Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  Her quarry was new to her too: Orions, the starship’s occupants were called. Green-skinned and bipedal, the males reminded her of garvoons, the mindless hulking primates of her homeworld. They certainly made a similar sound when someone shot them. And while the Orions here didn’t move anywhere near as fast as garvoons, she had been assured they were sentient, which should have made them more formidable.

  The Orions’ intelligence wasn’t helping them—any more than their shields had prevented Valandris from transporting aboard. As she and her fellow black-clad companions worked their way methodically through the starship, the Orions spotting them went not for cover, as sensible creatures should, but for their weapons. While she wasn’t used to hunting things that could shoot back, she didn’t think the ability helped the Orions much. By the time the creatures could aim, she and her kinfolk were already firing.

  Another green face appeared from around a corner, pointing a disruptor at her; Valandris’s rifle spoke, and the Orion vanished in a blaze of energy. The Orions weren’t much sport, but they were numerous. And that meant her companions had to stay alert.

  “Wake up, Raneer!” Valandris reached out to the younger hunter to her left and slapped the back of her helmeted head. Twice Raneer had allowed Orions to get off shots before being disintegrated. “Pay attention, or they’ll be telling stories about you tonight.”

  “That’ll be the day. This is—”

  “Wait,” Valandris said, kneeling and gesturing for her two companions to do the same. They crouched beside her. She led them on hands and knees behind a large overturned cargo container that the Orions had set up as a makeshift barricade earlier. “Listen.”

  It was hard to hear anything above the din of the alarms and the shouts from firefights in other corridors. But even without the high-tech assistance built into her helmet, Valandris had instincts second to none. There was something down the hallway amid the maze of tubing.

  Rising carefully, she took aim and blasted a metal pipe in the distance. It ruptured, spewing hot steam that drove several Orions from their hiding places. Raneer and Valandris fired in unison, disintegrating two of the green creatures. The third, a bulky warrior, braved the scalding mist and charged toward the hunters. Valandris’s other flanker, Tharas, cut him down before he went five meters.

  “That one was mine,” Valandris said, mildly perturbed.

  Tharas laughed. “You just want to see what it’s like fighting one hand-to-hand.”

  “Not yet.”

  Tharas was right, of course, but there was no sense admitting it to him; her cousin talked too much as it was. But she couldn’t indulge herself, not now. They’d been on countless hunts together since childhood, but this wasn’t like any of those. They had a specific target. Valandris rose and resumed working her way up the hallway again, joined by her flankers.

  Alert, she passed cautiously through the steam, feeling no discomfort even though she wore gear that covered her from head to toe. “Feels odd wearing these outside a cavern,” Tharas said. Some of the best sport on her homeworld came from hunting tirato, which lived in caves dense with poisonous gases and dripping with acids that attacked the skin. Valandris’s people had crafted environmental suits that provided good protection and oxygen while affording ease of movement. The faceplates allowed for peripheral vision and helped with infrared sighting.

  That her helmet obscured her features from others was of little importance. Her companions knew who she was: Valandris, nicknamed for one of the predators back home she so admired, a nimble six-winged avian whose talons could shred a tree. Others thought it suited her, and so did she. Her parents, who hadn’t bothered naming her at all, didn’t get a vote.

  Not that her predicament was unusual. No one in her community had birth names. The older generation considered them a waste of breath. There was nothing to inherit, nothing to live up to. Names were a way to consider multiple things at once, to organize them, to rank them. That made little sense in a world where there was nothing to achieve; status was meaningless. Her people were the lichens on the back of existence, forever in the shade.

  Or if not forever, then close enough to it. Her mother had told her that things would change one day, only to add that hope would never be relevant for anyone she ever knew. It came across to Valandris as taunting and cruel.

  No, her only solace had been the hunt, the one place where it was possible to excel. The dumb beasts of the jungles and forests didn’t know who or what she was. They only knew her skills gave her power over them. Hunting became her speech, her anger’s voice. No one else would hear her complaints about her plight—but the galloping giants on the steppes had heard her footsteps, and had learned to flee from them. She was nothing to be trifled with. The creatures of the wild were the first beings to ever show her respect.

  And they were the only ones—until the newcomer arrived a year before.

  He had shown them respect, even when none was necessary. And while he had hidden his identity at first, through his words and deeds they had figured out who he was: the one their legends called the Fallen Lord. And that had changed everything.

  His inspiration and guidance had prompted her to leave home, traveling across the stars with her brothers and sisters in the warships he had provided. The surprise attack he had planned had worked perfectly, as had his trick for transporting her team through the Orion starship’s shields. And now, if his information was correct, her true quarry was just ahead.

  “Hatchway,” she said, pointing. There were more of the green things scuttling around inside the doorway. None were likely to be their target. The king or queen seldom guarded the entry to the nest. Valandris led her companions by opening fire. More Orions died.

  A minute later all was silent—save for a plaintive voice calling from inside the hatchway. “Peace!”

  An odd word in any language, the universal translator in her helmet provided it to her. “Identify yourself,” she responded.

  “Leotis!”

  Leotis. The Orion she had been told about: the alpha of the pack. “We’re entering,” she announced. Without having to be told, her companions worked their way ahead to locations that offered angles that could cover her. Even a cowardly beast grew courageous when cornered in his den.

  Inside, she realized she’d overrated her foe. The office was as lavish as the rest of the ship was shabby. Whatever treasures Leotis and company stole were all here. Valandris could hear someone rattling behind a large desk, and she couldn’t figure out whether that person was cowering or preparing to pounce.

  Disruptor rifle raised, she stepped carefully around and saw the plump Leotis, on his hands and knees, bedecked in rich garlands of jewels and latinum he had plucked from an open strongbox. His pockets bulged, and when she gestured for him to rise, gems spilled forth from them. Guiltily, the Orion removed more baubles and placed them on the desk. “Sorry,” he said in a breathy drawl. “Just cleaning up. I wasn’t expecting guests.”

  She’d been advised correctly: Leotis was a parasite, a scavenger, living here on his horde. She knew the behavior, even if he was her first pirate. The creatures that lived on carrion back home made for poor game; if they were any good at fighting, they’d kill for themselves. “You are Leotis?”

  “Your servant.” He eyed her. “I don’t know you. My ship’s life sign sensors aren’t getting a good read on you in that getup. Are you their leader?”

  “We have no leader.”

  “I need someone to bargain with.”

  “We do not bargain.”

  “It’s that way, is it?” Leotis sighed and began removing the necklaces. “You’re welcome to my cargo—just leave me my ship. And my crew.”

  “They’re mostly dead.”

  Leotis’s face froze. Then he shook his head. “I was afraid of that. Such a waste.” Green hands clasped together for a moment—which was all the time he spent
in grief. “Well, that’s that. So tell me, whom do you represent? I know everyone working this region—but I’ve never heard of anyone who could beam through raised shields before.”

  Valandris ignored him. Seeing that her companions were in the doorway, watching Leotis, she turned her attention to the data terminals in the room.

  Leotis made his own conversation. “Perhaps you’re new to the game, then?” He tut-tutted. “The Hyralan sector isn’t what it used to be, my friends. It was different in my father’s time. Starfleet’s eyes were on the Neutral Zone, not us. But now most routes lead from one Federation world to another, and Starfleet watches them all. Oh, they do!” Nervous eyes followed Valandris from station to station. “Bad times, indeed. The only action we see is when some fool goes off course—”

  “Or when you have inside information.” Valandris looked back at him abruptly.

  It took a moment for her statement to register with Leotis. Then, comprehending, he opened a drawer in his desk—an act that prompted Raneer and Tharas to raise their disruptors in alarm. But the portly Orion produced a padd rather than a weapon. “Yes, yes,” he said, in the bubbling tones of a merchant who’d realized he had something to sell. “This was to have made our whole year.” He offered it to Valandris, who took it.

  She studied the mundane information on the padd. It detailed shipping schedules for an event management service operating out of Hyralan. Leotis explained he had come by it quite by accident; a small-time hood had stolen the padd from a locked office, reselling it to pay off a debt. Soon, the professional organizer would depart for a function, her ships’ stores laden with everything needed to stage a classy meeting on a world where replicators were limited in number. Leotis might find a few of those ships worth stealing—or he might hold their crews for ransom.

  “Valuable fineries and delicacies on those freighters,” he said, “coveted by the connoisseur. I can see you are resourceful people. Consider this data a gift to welcome you to the region.” He smiled broadly, displaying as many golden teeth as he could manage. “Now, if you would see your way clear to leave me my ship, and a few of these minor trinkets so I can hire a new—”

  “Shut up,” Valandris said. She touched the communicator on her wrist. “Valandris to mother ship. Patch me through to home.”

  Some moments later, a deep gravelly voice responded. “Report!”

  “We have taken Dinskaar. We have the shipping schedule—it was right where you said it would be.”

  “Excellent. What of Leotis?”

  “In hand.”

  “I know someone who will be glad to hear that. Act as planned—and move on to the main target.”

  The transmission ended. Leotis had been listening intently. “You said you had no leader.”

  “No leader among us,” Valandris said, placing the padd in a pouch attached to her hip.

  The Orion grew agitated. “Then who was that just now? One of my rivals?” He put his hands in front of himself protectively. “Or one of my victims? Is this revenge?”

  “It is revenge—but not on you.” She looked to Raneer and Tharas, who touched controls on their wrists. Transporter beams carried them away. Valandris walked to where they had stood and knelt.

  Seeing her picking up the weapons his fallen guards had dropped, Leotis let out a sigh of relief. “You’re . . . not going to kill me?”

  “I didn’t say that.” She pitched a disruptor onto the desk in front of him. “Pick that up and let’s do this,” she said, reaching for her knife. “I have a schedule to keep.”

  Four

  HOUSE OF KRUGE INDUSTRIAL COMPOUND

  KETORIX PRIME, KLINGON EMPIRE

  Time, Picard had long since learned, was a commodity of no fixed value outside Starfleet. In particular, VIPs and other “distinguished guests” he had ferried in the past had tended to keep to their own unknowable schedules. That had often forced the Enterprise to be ready at a moment’s notice—and to be prepared to wait until the passengers felt like moving.

  Klingons, for their part, moved with precision when engaged in the thing they cared the most about, battle. But in other sectors of life, most Klingons Picard had known paid little attention to time. Not Worf, who had internalized Starfleet punctuality—and it wasn’t that the Klingons were in any way inefficient. Rather, Klingons seemed to protect the minutes of their lives from outside control with a certain defiance. Mythology proclaimed that the Klingons had killed their gods. They weren’t about to start worshipping timepieces.

  Therefore, the prospect of picking up a large number of very important Klingons had Picard expecting delays. And yet, every event since he’d arrived in the Empire had transpired exactly when it was supposed to. Ketorix Prime was home to the House of Kruge’s orbital and surface shipyards, meaning Enterprise had to pass through a formidable obstacle course of security vessels. But she was expected at every turn and ushered quickly through. If all the Kruge worlds were this welcoming to visitors, Riker wouldn’t have much to negotiate at the H’atorian Conference.

  Nor did the captain have to wait for permission to transport to the administrative headquarters on the burgundy world’s surface. Picard had immediately beamed down, joined by one of Enterprise’s contact specialists, Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen.

  Walking the halls, they had found the place quintessentially Klingon, disdaining opulence for austerity. Simple brass braziers burned at intervals along the long corridor, each illuminating a sealed doorway marked with a name in Klingon. Picard recognized them as the names of the guests he was expected to transport.

  If they’re all here, Picard thought, perhaps this will all go just as quickly. Hope springs eternal.

  Chen gestured to an illuminated opening at the far end of the hall. “I believe that’s where we were told to go, sir.”

  “Lead the way, Lieutenant.” Picard had opted for the assistance of the half-human, half-Vulcan Chen rather than his first officer, who had remained aboard Enterprise, seemingly vacuum-­welded to Kahless. The emperor had monopolized Worf’s time ever since boarding, eager to hear tales of his recent adventures. It was beginning to test Worf’s patience, Picard could tell, but such were the hazards of duty.

  Approaching the atrium, Chen pointed to a row of tapestries on the left. Some bore stylized illustrations of the vessels produced at Ketorix, while others were simple depictions of what seemed to be the family crest. “I expected more depictions of ancestors,” she said.

  “Perhaps, given the succession problem, they cannot agree which ancestors should be honored,” Picard said.

  “I’m sure you’re right, sir.” Meters from the pentagonal archway into the atrium, Chen focused forward. “On second thought, there’s a big statue up ahead. Maybe they settled on someone after all . . .”

  Fully entering the atrium, Chen trailed off—and stopped moving. She gawked at the massive stone centerpiece in the room. It took Picard a moment to register what the intricately graven image depicted.

  It was Commander Kruge, more than twice life-sized, frozen in a moment of extreme violence with something even larger still. Kruge’s mek’leth was ripping into the neck of a four-legged creature. The victim’s wings, too short to be functional, flared wide over Chen’s and Picard’s heads—an emotional expression, no doubt. It reminded Picard of a statue he had seen in Florence of Hercules battling a centaur: the same violence, the same futile panic.

  Only this was no beast from folklore.

  “She’s Kinshaya,” Chen whispered, mesmerized. Picard glanced at the lieutenant. Not easily ruffled, Chen nevertheless appeared to have been taken aback by the violent display. Griffin-like beings, the fanatically religious Kinshaya had been mortal enemies of the Klingons since time out of memory. They had challenged the Empire several years earlier before the Borg Invasion; the Klingons countered by summarily devastating the Kinshaya capital, Yongolor. The Kinshaya responded by ali
gning with the Typhon Pact.

  Monitoring the species had been a project for Chen for the past several years. She had come to know and like several Kinshaya. Picard little doubted she felt for Kruge’s victim, even many years distant. “It’s uncanny,” she said, walking around to examine the Kinshaya’s anguished face. “It’s so realistic.”

  “It should be,” resounded a Klingon voice from across the wide chamber. “The sculptor drew on a holographic recording of Kruge in action.”

  Picard and Chen looked across the vestibule to see the speaker. The Klingon entering the room was old. More than a hundred, Picard thought—but not so old that his age impaired his movement. His skin a ruddy brown, he wore a modest coffee-­colored robe, its shoulders draped with a simple black sash. With a padd in one hand, he advanced across the atrium, never taking his eyes off the statue.

  “The battle was right here, you know—on Ketorix, on this spot. Commander Kruge wrested the world from the Kinshaya, killing hundreds just as you see here.” The old Klingon stopped and continued to gaze with admiration. Hair the color of Enterprise’s hull was bound neatly back to give prominent display to his cranial ridges. A well-coiffed moustache and beard gave Picard the impression of a Klingon of responsibility, though not garish wealth; his precise manner of speaking suggested a scholar. “This was Kruge in the flower of his youth, as your people might say. You admire this piece?”

  “It’s—well, it’s a bit grisly,” Chen said, sounding cautious of offending.

  “Kruge loved his work. The piece is titled The Last to Fall.”

  Picard studied the perimeter of the room—and saw alcoves with mementos from Kruge’s life. “Are you the curator here, sir?”

  The Klingon laughed—a throaty guffaw that terminated in a broad smile. “I suppose I am, in a sense. I am Galdor. And you are Captain Jean-Luc Picard of the Enterprise.”