had taken on Tuvok’s development as a personal project and had seemed to think he needed to broaden his horizons. While it was hard to gainsay such an experienced officer, Tuvok had been, as yet, unable to see the potential benefit.

  He entered the transporter room. “The starbase is ready,” the transporter chief said.

  Tuvok ordered, “Energize.” On the transporter pad, a young man with short brown hair, a high forehead, and copious spreads of freckles going down each side of his face materialized. He wore the modest gray attire of a Federation diplomat—and when he locked eyes on the ensign, he affected a mischievous grin.

  “Well, hello,” he said in a voice that slightly grated. “What have we here?”

  “Captain Sulu sends his regards. I am Ensign Tuvok. Welcome to Excelsior.”

  “Curzon Dax of Trill, at your service.” He stepped off the pad and studied Tuvok up and down. “Vulcan, are we?”

  “We are not. I am. According to your file—”

  “My file! Good heavens.” He whispered into Tuvok’s ear. “Tell me, did you find anything . . . entertaining in there?”

  “Entertaining?”

  “Juicy. I have lived an interesting life.”

  Tuvok maneuvered himself away. “I am a science officer, Ambassador—it is not my duty to know your personal affairs. But it is consistent with the responsibilities of a Starfleet officer to know the public record of whom we are hosting.”

  Dax only seemed to grow more amused. “I stand in awe, sir, of your elaborately constructed sentences. It’s a shame to waste such carefully considered words in the service of science.” His smile grew more impetuous. “Will you favor me with a contraction during my stay? Or perhaps a gerund with a clipped g?”

  Tuvok stared.

  “Well, we’ll see about that later.” Dax offered his hand. “I am overjoyed to meet you, Ensign. Absolutely overjoyed.” He shook the puzzled Vulcan’s hand vigorously. “Tell me, did they tell you about the first time I was aboard Excelsior?”

  “I read the report. You were to attend peace talks with the Empire, but they were disrupted by terrorism.”

  “We wound up chasing a crazed albino Klingon across the stars. I only hope our adventure together will be half as interesting.” He slapped Tuvok on the back. “No, why wish for half? Twice as interesting! Where do we begin?”

  “I am here to escort you to your quarters. Then I will return to my duties analyzing data already collected about gaseous anomalies.”

  “Your days sound riveting. Tell me, is the officer’s club in the same place?”

  “I am unaware of the past configuration of this vessel.”

  “Discovery is half the fun, Tuvok.” Curzon Dax marched to the exit. “Come along! They can send my luggage to wherever luggage is sent.”

  Tuvok followed, having realized why Captain Sulu sent somebody else.

  TRADING POST KURABAK

  CHELVATUS III

  “I can only give you five hundred kurabakas for this,” said the merchant.

  “Five hundred?” Korgh snorted. “This d’k tahg is a valued relic of my family. You of course know of the great Commander Kruge?”

  “Scourge of the Klingon frontier? Of course.”

  “I was his protégé. In fact, his heir. This weapon was given me by Kruge in honor of our relationship.”

  The orange-skinned creature’s eyestalks extended, giving it a better look at the blade. “There is no emblem, no inscription.”

  “Would I lie about this?”

  An eyestalk cocked toward the Klingon. “Would a scion of a great house peddle weapons in a market on a neutral world?” He passed the knife back to Korgh. “Five hundred, no more.”

  Korgh glared at the merchant. Then he grabbed the eyestalk with one hand and put the blade to work with the other. The merchant screamed in agony as viscous goo spurted onto the Klingon’s hands. It stank.

  Armed with the blade, he looked around the trading post to see what attention he’d attracted. Some—but he had a moment. Finding the merchant curled up on the floor in pain, Korgh rifled through the thing’s many cloth pouches. “I will take five hundred kurabakas for my time.”

  “Take it! Take it all!”

  “No. I am no thief.” Korgh pocketed the money and made his way to the exit, aware of all the eyes on him. He didn’t care. One of the eyes was on the floor. In his mood, he would happily add to the total.

  Both his stomachs grumbled loudly as he stepped onto the street. Seven years had passed since Spock had stolen his chance for revenge on James T. Kirk, and Korgh’s world had completely fallen apart.

  He had soldiered on for several years, looking to recruit crew for the Phantom Wing; his efforts had been completely without success. The nobles who had taken control of the House of Kruge through their ridiculous and offensive may’qochvan bargain had cornered the market on hired muscle in the regions where the family was active, forcing him to look ever farther afield. The sheer number of hirelings he required further compounded Korgh’s problem. His best chance to surprise his enemies involved attacking with the entire squadron at once; employing ships piecemeal jeopardized that. But he could not staff a dozen birds-of-prey without selling off one of the ships—and he had steadfastly refused to do so. The Phantom Wing was part of Kruge’s dream, the only legacy Korgh had from him. He would keep it whole.

  The delays had eroded both the patience and the numbers of the cadre of engineers who’d been loyal to him. “The Twenty” were now the Ten. Korgh had killed three back on Gamaral; since then, one a year had fallen. To different reasons, yes, but always because of their own stupidity. One had been electrocuted in a mishap, trying to install Odrok’s enhancements on one of the Phantom Wing vessels. Two more had been killed in foreign ports of call as the weaklings had failed miserably at defending themselves.

  But the four most recent had died because they had threatened to leave the group. Now he was so shorthanded he could no longer staff Chu’charq as his personal vessel. His only recourse had been to repeat Odrok’s original relay of the Phantom Wing from Gamaral: one ship at a time. They had brought all twelve ships to a hiding place in an abandoned mine on an unpopulated Klingon world. Along with the few workers he was left with—the truest of the true believers—Odrok had remained there to continue modifying the ships while Korgh struck out on his own.

  Four months of travel had brought him nothing but ruin. He had found no allies, no riches, and on several worlds, his frustrated outbursts had brought him the wrong kind of attention. He grew paranoid. What if the nobles really had known about him and his claim after a
ll? Could all the people who failed to help him have been paid to thwart him? He saw potential assassins around every corner.

  Chelvatus III, close enough to the Klingon frontier that it would almost certainly be part of the Empire someday, was no haven. He was being followed, he was sure. There was no police force here; he could not imagine the bleeding merchant had any muscle. Darting into an alley between hovels, he drew his d’k tahg and turned, ready to pounce on those following him.

  Someone else pounced instead. “Get him!” A net fell from one of the rooftops, covering Korgh.

  He ripped at the cordage, desperate to remove the thing. He could hear motion on the roof above. This was it: the nobles had finally come for him. “Come down and face me, cowards!”

  Finding the edge of the net, he pulled it free and turned toward the way he’d arrived from. Two humanoids stood there, holding phasers. “Stun him!”

  Korgh saw a flash of auburn and fell to the pavement, his last conscious thought being that his enemies had finally gotten him.

  Thirty-six

  TEMPLE OF THE GODS

  YONGOLOR

  Hikaru Sulu’s experience with Trills had told him they were nothing if not changeable. Sulu had met Curzon Dax when he was an aide to Ambassador Sarek. The Trill had been impatient, blunt, arrogant, sometimes frivolous—all the things a successful diplomat should not be. On the other hand, when the captain heard that Curzon had embarked on an adventure to aid the Klingons he was negotiating with, Sulu realized his character had significant depth.

  The Curzon who’d met him in Excelsior’s transporter room as they entered Kinshaya space had evolved. Experiences as envoy had made Dax overfull of the joys of life, turning his aggressive instincts toward relishing whatever situation he was in. One brief subspace conversation with him, before his arrival, had nearly been enough to exhaust Sulu. He felt for whatever poor ensign had been assigned to serve as his escort; scuttlebutt was that Dax had done all his mission prep in the club.