The Jackal's Trick

by John Jackson Miller

  “Never!” Kruge’s eyes went wide as N’Keera whipped a d’k tahg from her voluminous sleeve and plunged it into his chest. The audience gasped as one. Blood coming from his mouth instead of vapor, he clutched at the handle of the blade—as N’Keera drew a disruptor from elsewhere in her robes. “You are old, your followers scum. I serve Kersh. You will never kill her—nor anyone else!” She fired the weapon point-blank. Kruge disappeared with a screech.

  Many other screams followed as the crowd surged forward, Valandris at the forefront. But before a single weapon could be drawn on N’Keera, she closed her cloak around her and vanished in a transporter effect.

  “No!” Valandris yelled. “No! What have you done?”

  BLACKSTONE

  ORBITING OMICRON LANKAL

  Shift materialized in Blackstone’s transporter room, still in her N’Keera persona. “We’ve got them,” Gaw yelled. “Get out of the system fast and go to warp!”

  Cross, crumpled on the deck in the pose he’d held when the fake disruptor had fired, took Shift’s hand. As she helped him up, he pulled the trick d’k tahg from his chest. The point had slid back into the handle when she struck him. Cross put his arm around Shift and pulled her closer to him. He kissed her cheek. She seemed overwhelmed by the praise.

  “You did great, babe. I’m just glad you remembered to use the safety switch on the dagger!” He handed it back to her. “A souvenir of your first triumph.”

  Truthcrafters surrounded them, rewarding the death scene with a standing ovation. “You are the best,” Gaw said. “Both of you!”

  Cross basked in the cheering and applause. He snapped his fingers to dispel the illusions. “Good-bye, crazy Klingons—and good-bye, Kruge. I’m glad I’ll never have to do that growl again!”

  Fifty

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  OMICRON LANKAL

  “Kruge! Kruge! They have killed our Lord Kruge!”

  Valandris ignored the clamor as she ran through the halls. Throughout the bird-of-prey, her fellow exiles were either wailing in sorrow or screaming. This, she knew, was when Klingons sang their songs. Potok had never taught them any. There was only sadness and rage, expressed randomly and creating a cacophony of sound.

  Many of the other witnesses to the murder had transported directly back to their ships. Valandris had remained on Omicron Lankal’s surface long enough to lead her trackers on a reconnoiter of the area; N’Keera must have transported to another location. It took the hunters little time to find a network of ice caverns once used as housing for the Klingon miners, but it had been twenty years since anyone had set foot inside. The lord’s trusted assistant was nowhere to be seen.

  Trusted. N’Keera had been that, Valandris knew: Kruge’s expression was unmistakable. He had no idea the blow was coming. A foul, vile act. N’Keera had yelled, yes, but the tip of the blade was already heading for the old man’s heart. Was this honorable Klingon combat? How was this any different from the Unsung striking while in disguise? Valandris had given Riker and Kersh warning at Spirits’ Forge, but now she wondered why she had bothered. Kersh and her agent had shown Kruge the same respect the Unsung had shown the so-called nobles on Gamaral.

  But the Unsung were dealing justice to vermin. N’Keera had killed all that was good in her people’s world. The bastion of bravery, the man who had given them respect and hope. He was as close to a god as they had. Mythology held that the Klingons had killed their gods. The Empire had killed the Unsung’s before their eyes.

  Raneer appeared in the hall as Valandris ran. The young pilot looked distraught. “Zokar’s powering up Rodak. What should we do?”

  “Get us running,” Valandris said, not stopping. “Tell the ships in orbit to wait!” They all wanted to make for Ghora Janto and revenge, she knew; so did she, with every fiber of her being. But first, if there was a chance N’Keera had returned to Chu’charq, the villain needed to be dealt with.

  Valandris scaled the ladder to the deck one port storage area that had been the Fallen Lord’s private haven. No one had questioned his claiming of the space; it was far from the noise and bustle of the ship, a place to meditate. Reaching the main corridor, she saw Hemtara looking pale.

  “He had been asking for life sign scans,” the woman said. “I did not understand why. But he must have suspected . . .” She trailed off, clearly shaken.

  “You’ve checked again?”

  “No one who isn’t supposed to be aboard.” Hemtara gestured into a side chamber. “I think that’s where they stayed.” Valandris looked past to see a small room with a rectangular impression in the dust. A mat had been there.

  “And then there’s this.” The engineer led her to the end of the hall, where a stool sat beside the entrance to a storage compartment. Hemtara pointed to projectors in the door frame. “Someone installed a force field here. I don’t know why.”

  That was odd. But Valandris’s attention turned to the storage section itself, and its mountain of containers. Several other members of the Unsung were rifling through the crates’ contents. A blanket sat balled up on the deck beside broken glass.

  Valandris picked up the blanket and sniffed. It was a Klingon’s odor, that of a male. But she had never been close enough to Kruge to notice if the scent was his. Hemtara walked to the open crates. “When we left Thane in a hurry, people packed things anywhere they could.” She drew out several pairs of gloves. “It’s mostly surplus gear. Canteens, clothing. No weapons.”

  The only weapons that mattered were the ones N’Keera had used—and the weapons the Unsung would use in response. Kruge had given them the Phantom Wing, and they would use it to make Kersh’s allies pay. She reached for her communicator. “Raneer, take us to orbit. We’re going to Ghora Janto.”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL RODAK

  OMICRON LANKAL

  “Lift off! Lift off!”

  Harch looked back at Zokar, both of them just returned from the surface. “We still have people left on the ground!”

  “Let Valandris pick up the laggards—we have to get to Ghora Janto before that turncoat warns Kersh that we’re coming!” He pointed behind and to his right. “Start jamming subspace frequencies.”

  The breathless youth at the engineering station looked back at him in confusion. “We were never taught how to—”

  “Move!” Zokar leaped from his command chair. He dashed over and shoved the kid out of the way. “There,” he said, after a few moments work on the interface. “Do I have to do everything?”

  He looked back out at the icy surface visible on the main viewer. How had it happened? N’Keera had always been a loyal retainer, so far as he could tell—and according to Kruge, her family had cared for him for a century.

  Her departure was as mysterious as Worf’s arrival had been. Zokar couldn’t imagine they were associated. Worf might try to thwart the Unsung to protect the chancellor and the Federation, but he would never engage in outright treachery.

  But Worf wouldn’t be going anywhere, and right now, the Unsung needed a leader. Feeling the ship powering up around him, Zokar returned to his command chair. He had a target—and vengeance to deliver.

  BLACKSTONE

  EN ROUTE TO CRAGG’S CLOUD

  “Our cleanup crew beamed into and out of your lair on Chu’charq with no problem,” Gaw said. “They cleaned out anything incriminating.”

  “Good work.” Looking back from the conn station, Cross smiled. “I’ve just laid in our course. It’s where I sent Ark of G’boj to—the perfect place. A nebula outside Klingon space.”

  “Thank the stars!” Gaw looked at Shift. “We can loot that thing for years. I think you signed on with the right bunch.”

  Cross stepped over to another bridge position. “Any reaction from our crazed cultists back there?”

  “Vessels on the surface powering up,” a technician responded. “Orbital vehicles scanning, but they haven’t pierced our cloak.”

  “Are they moving?”

  “Yes.
But not toward us.”

  Shift looked at the technician’s screen. “In the direction of Ghora Janto?” She looked at Cross. “They’re really going. You sold it!”

  “ ‘So Rosencrantz and Guildenstern go to’t,’ ” Cross said. “And maybe the clone of Kahless goes too.” He grinned at her. “Ready to celebrate your first successful performance?”

  She continued staring for a moment, and then looked up at him. “Sure, I’ll see you upstairs in a few minutes. There’s something I want to take care of first.”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL RODAK

  EN ROUTE TO GHORA JANTO

  Something has happened, Worf thought. The forces aboard Rodak were grappling with an emergency—and he suspected it had nothing to do with him.

  Sarken had been right earlier about almost everyone leaving the ship. Worf had seen no one on the way from Rodak’s infirmary to the ladder, nor during his descent down it. That had been interminable and painful; Zokar had not treated his leg. He had needed Sarken to help him along through the abandoned engineering section to reach port engineering support.

  The door had just closed behind him when the commotion started. Multiple voices could be heard in engineering cursing, and shouting Kruge’s name. Sarken had panicked, fearing that Zokar’s forces had returned to discover him missing. But as Worf strained to tilt the massive plate upward, that theory was challenged. Rodak’s thrusters ignited, and the whole bird-of-prey jerked upward. It was not a planned evacuation, he could tell.

  Had Enterprise arrived? If so, then his chance had too. “Sarken, I must enter the insides of the ship,” Worf said. “Will Zokar harm you if he suspects you released me?”

  “Nobody else knew you were aboard,” she said, eyes wide. “I’m afraid, Worf.”

  “Then you are my responsibility. Lock the door—he already suspects I will hide in the maintenance areas.” She complied. At his direction, she grabbed a small handheld light from a worktable. Worf heaved at the access plate to make room for her to slip into the darkness. Seconds later, he joined her, still wondering why the engineers outside kept yelling Lord Kruge’s name.

  Fifty-one

  U.S.S. TITAN

  ORBITING CHELVATUS III

  Riker walked quickly into sickbay. “I came as soon as I could. Are you okay?”

  “Just a little shaken up,” Troi said. She sat atop an exam table as Doctor Onnta, Titan’s assistant medical chief, treated the bruise on her forehead. “Things got strange at the bazaar.”

  Several other medics were at work treating security personnel from the Chelvatus III away team. Dennisar had a ripped tunic and an eye socket that had gone from green to an angry yellow. “You should see the other guy, Admiral, sir.”

  “Glad you’re in such high spirits.” Riker stepped toward his security officer. “What happened?”

  “We’d just gotten done interviewing merchants and were on our way out when we saw an old Klingon outside—a beggar. They were beating him, sir.”

  “Who was?”

  “Other Klingons,” Dennisar said. “At first. Then others in the crowd got into it, throwing rocks. We, uh, moved to protect him.”

  “I should hope so,” Riker said. “But where were the security personnel from the Klingon outpost?”

  “I couldn’t say for sure, Admiral, but I think there might have been security among the assailants.” Dennisar shook his head. “It was hard to tell, because once we got into it, the stones started coming at us.”

  Troi hopped down off the table. “They were accusing the old man of having been discommendated. They wanted him to leave the settlement.”

  “Was he discommendated?”

  “I don’t know. I could sense that some people thought so. They were afraid. But I also sensed that others there just didn’t like him.”

  That squared with reports Riker had been hearing. Violent backlashes against discommendated Klingons had multiplied since H’atoria, far outnumbering the number of Unsung-inspired acts. Incidents had been reported not just in the Empire, but also in the neighboring regions. “What happened to the beggar?”

  “The head of the outpost finally showed up and arrested him,” Dennisar said. “Then he ordered us to leave the planet. I told him he didn’t have that authority, that the High Council had granted us access. But I figured we’d better get out of the way.”

  “Bridge to Admiral Riker,” called Keru. “Sir, there is a priority-one message for you from Ambassador Rozhenko.”

  Riker stepped out to the CMO’s office. When he returned minutes later, Troi could tell he was frustrated and furious. “That was fast,” he said. “The chancellor has asked us to withdraw.”

  Dennisar looked guilty. “Sorry, Admiral.”

  “Never apologize for doing the right thing, Chief. Any IDs on the goods sold at bazaar?”

  “So far, no. But we’ll keep checking.”

  Seeing that Deanna was ready to leave, the admiral made his way to the exit. He waited until they were alone in the corridor to embrace her. “Not my favorite day,” she said.

  “The feeling is mutual.” Riker released her and they began to walk to the turbolift. “While you were down there, I was speaking with Chancellor Martok for half an hour. The Typhon Pact—minus the Kinshaya—are taking full advantage of the crisis. They might have more ships in the search now than Starfleet does.”

  “I can’t believe Korgh would keep silent about that, given the xenophobia he’s been expressing.”

  “Silence would be a blessing. No, he’s been supportive of the help because it gives him one more chance to undermine the Accords.”

  She looked at him with concern. “How much danger are they in?”

  “Martok hopes he can prevent the Empire from abrogating them. But it’s the ‘thousand cuts’ that concern me.”

  As the lift arrived, Riker’s combadge chirped. “Ssura to Admiral Riker. We’ve been hailed on a secure channel from I.K.S. V’raak. General Lorath wants to speak with you most urgently.”

  The admiral rolled his eyes. “If this is about Chelvatus III, you can tell him we’ve already heard from Martok. We’re pulling out.”

  “I don’t think that’s it, Admiral. The general sounded . . . odd,” said Riker’s aide.

  Riker looked at his wife and shrugged. “Tell him I’ll be right there.” As they stepped onto the lift, he ordered, “Operations center.”

  “Lorath,” Troi said. “Lord Korgh’s son?”

  “And he’s leading the hunt for the Unsung.” When the Klingon Defense Force had put Lorath in charge of its investigation of the Gamaral massacre, it was not yet public knowledge his father was the heir to the House of Kruge. Even Lorath had not known, so far as Riker knew. According to all reports the admiral had received, the revelation had made Lorath redouble his efforts to bring the Unsung to heel. Gamaral was now an attack on his house, and so far, he had been cooperative with Starfleet.

  Riker hoped that wasn’t about to change. “Join me? I may need your impressions. And the moral support.”

  Minutes later, they entered his office. On-screen, Riker saw a face that he’d first seen in the Great Hall on Qo’noS, the day Korgh’s true identity had been revealed.

  “Greetings, General. To what do I owe—”

  “Are you alone?”

  The admiral gestured to his side. “This is my counselor, Commander Deanna Troi.”

  “Must she be here?”

  Riker and Troi exchanged glances. “Why don’t you tell me what this is about?”

  Lorath’s face froze, and for a moment, Riker wondered if there was a problem with the transmission. “General?”

  “I am told you attended the launch of my son’s ship,” Lorath said. “I appreciate the gesture.”

  “It was an honor.” Riker assumed a comment about the attack that had followed would be next.

  “Honor is in short supply these days. I believe you are a man of honor . . . the Federation has fought valiantly alongside the Empire.” Lorath
looked away. “I am not supposed to share this information—but I would have such a friend at my side during the battle.”

  Riker’s forehead crinkled. “What battle?”

  “I have learned that the Unsung are headed for Ghora Janto.” Lorath faced them again, and his edginess seemed to melt as the words poured out of him. “I cannot share how I know this, Admiral. I have not even filed a report with the Defense Force. But I am in the process of moving all the ships under my command there now.”

  “Have you told—”

  “The Typhon Pact? No.” For a moment it looked as if the general was about to spit. “As I said, this information is extremely sensitive. You belong in this fight.”

  Riker thought for a moment. “We are not far from Ghora Janto. I can also summon the Enterprise.”

  “They rescued my father from Gamaral. They are welcome. But no word to Starfleet Command.”

  Riker looked at Troi and then back at the screen. “I answer to Starfleet, General. I can’t send ships into combat without informing them.” He paused. “But I can limit my contact to Admiral Akaar. I will avoid mentioning this conversation.”

  A pause. “That will do.”

  “The Unsung have one of our officers prisoner aboard one of their ships, General. If at all possible, we should try to disable rather than destroy.”

  “After what they have done, you understand I cannot promise this. But do what you will. Qapla’.” The transmission concluded.

  Riker scratched his beard. “Stranger and stranger. His father has only scorn for the Federation. How does he know this—and why would he come to me?”

  “Just from body language and tone,” Troi said, “I sensed no duplicity. Only an earnest desire to include a brother-in-arms.”

  “Earnest,” Riker said. Not a word I would have associated with a son of Korgh. He stood and called out to his aide. “Ssura, contact Captain Vale. Tell her, with my compliments, that I need her crew’s assistance, working the angles. If this is a stunt to make us look bad, I want no part of it. But if this is real, we might be the only hope Worf has.”