Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  “We’re returning fire and working to secure a transporter room. Chen says we should have one in two minutes. Stand by. Enterprise out.”

  “We can’t stand by,” Šmrhová called out, justifiably angered by events. “Boarders?” she asked Picard. “How did they beam through the shields?”

  “Maybe the same way they got through your transport inhibitors. Maybe the attackers weren’t here already.” Partial absolution. Picard shook his head and started scaling the steps. “In two minutes there won’t be anyone to save. Come on.”

  “Captain, wait!” Šmrhová yelled for her team down the stairwell to disengage from their defensive attacks and join her. They were falling back anyway, Picard saw. The chief directed them to him. “Protect the captain.”

  “It’s protect me or protect Lord Kiv’ota,” Picard said, pointing instead at the motionless Klingon on the steps. “Those people out there are coming for him, not me.” It was just a surmise, but it made as much sense as anything in the past few crazy minutes. “Beam him up the second Enterprise is able and follow us.”

  “Negative.” Šmrhová moved to block the captain’s way. “That’s not how it works.”

  “Worf and Kahless are up there, Lieutenant. We’re past regulations.”

  “We’re never—” she started to say, but Picard was already pushing past her. She followed him up the steps toward the flickering light.

  The pedestal Kiv’ota had stood upon was intact, but the sides of it were scorched by disruptor blasts. No one was firing at them now at least, giving them a chance to creep alongside the platform.

  The scene beyond was horrific. The bodies of Klingon guests were strewn across the plaza. Some had emerged from the stands to challenge their attackers hand to hand—and had been gutted. In the stands on the left side of the plaza, two black-suited assassins were still at it, struggling with the nobles who remained. Before either Picard or Šmrhová could react, one of the assassins fired a disruptor shot point-blank, disintegrating the noble she was struggling with. The sound hadn’t stopped echoing when the other assassin drew a blade, slicing his victim’s throat.

  Flames still burned in the braziers atop the columns, casting the charnel house scene in eerie light.

  “Over there!” Šmrhová yelled.

  Picard craned his neck to look. Near the central dais, Worf and Kahless scuffled with one of the assailants. Kahless, with his mek’leth, swiped at the figure from the left—allowing Worf to strike from the right with some kind of metal post. The blow struck the assassin’s disruptor, knocking it cleanly from his gloved hands. Kahless threatened again with the mek’leth, while Worf dove after the disruptor.

  Šmrhová was already in motion, heedless of the disruptor shots coming from the newly unoccupied assassins in the stands. Picard saw them and fired his phaser. “Aneta, watch out!”

  He didn’t strike either of them, but the act was well timed, causing the snipers to miss the security chief until she reached the cover offered by the central platform. Šmrhová, phaser rifle raised, quickly advanced toward where Kahless stood challenging the disarmed assassin.

  “Not so brave now, are you?” The emperor gestured toward the knife in his foe’s scabbard. “Come on!”

  Seeing Šmrhová on the plaza and Worf going for the disruptor, the attacker decided against further combat. He pressed a button on his wrist and was instantly enveloped within a cylinder of energy. The column dissipated just as quickly as it had appeared—and the assassin was gone.

  Picard had to blink. He hadn’t seen a transporter effect like that before. But now he saw it again, as across the plaza the two assassins in the stands vanished.

  “Are we clear?” Šmrhová asked. She was already at Kahless’s side.

  Picard scanned the stands all around. He saw no one in motion and could hear nothing now but distant shots in the forest. That, and a low mournful moan from behind one of the other pedestals.

  Phaser raised, Picard beheld a bloody smear on the ground, making a trail around the platform. Carefully, he worked his way around—but all caution left when he saw the pile of bodies behind the dais. A figure in dark robes was sprawled atop, facedown.

  Picard recognized the outfit. “Galdor!” He reached down, afraid to injure the gin’tak further by moving him. But as soon as his hand touched Galdor’s back, the mass of bodies gave way. Galdor’s limp form started to slide off the pile, exposing his blood-soaked robe. Picard sought to arrest the Klingon’s roll off the mound.

  But Galdor, his eyes still closed, suddenly sputtered and coughed. “Not . . . my blood . . . Picard.”

  Picard saw at once what must have happened. Galdor had dragged two figures behind the platform and smothered them with his body. Where the gin’tak had lain, the captain now recognized the bodies of Lord and Lady Udakh tangled together in a fatal embrace. Both had been stabbed in the gut.

  “Tried . . . to stanch the flow,” Galdor said, forcing his eyes open. He appeared in a daze. There were other corpses nearby: the Udakhs’ daughters. He started breathing fast. “It is Kruge’s blood,” he said, choking back tears. “They are all his blood—and they are all gone!”

  Picard hit his combadge. “Enterprise, we need everyone off this planet, now!”

  Fourteen

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING GAMARAL

  La Forge had seldom heard the captain speak so gravely or with such urgency. The engineer’s stratagem had worked, driving off several of the unseen attackers outside—but he desperately needed good news from inside Enterprise.

  He got it. “This is Chen. Emergency transporter room four is secure.”

  La Forge skipped to the next question. “How long, Lieutenant?”

  “We’ll need a minute to reboot the systems—the saboteurs took some shots before we ran them off. And there’s enough emitter pad damage on the hull that we’ll have to bring people up one at a time.”

  “Understood. Tactical, prepare to drop shields in sixty seconds,” La Forge ordered.

  Konya looked over at him, alarmed. “Commander, we’re still taking fire—”

  “If they were trying to do heavy damage, they’d have done it by now,” La Forge said. “Lower shields.”

  THE CIRCLE OF TRIUMPH

  GAMARAL

  One moment, Valandris and Tharas were in Enterprise’s hold. The next, they were on the surface of Gamaral—transported onto the Circle of Triumph, just meters from the central building with its rostrum above.

  They had been deposited a short distance from a pair of Klingons. One, she saw in the dancing light of the burners, was instantly recognizable: the clone who called himself Kahless. He held a mek’leth and now turned to face them.

  “More. Perhaps you will stay to fight!”

  In the stands on the far side of the colonnade, Valandris could see personnel in Starfleet uniforms heading in her direction. But they could not fire their phasers while Kahless was in the way.

  “Kahless, stay back!” It was the other Klingon, rising from the ground. Younger, with a ruddy complexion and deadly serious demeanor, he held one of her companions’ disruptors, which he now raised in the direction of her and Tharas. “Put your weapons down, or I will shoot!”

  “Shoot them anyway, Worf.” Kahless bared his fangs. “They struck as cowards. They deserve no better.”

  Worf. Valandris had known he was here, of course—and had seen images of him. But seeing him in the flesh was startling. She felt she knew him, knew more about him than any Klingon alive—save one. Worf had never been part of the Fallen Lord’s plans; he wasn’t even mentioned. She had her orders, and they did not include Worf.

  It only took a moment’s thought for her to decide. She was not going to lose this opportunity. “Do your duty,” she said to Tharas over her internal helmet comm.

  Rifle in hand, Tharas started toward Kahless.
Over Worf’s shouted protestations, Kahless lifted his mek’leth high and charged in response. Only Kahless’s war cry stopped abruptly when Valandris fired her disruptor at the ground, just to the left of where the clone was about to step. Blinded by the flash, Kahless stumbled to the right—again blocking Worf’s shot. Tharas lunged, but did not fire, instead jabbing the off-balance Kahless in the jaw with the barrel of his rifle.

  As Kahless faltered, the blade of the mek’leth struck the plaza surface and stuck, embedding itself in a crack between stone flooring sections. It slipped from the clone’s grasp in that instant, and Tharas used his momentum to knock Kahless over.

  Worf had been in motion since Valandris’s shot. He fired at her in response, the blast going just wide of her head. He could not be allowed another shot; her armor could handle phaser blasts up to medium setting, but not disruptor fire.

  But Valandris had something else up her sleeve—literally, in the form of a flash grenade. It was a device she had used to hunt cave-dwelling beasts on her homeworld. Here, against an opponent at night that lacked a helmet visor like hers, it was decisive. Light exploded at Worf’s feet. Blinded, he took his right hand off the stock of the rifle by impulse—

  —and found Valandris almost on top of him. Her rifle tossed to the ground, she delivered a high-kick that caught the underside of his left wrist, causing him to fire wildly. Worf had the advantage of weight, and he barreled forward—which was exactly what she wanted. Safely past the rifle’s muzzle, she wrapped her arms around his torso and touched a control at her wrist.

  The last thing she saw on Gamaral was a bald human advancing, phaser in hand. And then she was gone, with an unsuspecting Worf along for the ride.

  • • •

  When the two new attackers had materialized on the plaza, Picard had left Galdor with a security officer. With a still-­objecting Šmrhová just footsteps behind him, Picard had closed half the distance to where Worf and Kahless were struggling when Worf and his assailant vanished together in a coruscating cylinder of light.

  Stunned, Picard looked to the right, where meters away, the same happened to the emperor and the assassin he was struggling with. They were gone, leaving only the disruptor rifle the female combatant had dropped—and the ceremonial mek’leth, standing askew where it had been plunged into the ground.

  And a second later, Picard felt the effects of a transporter beam himself. At last—and much too late.

  VALANDRIS’S EXPEDITION

  ORBITING GAMARAL

  Still struggling with Worf, Valandris materialized in one of her ship’s personnel transporter rooms. Three of her black-clad companions, waiting just off the transporter pads, pounced. Within a second, they had separated the two, forcing Worf down onto the deck.

  Enterprise’s first officer yelled in anger as he bucked against the deck, trying to force his way free. Valandris pinned his arm with her whole body, wresting the disruptor rifle from his hands. Only now did she see Kahless, to their right, similarly pinned by Tharas and two others. Designed to transport six soldiers, the area had ample space to accommodate both brawls—and yet, astoundingly, it didn’t seem as if there were enough people present to subdue both Worf and Kahless.

  “I need more people on deck four,” Valandris called into her helmet comm.

  “Release me!” Kahless yelled. His next words were muffled, as Tharas shoved a black bag over the clone’s head. Her companions were showing no mercy to the pretender, Valandris saw without surprise. Hearing boots pounding in the hallway, she readied to release her hold on Worf.

  The increased numbers were too much for Worf. Forced facedown, Worf wrestled in vain as Valandris moved to bind his hands.

  “What did you do?” one of the new arrivals asked her. “We were only supposed to have taken Kahless.”

  “Don’t you recognize him? This is Worf, son of Mogh.”

  “Worf?” His name gave everyone present pause. Their helmets hid their expressions, but Valandris could well imagine what people were thinking.

  “I had heard he was attending,” one of the newcomers said.

  “Yes, but he shouldn’t be here,” Tharas said. Over her shoulder, he held another shroud like the one Kahless now wore. Valandris edged aside as Tharas grabbed the pinned Starfleet officer’s head by his hair and whisked the bag into place. “Valandris, our lord said nothing about—”

  “That’s right. He gave many instructions about Gamaral, but none about Worf,” she said. “His lordship may command us as he wishes—once we reach home. But until then, I will not kill Worf until I have a chance to speak with him.”

  Several of her companions yanked Worf from the floor and pushed him toward the doorway, where a bound Kahless was already being forced into the hall. Worf spoke muffled words as he passed her. “You will regret this.”

  Perhaps, Valandris thought. But for what Worf represented, she was willing to take that chance.

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING GAMARAL

  Winded but unable to rest, Picard burst from the turbolift onto the bridge. “Status.”

  La Forge was relieved to see him. He vacated the command chair. “Boarders have transported off Enterprise, and the attacking vessels have disengaged. We think.”

  “They have Worf and Kahless,” Picard said. He did not sit down.

  “We saw them being transported from Gamaral on the sensors. It’s the same effect our people saw here when the boarders dematerialized.”

  The sensors, Picard thought. Only now did it dawn on him that live images of the events on the Circle of Triumph had gone out to spectators across the Klingon Empire. But it could not give him a sicker feeling than he already had.

  “Search for any means to track those vessels. Presume they are departing.” It was a needless command for Picard to give; La Forge was already at an engineering station, huddled before the interfaces with two assistants.

  Enterprise couldn’t leave in pursuit anyway. The starship was still beaming people back from Gamaral, and more all the time, as transporter rooms were being restored. Crusher’s medical teams were on the surface already—under heavy guard, in case any assassins remained—doing triage in the hopes that some of the victims could be saved.

  “These boarders—did we take any alive?”

  Konya answered, “None, sir.”

  “How many intruders did we kill?”

  “None, sir.”

  Picard’s throat went dry. There was only one other question—how many survivors remained among the guests. No one had that answer yet.

  But he was pretty sure he already knew the number.

  Fifteen

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  ORBITING GAMARAL

  Picard leaned against the archway of holodeck two, watching his wife and her staff. Crusher had already configured the room as a sickbay suitable for their oldest Klingon passenger. Now that Lord J’borr was dead, his cousin Kiv’ota lay in his biobed, being tended to by the medical team.

  Galdor lay on a new biobed adjacent to Kiv’ota. It had been elevated so he could keep watch on his master—but now the gin’tak’s eyes were closed. Completing her check on the pair, Crusher turned and saw Picard waiting.

  “Jean-Luc,” she said, quickly moving toward him. Picard, completely spent, welcomed her embrace. “I was so worried.”

  “We all were.” She released him, and he looked past her. “How is Galdor?”

  “Sedated.” She gazed back in at the pair of Klingons. “He didn’t want it, but I thought it best. He’s strong for someone his age, but his exertions left him with an elevated heart rate.”

  I know the feeling, Picard thought. “I know he did his best to save the Udakhs.” They had both been pronounced dead before their bodies were beamed up.

  The medical technicians moved away, allowing Picard a clear view of the devices placed on and aroun
d Kiv’ota’s body. The captain swallowed. He had toppled the old man from his platform to keep him from being shot. Had he saved him only to kill him?

  “Did the fall do that?” he finally asked.

  Crusher read his expression. “He was concussed,” she said, “but the shock brought on a cardiac event. He may have been in the throes of a heart attack before you touched him.”

  “Small comfort.” Picard averted his eyes—but there was something left that could not be avoided. “Do you have the casualty report?”

  She took a padd from one of her nurses. It had taken some time to get the details, given the many locations where people had fallen; medical operations were still ongoing in multiple sickbays. “Enterprise crew from the firefights aboard ship: sixteen injured, one dead,” she read.

  “Ensign Tavits.” Picard had already learned the security officer’s name.

  “On Gamaral, twenty injured. Federation diplomatic and event staff, five injured, one dead. Klingon attendees . . .”

  She trailed off, eyes fixed on the padd. Picard looked searchingly at her. “What?”

  “Thirty-seven dead.”

  “Thirty-seven?” Picard couldn’t believe it. “We were only carrying thirty-nine!” There had been the thirteen veterans—or their surviving representatives—as well as accompanying family members and attendants. “Only these two survived?”

  Crusher nodded. “I’m sorry.”

  She slowly explained the methods her team had used to identify those who had been killed by disruptor fire. The particular weapons the assassins had used did not disintegrate absolutely; minute traces of cellular material had been detected in areas where victims had been struck. Sensor readings of the event had provided corroboration.

  Picard listened to the terrible details, until at last Crusher took his hands and placed the padd in them. “Read the rest later. Is there any word on Kahless and Worf?”

  “We are working on it,” Picard said solemnly. “And so much else.” He turned for the archway. “I’ll be in my ready room. Tell me when Galdor awakens.”