Picard nodded. “Had Kruge lived, would he have been punished—or celebrated?”
“I am unsure. But one reason some admire him today has to do with his earlier deeds. Many people live on planets Kruge added to the Empire. His successes meant he had many allies in the military.”
“Friends?”
“I would not use that word. Kruge ended many careers, some with a knife. But his battles made others’ reputations, and those officers were loyal to him.” Worf paused. “He also had a large extended family.”
“It’s a battle between Kruge’s colleagues and his family that we’re expected to help the Klingons commemorate.” Picard touched a control, and the image of Kruge vanished from his screen to be replaced by text providing minimal details of his assignment. Enterprise had been called back from its explorations for a diplomatic mission—but for a change, the stakes weren’t war and peace. Rather, the conflict had ended long ago. “The Battle of Gamaral—what do you know of it?”
“It is celebrated by the House of Kruge as the moment when the house was saved. Heirs battling for succession joined forces when Kruge’s officers sought to seize his holdings for themselves. It was a galvanizing event, and the moment when the succession battles ended.”
“Cold comfort to those they defeated,” Picard said. “I didn’t see in the records: Who commanded the losing side?”
“I do not know.” Worf paused. “His name is not spoken,” he said in lower tones.
Picard nodded. Where Klingon honor was concerned, he had a good idea what that meant. “The heirs settled on a successor?”
Worf shook his head. “That was not possible. But following Gamaral they reached an agreement unique in the Empire; they retained their assets without surrendering their claims to the house as a whole.”
“A power-sharing agreement? It doesn’t sound like a Klingon idea.”
“It is better to say they chose to defer battle, in respect of their common victory together.” Worf thought for a moment before continuing. “There is an old concept, may’qochvan, in which rivals who ally in battle for a time pause in celebration after a successful joint action—a kind of truce, in respect of the blood they spilled together, before returning to hostilities. The House of Kruge has survived in part because the heirs chose to act as though the may’qochvan never ended.”
It made sense now. In a way, the celebration after the Battle of Gamaral was still going on—resulting in a century of peace for one of the Empire’s great houses. The upcoming commemoration at Gamaral wasn’t really about Kruge, or the battle waged there—but about the accord that had followed.
Picard could support that.
And he would need to—because in the hundred years since the conflict, Federation space had grown to encompass Gamaral. Over the coming days, according to the enigmatic orders he’d received from Starfleet Command, Enterprise was expected to ferry the lords of the House of Kruge—along with several very ancient veterans of the conflict—back to the scene of the battle.
The captain was dismayed that his ship had been summoned back from its long-planned explorations. Kirk’s Enterprise had once been sacrificed to thwart Commander Kruge. Who thought another Enterprise would be the best ship for such a duty?
His communicator chirped, and he tapped it. “Bridge to Picard. New arrival.”
“Identification?”
“It’s Titan, Captain. Admiral Riker would like to come aboard—and he is bringing what he calls a ‘special guest.’”
“Send them to transporter room one, Lieutenant,” Picard said. “We’ll meet them there.” Both he and Worf were already up and on their way to the door. Well, Picard mused, at least we don’t have long to wonder . . .
• • •
While in the turbolift, Picard and Worf had learned that Titan had arrived from Cygnet IV, a secluded world in Federation space near the Klingon border. Both knew the world and who lived there. So the guest beaming aboard with Admiral William Riker came as no surprise to either of them.
“Emperor Kahless,” Picard said, smiling broadly. “I am honored to see you again,” he said, before repeating it in his best Klingon.
Barrel-chested and with a prominent mane of thick brown hair, Kahless put his hands on his belly and grinned toothily. “There is more of me to see, Picard—so more’s the honor!” He returned the captain’s gesture and then laid eyes on Picard’s first officer. “Worf!”
Kahless had indeed grown more massive since Picard had last seen him, but the emperor showed a spryness that surprised the captain. He was off the transporter pad in an instant, clapping his hands on Worf’s shoulders. “It has been too long, Son of Mogh. Have you been in great battles?”
“Yes.” Worf was taller than the clone, and yet he shook under Kahless’s vigorous greeting. “But none to compare with those of legend.”
“Bah! You will describe them all, before we part. I long to hear tales of blood and valor.”
Picard regarded Admiral Riker, who appeared amused. The captain took the chance to say, “Computer, enter into the record the boarding of a head of state—and also of a flag officer.”
“Noted.”
He smiled at Riker. “Not always easy to know who gets top billing.”
“Sorry for the protocol quandary,” Riker said, stepping down and shaking Picard’s hand. “And for the surprise visit. My itinerary’s been up in the air lately.”
Picard wanted to say he knew the feeling, but he responded simply: “Understandable.”
Riker had been promoted to rear admiral in the course of a recent crisis and had since acted as a roving diplomatic troubleshooter for the Federation. Picard had seen his onetime protégé in action in the Takedown affair and been most impressed with his judgment; Will Riker seemed to have embraced his new responsibilities.
And apparently that list of duties had grown. “What brings you here, sir?” Worf asked of Kahless.
“A young klongat of an admiral who nearly twisted my arm off.” He gestured to Riker, who raised his hands in an expression of innocence.
“I simply delivered the invitation, Your Excellency.”
“An understatement. But I respect determination.” Kahless looked around. “Am I to die of thirst?”
Picard quickly responded by turning to Riker. “The Riding Club?”
Riker shook his head. “Someplace where we can talk.”
“My dining room, then.” He addressed Kahless. “We’ve prepared four heaping servings of gagh.”
“My favorite words,” the emperor said. “But what will you eat?”
Two
In actual years lived, Kahless was the youngest person in the room. The Klingon monks of the Boreth Monastery had created him from what they had presumed to be a drop of blood from Kahless the Unforgettable, the legendary leader of their people in ancient times. Mentally imprinted with his antecedent’s teachings, the cloned Kahless had encountered Worf and Picard. They had later realized his true origins—while also recognizing the potential value of his wisdom to the Klingon Empire.
Worf had convinced Gowron, the Klingon chancellor at the time, to install the Kahless clone in the entirely ceremonial role of emperor. His genetically engineered nature was made known to all—and while not every Klingon respected the doppelganger, few could find fault with the idea of bringing the words of Kahless the Unforgettable back to the masses.
Having grown tired of his duties, the clone had fled Qo’noS several years earlier. Events surrounding his disappearance had prompted a near-crisis politically between the Klingon Empire and the Federation until the Enterprise resolved it by discovering the runaway figurehead on Cygnet IV. In the end, Kahless had kept his title, but Picard had heard little of him since.
Kahless’s fondness for Picard’s and Worf’s company had not waned since their parting, but the emperor’s appetites seemed
to have grown along with the man. Picard waited until the emperor was served seconds before he dared to quiz Kahless. “Are you returning to advising the High Council?”
“What, and give the endless talkers another chance to bore me to death?” Kahless loosed a guttural laugh. “No, my job there is done. Chancellor Martok does well enough saving the councillors from base ambitions and foolish ideas.”
“And that connects to why we’re here,” Riker said. “The nobles of the House of Kruge have invited Kahless to their centennial celebration as their special guest. As he was living on a Federation world, they asked us to deliver the invitation.”
“And you, Picard, are to deliver me,” Kahless said.
“My pleasure.” Picard looked to Riker. “Will you be joining us, Admiral?”
“I’m preparing to attend the H’atorian Conference,” Riker said. “Titan and I will head first to Starbase 222 to fetch Ambassador Rozhenko. Kahless, you remember Worf’s son? He’s been our ambassador to the Empire for several years now. He and I will stop at Qo’noS in advance of the summit.”
“Ah, yes,” Picard said. “I understand we’re expanding the Federation consulate building there. The old embassy was a bit . . . cramped.”
“The new design really fits in with the rebuilt First City,” Riker said. “It’s ostensibly an inspection tour, but the real goal is to meet with Martok about the conference and ensure we speak as one.”
“An accursed lot of running around,” Kahless grumbled. “I pity you both. A sad fate awaits successful warriors among your people.”
Riker smiled wanly. “My wife says I should start a diplomatic taxi service. But appeasing the House of Kruge will go a long way toward getting the H’atorian Conference off on the right foot.”
Picard knew of the meeting, still days off, and its importance. The Federation had many new member worlds beyond Klingon space and an interest in reaching them easily; but while the two powers had reciprocal transit agreements, the most direct routes led through a three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle that included claims of control from other interstellar power players—including some hostile to the Klingons, the Federation, or both.
“I’m hoping to negotiate a free-flight corridor open to all,” Riker said. “But we can’t even begin without the support—or at least the acceptance—of the House of Kruge. It is mostly their worlds on the frontier.”
Worf nodded. “Commander Kruge conquered several of them himself. From the Kinshaya, if I recall.”
Kahless snorted. “Four-legged fanatics. You negotiate with them?”
“And the Romulans, and Breen, and the other Typhon Pact powers,” Riker said. “If we can get them to show up. First, we need to take care of the Khitomer side—which is why Chancellor Martok and the Federation have agreed to give the House of Kruge the kind of high-profile centennial event it wants.”
“A sop, you mean.” Kahless shook his head. “There was a time when Klingon leaders did not have to bribe those who served them to obtain their support.” He drained his cup and slammed it on the table. “Perhaps I have been away too long.”
The emperor’s morose expression lingered just for a moment before he noticed another plate of squirming gagh. As Kahless reached eagerly for it, Riker presented the captain a padd. “You will enter the Klingon Empire and pick up the Kruge attendees, beginning with Galdor, the gin’tak for the House of Kruge. It was Galdor who asked for the celebrations.”
“Gin’tak.” Picard looked to Worf. “I remember that term. That’s like a regent?”
“More of a trustee,” Worf said. “A valued advisor to the family. The House of Mogh had one: K’mtar. It can be good to have an outsider’s advice.”
“Agreed, but I’m surprised a Klingon family would listen to anyone not of their blood.”
“The running of a Klingon house requires more than valor,” Worf said. “There is much to manage—enough that warriors look with admiration on anyone who is capable of doing so.”
Mouth full, Kahless gave a disdainful grunt. After gulping the wriggling food down, he wiped his face with his wrist. “It’s as I said, Worf. The galaxy has changed. Now we admire Klingons who merely manage.”
Worf looked with concern to Riker, who gave a barely perceptible shrug. “It was Chancellor Martok who suggested we employ Enterprise, Jean-Luc. He thought it would symbolize that we, too, have buried any antagonisms from the time of Kruge. The Federation Council agreed.”
“Very well,” Picard said. There wasn’t much else he could say. He finally understood the politics behind the assignment.
“The Federation Diplomatic Corps has begun work readying Gamaral for visitors,” Riker said. “You’ll coordinate with their security teams once you arrive with your guests.”
“Of course.”
Riker rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, Emperor, I need to get under way.” He regarded the table. “I hate to leave good gagh.”
Kahless smiled. “It will not go to waste.”
Picard made his excuse and followed the admiral into the hallway. The door to the dining room closed behind them—and Riker smirked. “He’s been a handful, Jean-Luc. Good luck.”
“I can’t tell whether retirement suits him or not.”
“He wasn’t born a fighter. He was born having fought—or, at least, with implanted memories of the fights of the true Kahless.” Riker began to walk, Picard beside him. “He was born to tell people the lessons of those conflicts. Living on his own, I’m not sure he’s known what to do with himself.”
“He told me back on Cygnet IV that he was looking to find his own path.”
“I’m just glad we found him back then—his disappearance was very nearly an interstellar incident. Now I’m off to prevent the next ones.” Riker reached the turbolift, and the two stepped inside. “Transporter room.”
As the turbolift gently whirred, Picard read again from the list of names on the padd. Kruge had no heir, he understood from Worf, but who knew he had so many relatives? And now the Enterprise was in the taxi business too.
He looked up at Riker, who read his mood. “Hold,” Riker commanded. The turbolift came to a halt. “What is it?”
“Will—Admiral—I hate to express concern—”
“Over being pulled away from exploration again for politics?” Riker interjected. He gave a knowing grin.
Glad to have been spared, Picard smiled gently in return. “You know me.” It wasn’t surprising: Riker had been present when Admiral Akaar had made a promise to Picard back at Starfleet Headquarters, following the Ishan Anjar affair. Enterprise was to have one mission alone: exploring the unknown. Akaar had made good on it—until now. “We always seem to be going in the opposite direction.”
“It’s nothing Christine Vale hasn’t wanted to say since I made admiral,” Riker said, referring to Titan’s captain. This assignment was doubly a diversion for his flagship’s crew; Riker had barely settled in as a frontier sector commander for the Alpha Quadrant when he’d received the call to head toward Klingon space. “It’s not our mission, not what any of us signed up for, et cetera, ad astra, ad infinitum.”
“Here, the ad astra just means going back to stars we’ve been to before. Not to mention playing host for the people next door.”
“You know I’m with you on this.” Riker scratched his beard. “But the House of Kruge was set on Kahless attending, and he refused to leave Cygnet IV unless he could travel with Worf. I wasn’t going to deprive him of your company.”
“I appreciate that,” Picard said dryly. “I do see where Enterprise’s name is important to the diplomacy. My role is happenstance.”
“Don’t let me off that easy.” Riker smiled warmly. “I would love to tell you it’s a one-time thing. The Federation’s kind of like a party. They send Starfleet out to find new guests to attend.”
“And we make sure all the early arr
ivals get along with the later ones,” Picard said, resigned. “And see to it that the neighbors don’t complain.”
“It’s the price we pay for everything else we do.”
Picard nodded. He searched for the next words. “The problem, Will, is that you’re such a good party host that I expect you’re going to get the call more often than you’d care to.”
“Which makes it costly for the people I know I can count on.” He flashed a smile. “It’s dangerous to be a Friend of Will.”
“I don’t mind the risk—but I’m glad you’re aware of it.”
“Well, I wouldn’t worry. The H’atorian Conference is so precarious I may not be in demand much longer. Or at least I won’t be on the short list for every pain in the neck job that comes along.”
Riker commanded the turbolift to continue, and Picard resumed reading the names. “The Battle of Gamaral. I find out something new about Klingon history every day.”
“They used to produce so much history, they exported it to their neighbors. But that was a long time ago.” The turbolift halted, and the doors slid open. “Good luck, Captain.”
“And to you, Admiral.”
Three
ORION SHIP DINSKAAR
HYRALAN SECTOR, FEDERATION SPACE
Valandris had been born with a hunting knife in her hand, the elders once said. Of course, when she was three years old they had also told her that she was a worthless sack of flesh and that she would die unmourned, never having accomplished anything. So Valandris tended to view the elders as less than authoritative.
But they weren’t wrong that she loved to hunt and that she preferred the blade. Killing with a disruptor felt different, although not so different that it wasn’t satisfying. It was just a matter of preference. Choice of weaponry was dictated by terrain, Valandris thought—and, of course, the game.
Today’s terrain was novel: the winding, poorly lit hallways of a starship well past its obsolescence date. Dinskaar, she had been told, had been a formidable pirate vessel working this region back when the Federation was more worried about watching the Klingon Empire than with protecting traders. Valandris hadn’t much experience with starships, but she could tell that Dinskaar had seen better times. Half the doors didn’t work and had to be blasted open.
Hell's Heart Page 2
