Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  “Gin’tak.” Picard bowed his head. “My apologies for not recognizing you—we were not provided with your likeness.”

  “I prefer a low profile. It suits those I serve.” He offered his hand in the human fashion.

  “Understood,” Picard said, accepting the handshake. It was strong—and in the lights Picard noticed Galdor’s nose. Long-since broken, it suggested his days might not always have been spent in scholarly pursuits. “Thank you for meeting us.”

  “Thank you for making the journey,” he said. He looked Chen over. “And who are you?”

  “Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen,” she said. “Qapla’, gIn’taq.”

  “Well said.” Galdor raised a bushy eyebrow and gestured to the statue. “Did I detect you have some sympathy for the Kinshaya?”

  Galdor’s expression made it hard to tell whether he was earnestly concerned or not, and Chen paused before speaking. Picard spoke up. “Lieutenant Chen played an instrumental role in the Kinshaya people’s overthrow of their religious ruler some time back.”

  This caught his attention. Galdor’s eyes narrowed. “You were undercover?”

  “On Janalwa,” she said. “I was there during the massacre at Niamlar Circle.”

  “I heard of it.” Galdor gazed up at the enormous Kinshaya sculpture. “Yet the Holy Order still plagues us. I don’t think your overthrow took, Chen.”

  Chen nodded. “The pious have been in power for centuries. Change is slow to come.”

  “If we keep destroying their capitals, we could speed things along. Perhaps our allies in the Federation could help this time.” Galdor glimpsed back to catch Chen’s startled reaction—and let loose with another of his laughs. “Just an old man having fun, Lieutenant. Tell me, Captain, did the emperor make the trip?”

  “He is aboard Enterprise now,” Picard said, “and looking forward to greeting the members of your house.”

  “I hated to disturb him by bringing him out of seclusion.” Galdor paused and cocked an eyebrow at Picard. “He came willingly?”

  “He seemed very pleased to attend.”

  Galdor brightened. “Good, good. It’s important to the family.” He lowered his voice. “It is an old house, Picard. Many of its conquests are in the past. They crave recognition.”

  “A hundred years without war would seem to be worthy of it.”

  The gin’tak chortled. “Most Klingons would say a century without war is their idea of hell, Captain. But, yes. If not for the lingering spirit of may’qochvan, there might not be a house today.”

  He led the pair from the atrium back into the hallway they’d entered from—and Picard again noticed the line of doors leading to the offices of each of the nobles. “We’re prepared to beam the invitees up. Are they here?”

  “No, only their staffers.” Galdor rolled his eyes. “Family or not, they don’t like to run into each other—which works out well, because they also dislike work. It’s easier to manage things when they’re apart.”

  Absentee landlords who hate each other, Picard thought. “But they’ll all be together on my ship—and at the event?”

  “I can handle them.” Galdor passed Picard the padd he was holding. “I’ve arranged for them all to be ready and waiting. You’ll see the route I’ve chosen to all their estates is plotted most efficiently.”

  Picard did see, and agreed that it was the fastest possible route. “How long have you been with them, sir?”

  “Since before young Chen here first drew breath, Picard—but long after Gamaral.” Galdor shook his head. “I found things in a shabby state. They had avoided fighting one another, barely—but the holdings were in decline. Some of the nobles had invested heavily in factories on Praxis before the explosion. The Khitomer Accords that followed were nearly their ruination.”

  Picard spoke cautiously. “They did not approve of peace with the Federation?”

  “Not in the least. Klingon shipwrights don’t approve of peace with anyone—especially when it means future conquests will be taking place farther from their factories. The Kruge holdings near the Federation frontier lost a lot of work.”

  Picard hesitated. He knew that General Chang, head of another Klingon house, had hated the idea of peace enough to lead a conspiracy against it. The captain had never heard it suggested anyone in the House of Kruge was involved, but its nobles certainly would have stood to gain from Chang’s acts.

  Galdor seemingly read the captain’s concern. “Don’t worry, Picard—this house did nothing to prevent peace with the Federation. They had no idea the Khitomer Accords were coming.” He chuckled. “A headless beast cannot see far.”

  At last they reached a bay window overlooking the graving docks. Picard had seen it on entering: white-hot metal being channeled from the forges into molds. Beams here would form the spines of Klingon cruisers.

  “The family business looks like it’s doing well,” Chen said.

  “It helps to have someone to shoot at.” A hint of menace entered Galdor’s voice, and he smiled. “You see, the Kinshaya live just beyond the frontier from the family holdings. Kruge in his wisdom saved a few just for us.”

  Chen, again rendered speechless, watched as the old Kling­­on stepped toward an unmarked door. “I’ll just be a moment, and then we can transport up and get started.”

  The door closed behind Galdor, and the captain looked to Chen. “Thoughts?”

  “I think he’s a real kidder,” she said, looking back in the direction of the atrium. “He’s sure having fun poking me over the Kinshaya.”

  “He is a Klingon—there’s no love lost there. What else?”

  “He’s definitely an arranger. He’d have to be, to keep the peace all these years.”

  His eyes tracing the long row of office doors, all set apart, Picard nodded. “Let’s hope he can keep it for one more week.”

  Five

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING NARENDRA III, KLINGON EMPIRE

  Galdor’s reluctance to disturb Kahless had continued even after he’d boarded Enterprise, and Picard thought it just as well. The emperor at that point was still asleep in his quarters, having overdone it at every meal since his arrival. Not that he went anywhere when he was awake. Kahless had kept to his private dining room, insistent upon hearing every tale of adventure Worf could tell.

  That suited Galdor too. Regardless of the sequence in which Enterprise was to pick up the members of the House of Kruge, the gin’tak thought it vital that the emperor not greet any one before another. Instead, Galdor had suggested waiting to introduce Kahless until the commemorative ceremony on Gamaral, where he could meet everyone at once.

  “Ah, Picard,” Galdor said on seeing the captain step from a turbolift. “Do you have the specifications of the celebration site?”

  “Just arrived.” Picard handed Galdor a padd. “The Federation Diplomatic Corps has brought in event specialists to craft a venue to meet your needs.”

  “So I see,” Galdor said, eyes scanning the schematics. He pointed to the padd. “Would this spot here be the Circle of Triumph?”

  “Correct. No one noble’s position ahead of any other, with individual entryways to the dais so no one walks in first or last.”

  “Outstanding.” Galdor gave Picard a jolting pat on the back, which the captain accepted with patient acquiescence. The two began walking to the transporter room. “You must think it peculiar, Captain. Grown Klingons—would-be ­rulers—­envying their neighbors’ nests like jealous prickle mice!”

  “Not at all. One of our Earth legends speaks of a Round Table, designed such that no one’s valorous deeds be held in higher esteem than any other’s.”

  “Hmph. I think you’ve seen by now that description doesn’t fit here,” Galdor said, reaching the door. He straightened. “Well, time for battle again. Prepare yourself.”

  The doors opened, a
nd the Klingon and the captain stepped inside. The gin’tak and Picard had replayed the scene again and again in the past day and a half—and as usual, Chen waited inside, next to the transporter engineer.

  A figure began to materialize on the transporter pad. “Who is this one?” Picard whispered to Chen.

  “Kiv’ota, veteran of Gamaral.”

  “Oh, yes.” Picard understood Kiv’ota to have been one of Kruge’s contemporaries. And the Klingon that appeared now before him certainly appeared the right age. The white-haired male’s ensemble, far richer than Galdor’s, included a maroon stole bearing the golden crest of the house. Kruge had worn such a sash in the past, but Picard had seen it much more recently: every single noble who’d boarded Enterprise in the last thirty-six hours wore an identical garment. It was a reminder that, ceasefire or not, all still claimed Kruge’s mantle.

  Kiv’ota was older than anyone who had yet arrived; he made Galdor look nearly boyish by comparison. And at the moment, he appeared to be . . .

  . . . asleep. While standing up.

  Galdor spoke before Picard grew too uncomfortable. “My lord.”

  The noble snorted, and his eyes opened a fraction. A voice that sounded like rocks scraping together asked, “Am I here?”

  “You are, Lord Kiv’ota.”

  Picard cleared his throat. “Welcome to Enterprise, sir.”

  Kiv’ota’s eyes opened wide, and he stared directly at Picard. Strata of sagging skin shifted into a frown, and he spoke with indignation. “I will not set foot on this ship, Gin’tak. Enterprise killed my noble cousin Kruge.”

  Picard looked to Galdor, who merely clasped his hands together patiently and responded, “This is not that Enterprise, Lord Kiv’ota. That ship was destroyed.”

  Kiv’ota appeared puzzled. His gaze went from Galdor to Picard to the deck while he sorted it out. “This vessel . . . is its namesake?” He stood firm on the transporter pad and crossed his arms. “No. I will not set foot on this ship.”

  “Just so.” Galdor turned abruptly to face the captain. “This is intolerable, Picard. You heard him.”

  Picard straightened, surprised. “I don’t know what I can—”

  “I do. For the duration of this trip I will require you to deactivate the artificial gravity, such that my lord’s feet will not touch this vessel’s flooring.” Galdor’s left eyebrow raised the tiniest fraction, which Picard now interpreted as the Klingon’s equivalent of a wink.

  “Ah, yes, certainly,” the captain said. “We will of course do as your lordship commands.”

  Galdor turned back to the older male. “Picard will deactivate the gravity, Kiv’ota. I am certain your stomach can handle it.”

  Kiv’ota started to say something before freezing in contemplation. Making a decision, he began shuffling off the transporter pad. “That will not be necessary.”

  “Are you certain, my lord?” Galdor asked. “I would not want you to feel uncomfortable walking on such a ship.”

  “Never mind, Gin’tak,” Kiv’ota said with some aggravation. He eyed the deck nervously. “I will take large steps.”

  Picard nodded to Chen. She stepped forward. “I can show you to your accommodations, my lord.”

  Kiv’ota, seemingly seeing her for the first time, brightened. His crevice of a mouth resolved into a smile, and he crooked his arm invitingly. Chen saw it and looked back to the captain in bewilderment. Picard felt her discomfort, but before he could say anything, Kiv’ota was at Chen’s side, leaning on her for support. “Show me the way,” he said.

  Chen walked the old Klingon to the exit, glancing back to Picard long enough to see his apologetic expression. The second the doors closed behind them, Galdor chuckled. “Now he moves.”

  The doors suddenly reopened, and Galdor’s expression instantly returned to servility. “Yes, my lord?”

  “A thought,” Kiv’ota said, still on Chen’s arm. “See if the captain will rename the ship.”

  Picard looked at Galdor and took a breath. “Discussions are already under way, my lord.”

  “Excellent.” The doors shut again.

  Galdor smiled toothily at Picard. “You’re getting the picture.”

  • • •

  Picard had gotten the picture—and continued to, over the following hours, as Enterprise gathered attendees during its whirlwind tour of a dozen planets administered by the House of Kruge.

  Kiv’ota, at a hundred fifty-one, had been one of Kruge’s elder cousins and was the second oldest claiming his legacy. But the other ancient veterans of the Battle of Gamaral had all tested Enterprise’s hospitality in one way or another, as had the younger heirs representing those who’d died. Riker’s earlier description of Kahless as a “handful” sounded almost comical to Picard now, because every one of the house’s nobles had presented unique problems.

  There was M’gol, who was a ne’er-do-well scion of one branch of the family and easily one of the youngest people invited. Already drunk upon boarding, M’gol had demanded his own floor of Enterprise, located physically higher on the vessel than any of the ones his fellow nobles were staying on. Galdor had convinced him it was more prestigious to be as far forward as possible—and the presence of the Riding Club had convinced him to settle for a suite.

  Also among the younger generation was the big bruiser A’chav, who Picard thought set the record for the largest number of insults ever hurled in a diplomatic greeting. He appeared to be indifferent not only to the alliance with the Federation but also to the ceasefire in his own house; he had barely left the transporter room when he saw one of the other attendees and started a fight. After Chen and the security escorts intervened, Galdor convinced the brawler that after the ceremony, the Federation would be ceding Gamaral not just to the Klingon Empire and the House of Kruge, but to A’chav personally. “Let him think so,” Galdor told Picard after A’chav had peaceably retired. “He has been struck in the head so many times he will not remember it two days hence.”

  A different problem was the decrepit J’borr, even older than Kiv’ota. He was so feeble Picard had thought to send him straight to sickbay on his arrival—but the xenophobic J’borr refused to convalesce in a Starfleet setting. Once again, Galdor had a response right at hand: a program for a facsimile Klingon medical center, which Beverly Crusher then opened in holodeck two. J’borr went without complaint; Picard did not expect to see him emerge until they reached the ceremony.

  Not all the Klingon nobles were eccentric or even particularly interesting. Picard detected among some an odd boredom paired with irritability at being made to travel to a party in their honor. But Galdor was always there, ably navigating the waters of entitlement and solving their problems without evident strain.

  Picard had to admit he was impressed. He had met courtiers of many leaders before and read about many more from history. Most, regardless of their planetary origin and cultural backgrounds, seemed to strive for what the sixteenth-century Earth writer Baldassare Castiglione called sprezzatura: a nonchalant perfection. The most valued aides were the ones who could work whatever magic their superiors required—while not making their exceptional competence seem threatening in the least.

  The captain had not really considered what a Klingon courtier would be like. Klingons were more direct than Romulans: conflicting ambitions were generally resolved by violence, and quickly. Power games didn’t last long. But the House of Kruge’s ceasefire arrangement did need to last, and in Galdor, the House of Kruge had found a steward who could manage the impulses of more than a dozen would-be leaders at once, nimbly playing off the insecurities and idiosyncrasies of each. He had preserved the peace—and kept the family moving forward.

  Picard decided to say something about it as Galdor, having finally gotten his guests situated, sat at last at the table in the Riding Club. “Gin’tak, would you permit a compliment?”

  “Always.” G
aldor accepted a mug from the server and quaffed healthily.

  “As a ship captain, I admire your ability to . . . to manage so many.”

  “Ah.” The Klingon set the mug down. “It is nothing new, Picard. The house was adrift when I found it—and in my time I have helped it survive dotards, spendthrifts, and debauches. Would-be conquerors that would have started civil wars, just to avenge a slight. I even had a lunatic who wanted to blow apart our most productive asteroids, certain he would find Sto-Vo-Kor inside. But the house endured—and became something that I am honored to be associated with.” He drank again and slammed the mug on the table. “Build the fortress strong, and it will outlast its enemies—both inside and out.”

  “Sound reasoning. Though I admit I’m surprised to hear you speak so candidly.”

  “What I say to others is unimportant,” Galdor said. “The nobles care about what I say to them. And I tell them they are right, all the time.” A sly smile formed, and he spoke in lower tones. “And when I am right, I make sure it is their idea.”

  Picard didn’t know whether it was proper to laugh at that or not. Thankfully, Galdor provided the cue by bursting into laughter himself.

  Six

  “You there!”

  Commander Worf spun in the hallway, unaccustomed to being addressed in such a manner on Enterprise. The words were spoken in Klingon, which explained their tone right away—but nonetheless he greeted the speaker with an angry stare. “I am Worf, son of Mogh—and first officer on this vessel. I am not ‘you there.’ ”

  “Pah!” The bangle-wearing Klingon woman returned his glare. A hundred twenty and trying to look ninety, she jabbed her finger in the direction of Worf’s nose and stepped defiantly toward him. “First officer, my ear! The Federation would give a title to a trained grint hound. No—a hound would answer his master without complaint!”

  Worf restrained his ire. “What do you want?”