Chen looked at the summit and consulted the map on her padd. “Mount Qel’pec.”
“There’s something strange about it. It’s hollow—or rather it was.” Jaero showed La Forge to the device’s interface. “Do you see?”
“Geology’s your specialty, Jaero. What am I looking at?” La Forge asked.
“The distribution of matter within the mountain suggests the collapse of a large cavity that caved in. Similar to what we see in something called retreat mining, where supports are eliminated in order to demolish a chamber. You wouldn’t see a natural cavern collapse like this.”
Chen didn’t understand the importance. “The Klingons did some prospecting here, before they decided to abandon the world. It could be a mine.”
The Tellarite snorted derisively. “Nothing but worthless granite in there, Lieutenant—or rather, there should be.” He touched a control on the interface. “But look at what the echo testing is projecting about content.”
“Granite, granite, granite,” La Forge said, reading down. Then it got interesting. “Significant localized deposits of steel. Duranium. Transparent aluminum?”
Chen’s eyes widened. “Good luck trying to mine for those. That would mean—”
“Something was in there,” La Forge said, pulse quickening. “And something still is . . .”
Seventeen
I.K.S. V’RAAK
EN ROUTE TO QO’NOS
“I left some of our top minds behind on Gamaral,” General Lorath said as he walked down the hallway of the battle cruiser. Dark-haired and nearly fifty, he walked a step behind his father out of respect. “They will find the scum that did this, if the Federation doesn’t beat them to it.”
Galdor said nothing, glancing instead at what was around him. V’raak was in good condition, despite having fought in the Borg Invasion and in several battles with the Kinshaya over the years. It represented a plum assignment for Lorath: Vor’cha-class cruisers were always in demand, not to mention the fact that he came from no important house of his own.
The gin’tak had used some of the influence of the family he worked for in gaining the posting, but it wouldn’t have been of much help had Lorath not been honorable and sensible. Galdor’s oldest son shared his father’s diligence when it came to details—though his father worried that he didn’t think enough for himself. One could be too good of a follower.
“Picard is relentless, or so it is said,” Lorath observed. “He will resolve this quickly.”
“And yet it happened on his watch, Lorath.”
Galdor didn’t have to look back to imagine his son’s expression changing. “That’s true,” Lorath said. “What a series of blunders—and involving Enterprise, no less. I still can’t believe it.”
“Even the greatest hunter can lose the trail.”
“Perhaps.”
Lorath had too much of his late mother in him: she had been agreeable to a fault. Managing the house’s business had forced his three sons’ upbringing on her. The gin’tak had only realized in the years since her death how much his hand had been missed.
But there was always time to change things. That had been the lesson of his life.
He reached the end of the hallway and paused. A port to left showed the stars streaming by. Mentally, he calculated how much time was left on their journey from Gamaral.
Lorath stepped respectfully up to his side. “Father,” he said, “we are not of Kruge’s line. But you have served them for as long as I can remember. I feel as one of the family.” He raised his fist. “Say the word, and I will turn this ship around and avenge them.”
“This is not the time for that.”
Lorath looked to the right—and the door to the sickbay that was Galdor’s destination. The general’s shoulders sank, and he cast his eyes to the deck. He nodded in reluctant agreement. “You’re right, of course. Lord Kiv’ota must come first. He leads the house.”
“He leads the house.” Galdor’s eyes remained on the stars, his thoughts elsewhere.
Reminded of something, Lorath looked up. “I almost forgot. General Kersh has heard of her grandfather’s murder. She proposes to meet us along the way.”
“Kersh? Where was she?”
“Policing the border against the Kinshaya.”
Galdor turned from the port and gestured to the sickbay door. “We can’t wait for her. Lord Kiv’ota must reach Qo’noS. She’ll have to catch up.”
“Agreed. She will understand.”
Galdor didn’t really care whether she did or not. Instead, seeing that they were alone, he took his son’s shoulder and drew him close. “Lorath, I will speak plainly with you. What happened back there on Gamaral—”
“Terrible!”
“Of course. But it puts many things in motion.” He pulled at Lorath and whispered into his son’s ear. “I have a message for you to give your brothers—and to your son.”
Lorath’s voice rasped. “I am listening.”
“I have much to do, and you will hear many things that will surprise you.” Galdor paused. “One big thing. You must have faith in me—and be ready when you are called.”
“I am always ready, Father.”
“Good. Return to your bridge. We will talk more later.”
His son, the general, promptly did exactly as he was told—as he always did. Seeing Lorath disappear into a turbolift, Galdor turned to activate the sickbay door.
A guard stepped forward. “Gin’tak.”
“I must speak with Lord Kiv’ota. Alone.”
VALANDRIS’S EXPEDITION
DEEP SPACE
Worf awoke to find he had an audience.
It had taken a tranquilizing hypospray to get him to stop struggling against his captors. He wasn’t sure how long he had been out or where he was. The room was darkened, and whatever they’d drugged him with had made it hard to focus.
But he was aware of the cold metal slab underneath him and the gentle hum of the force field meters away. He was lying on his side in a prison cell. And beyond, he was aware of those watching him.
There were perhaps a dozen of them. Dark figures, all sitting on the deck and huddled what seemed a respectful distance away. Except for one, who sat closer than the others, keeping a careful watch over him.
Someone in the rear spoke. “Valandris, he is awake.”
“Quiet.” Hers was a female voice, and while his senses were still afloat, Worf found something familiar in it. “Can you hear me, Worf? It was I who transported you to this ship.”
His throat dry, Worf coughed in the darkness. “Where . . . is Kahless?”
“The clone is held elsewhere. That is not important. We want to speak to you.”
“Who . . . are you?”
“We are those to whom afterlife is denied.”
Worf closed his eyes and tried desperately to focus. “Spare me . . . your riddles. Who sent you?”
“Our lord, who cheated death,” Valandris said. “It makes sense, doesn’t it? We are barred from beyond—and he escaped from it. The perfect allies.”
“Allies?” Worf winced, the feeling in his limbs coming painfully back. “You mean . . . assassins.”
“We are justice.”
“You are not.” Worf forced his eyes open again and saw a flash of light. The one who had spoken to him ignited a handheld burner—and as his eyes adjusted, he saw hers. And those of his other captors, as each one lit their own candle-like burner. Recognition struck him. “You are Klingons.”
Valandris shook her head. “We are not.”
Worf forced himself off his side. “Of course you are. You’re as Klingon as I am—or maybe not. I am no murderer!”
“We are not Klingons,” she said. “But you are one of us, Worf, son of Mogh—just as if you had been born my brother. Listen, and I will tell you how . . .”
<
br /> I.K.S. V’RAAK
EN ROUTE TO QO’NOS
“His lordship clings to life,” the Klingon medic said as he wiped Lord Kiv’ota’s brow. Looking little improved since his transfer from the Enterprise, the old man lay on a bed in the sparely furnished room, his condition monitored by a number of blinking electronic devices.
Klingon sickbays were more about the removal of blades and, when necessary, limbs. It was not customary to waste effort prolonging the life of one whose fighting years were spent. But this was not a customary circumstance. Kiv’ota was the last noble with clear claim to the House of Kruge—and also a witness to what had befallen on Gamaral. It made perfect sense that his gin’tak would need to speak with him.
“There are no recording devices present?” Galdor asked, his expression grave. “The business I transact with my lord is of great importance and must not be heard.”
“This is no Federation sickbay, bristling with sensors. Your words are safe. But I do not know how much he will understand.” The medic stopped wiping and placed the dripping rag to one side. He then replaced the sensor on Kiv’ota’s forehead. “You may want to do this once in a while—it helps him come around.”
“Of course.”
“The lord’s status is unlikely to change. I will return in an hour.” The medic gave a Klingon salute and headed for the exit.
Galdor watched the door shut behind the medic—and breathed deeply. Klingon sickbays were poorly lit compared to Starfleet’s; he was in shadows every step he took before he reached the bed. He spoke Kiv’ota’s name—
—and was a little surprised to get a response. “G-Gin’tak?”
“I am here.” Galdor clasped his hands together, the loyal servant. “I am with you, my lord.” He gently removed the monitoring device from the old man’s forehead and reached for the rag the medic had used to wipe Kiv’ota’s brow.
Kiv’ota coughed. “Gin’tak . . . you must find out . . . who did this. You must save the house . . .”
“I have been saving your house for years,” Galdor said, looking back at the doorway. “But not for you.”
Then he jammed the rag in Kiv’ota’s mouth. He crammed it inside and covered it with his hand—while with the other, he pinched Kiv’ota’s nose shut.
Kiv’ota’s eyes snapped open. For the moment, they conveyed only puzzlement.
“I know, Kiv’ota, I know.” Galdor shook his head—and held more forcefully. “You would rather die by the blade. But it wouldn’t look right—and an honorable death is frankly more than you deserve.”
Panic struck Kiv’ota. Squirming, he tried to speak. His words were muffled and inaudible. Galdor paid no mind. No one would be coming—and the sensor would not indicate what was happening.
But it took time—time enough for him to say words he had longed to speak for fifty years. “I suppose you want to know why, Kiv’ota. There, I can satisfy you. Your hirelings left someone stranded on Gamaral a century ago. They didn’t know he was there. But he was Kruge’s true heir and would have been the rightful ruler of the house—until all was taken from him.”
Kiv’ota’s eyes bulged. The old man shuddered, panic giving way to choking spasms.
The gin’tak took those noises for an answer. “What? You say this is not familiar to you?” Galdor’s eyes narrowed. “Oh, that’s right. Of course. You didn’t even know who he was.” He drew closer, so his eyes were centimeters from his dying lord’s. “Well, know this now. His name was Korgh. And his vengeance has only begun . . .”
ACT TWO
SPOCK’S TEST
2286
“Between the possibility of being hanged in all innocence, and the certainty of a public and merited disgrace, no gentleman of spirit could long hesitate.”
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Eighteen
MOUNT QEL’PEC
GAMARAL
Night returned to the forest. As always, it was heralded by an astonishing show as the purples and pinks of the mountain sky gave way to the golden glow from Gamaral’s moon. Korgh could not have been less interested. It had nothing to do with Klingon eyes and how they perceived color—nor any cultural difference in how his people appreciated nature. It was because he had seen it again and again—alone.
Korgh slumped beneath a mammoth tree on the slope of Mount Qel’pec and stared at the knife he had used to kill Chorl. No, he still didn’t miss the mouthy fool, no matter how lonely he had become over the previous weeks. But Mauk-to’Vor, ritual suicide, required a second soul present—and Korgh felt worthy of no other fate. His life, like his anger, had burned down to its embers.
Once, the fury had energized him. He had felt such rage at the beginning of his sojourn at the disappearance of the Phantom Wing ships; with them had vanished his legacy and his chance to defeat Kirk. It was an affront to his destiny, an embarrassment of the highest magnitude. He had killed Chorl for rubbing it in.
Korgh had struggled to collect himself after Chorl fell. The Phantom Wing was missing, and he was certain who was responsible: the Kruge family nobles, whose forces were besieging his allies in orbit. Somehow they had learned of the mountain factory’s existence and gotten access in his absence. Could they now be using his birds-of-prey against Potok? It would be without honor, but he put nothing past them.
Urgently the young Klingon had hailed General Potok, hoping to warn him of the danger. Receiving no response, Korgh desperately sought other ways to learn what was going on in orbit. Mount Qel’pec had no transporter, but it did have an array of surveillance scanners hidden in the countryside. Activating them, Korgh had witnessed the horror facing his allies.
General Potok had hoped to use the Phantom Wing to spring a trap for Kruge’s relatives. But the fruitless voyage to Gamaral had instead snared Potok and the rest of Korgh’s confederates. With more ships and heavier firepower, the forces sent by Kruge’s relations could hardly believe their luck. After hearing enough sounds of battle, Korgh went from asking Potok to beam him up to imploring the general to transport his crews down while there was still time to escape. The mountain hangar would make a fine refuge—or a setting for a last stand.
No answer. Several of Potok’s vessels were blasted out of the sky, while the general’s cruiser and others were forced down on the far side of Gamaral. With no way to reach the other side of the globe, Korgh stopped hailing then, deciding it was better not to call attention to his existence. He powered down the mountain complex and sat in darkness.
For bleak hours he sat paralyzed, drowning in doubts. At last, only one course remained open. He reactivated the comm, intending to announce his presence to his enemies. He would let the nobles and their hired scum find him. The name of Korgh had never come up once in their succession squabbles; why should it? They hadn’t served aboard starships with Kruge, hadn’t seen how the commander regarded him. Korgh would make sure they knew his name before he died.
But before Korgh could hail anyone, he overheard chatter from the family’s forces. They had already left Gamaral and were on the edge of the system, departing with the survivors of Potok’s force imprisoned. It had been a rout, ending sooner than Korgh had imagined possible.
They were gone, never knowing Korgh had been present at all. He was marooned.
The facility had healthy stores of food and water, although the reason for that angered him. It was food for the engineers he had managed all year—the cha’maH, sometimes known as the Mempa Twenty. Years earlier, when a rival had belittled the performance of one of Kruge’s vessels, the commander had responded first with characteristic violence—and then by putting his house’s engineering students on a crash course. For four years in a row, the House of Kruge had sponsored the top five graduates of the Science Institute of Mempa V. Every one of them had immediately vanished into Kruge’s secret programs, where they toiled until being brought together under Korgh’s management in the P
hantom Wing effort.
All twenty were now missing, along with the ships they helped construct. Korgh didn’t think any of them were spies for other houses—and he couldn’t see them acting together in anything on their own initiative. The brainy lackbeards were too lost in their worlds of rays and polymers. No, he theorized, the Kruge family must have been told of the existence of the Gamaral factory. Some supplier had talked, or perhaps the heirs had stopped squandering the house’s wealth long enough to examine its accounts. Korgh imagined the family had somehow entered Mount Qel’pec, and that the Twenty had blithely followed whoever claimed to be speaking for the house.
So much for loyalty!
The desire to escape had enlivened Korgh for a while. He had looked at every option that might take him off the planet, or summon someone to it—with no luck. For security reasons, Kruge had purposefully limited the factory’s main transmitter to subspace reception only. It was why Korgh had departed to report to Kruge in person. But while Korgh could not call out for help, he could receive broadcasts from far across subspace—
—and that was not a good thing at all. First, he had learned for certain why Kruge had died. The commander had been keeping something from him: his quest for the secrets behind the Genesis device. The Federation’s creation of the foul instrument had been revealed by the Klingon ambassador, and the Empire had spread the news of its foe’s treachery far and wide.
Suddenly, it all made sense to Korgh. To acquire a weapon like Genesis, Kruge would definitely have risked his life. It also explained the measures Kruge took to conceal his drive for it: obtaining Genesis would change the balance of power in the galaxy, yes, but it would also threaten the houses of his rivals. It paid Kruge to be discreet.
But it hurt Korgh to know his mentor had not trusted him with the knowledge all the same.
And while the unsurprising fact that the scurrilous Federation had freed Kirk to roam the galaxy ignited Korgh’s rage again, news of a different show trial took the breath out of him. On Qo’noS, General Potok and his surviving colleagues stood accused by a makeshift coalition of Kruge’s most venal relations, who charged the vanquished with everything from cowardice to treason against the Empire.
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