Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  It would not require entering the nebula. Spock’s fingers worked the control interface. “Probes are away.”

  Ahead, four shining objects could be seen rocketing from Enterprise into the nebula. Smaller than photon torpedoes but twice as bright, the glowing devices nonetheless disappeared into the multicolored haze within seconds.

  “Receiving telemetry.” What came next was no surprise to Spock, as it had been known for years. “Encountering metaphasic radiation in the stellar debris. The probes are slowing down.”

  “One-third impulse would appear to be the maximum acceleration in this region,” Sulu said. “Another reason to detour.”

  The science officer’s eyes narrowed. The probes’ sensors were active, but something was pinging back that was more solid than the rest of the supernovae remnants. “Contacts within the cloud, mark two-five-seven.”

  The captain, who had appeared to Spock only vaguely interested until now, ordered, “Feed it through the tactical systems for identification.”

  Seated ahead of Kirk, Pavel Chekov took a look at the data stream. “They are ships. Large, bulky.”

  “Out here?” Kirk straightened. “On screen.”

  Chekov redirected the sensors from one of the probes to the main viewer. Seven freighters sat motionless in a dark maroon cloud. “Freighters, Captain. They appear to be Klingon.”

  That got Kirk’s full attention. His eyes locked on the display as images from various angles showed the vessels in greater detail. The squat ships were spare and angular in design, with no visible weaponry. But they could hold a lot of Klingons. “Military transports?”

  “They are not in any registry,” Chekov said. “There are no running lights. They appear derelict.”

  “I don’t buy that,” Kirk said. No ship really needed running lights except in spacedock as an aid for workers on EVA, and they could hardly be of much use in the nebula. He glanced at Spock. “Speculation.”

  “None without further information. The probes do not have the ability to detect life signs.”

  “We do.” Kirk shook his head. He leaned forward, seeming to have made a decision—and then he paused, as if changing his mind. Finally, the captain leaned back and clasped his hands together. “Distance to vessels?”

  Spock knew what he was thinking. “Out of conventional weapon range. But not out of sensor range. We can scan them safely, Captain.”

  Kirk nodded. “Edge us in, Mister Sulu. Not a millimeter farther than we need to go.”

  McCoy leaned against the railing to the command well. “So much for not going in. It’s a sargasso—careful we don’t get stuck.”

  Spock thought to educate the doctor about the differences between sea and space travel, but determined it would not be a useful dialogue. Enterprise was on its way, shaking as it struck resistance from the first of the nebular gases. The captain was right: others had traveled here before, including Starfleet vessels. Successful transit meant knowing what to expect and adjusting.

  The colors outside Enterprise grew more pronounced as they edged in. McCoy would probably call it “garish,” Spock thought. But his attention was on his scope and what it showed. “Seven vessels confirmed.” He activated a control, and the Enterprise’s sensors replaced the feed from the probes. “Increasing magnification.”

  There were no lights of any kind visible in the Klingon ships’ ports. Kirk studied them, looking hard to perceive any threat. “Life signs?”

  “Plentiful, as far as our sensors can detect.” Spock checked. “Two to three hundred personnel. I am encountering some distortion.”

  “Not military transports, my eye,” Kirk said.

  “They could be colonists.”

  “In this neighborhood? I doubt it.”

  Spock was tempted to say that a place where no one wanted to settle was a place no one would want to invade, but he decided debate was premature without further data. He increased the magnification once again—and the lead freighter came into clearer view. The metallic surfaces of the vessel had a dingy coloration, and the ports were glazed completely over.

  “Significant particle contamination from the debris fields.” Spock looked closely at his scope. “I surmise they have been adrift for some time. Only low-energy consumption, perhaps just enough for life support.”

  “Or waiting in ambush,” Kirk said.

  Spock turned from his interface to look directly at the captain. “It is not logical. These are not warships.”

  “They could be the bait,” Kirk replied, putting his fist against his chin. “Kobayashi Maru. We go farther inside this mess to rescue a freighter, only to be attacked. Spock, it’s a classic trap.”

  “Only these freighters are not transmitting a distress call—and they would have no expectation that Enterprise or any potential victim would be in the region.”

  “Curiosity and the cat,” McCoy said. He ran his index finger past his neck in a slicing motion and made a glottal noise.

  Spock ignored the doctor—a well-practiced maneuver—and studied the captain instead. Since the death of Kirk’s son, David Marcus, at the hands of Commander Kruge’s warriors on the Genesis Planet, the captain’s resentment of all Kling­ons had reached an understandable, if regrettable, pitch. Kirk seemed now to be struggling with several choices. Bounding in to offer aid, Spock suspected, was not on the captain’s list.

  “If I may suggest,” the Vulcan said, “there is no danger in talking to them.”

  “Talking to Klingons,” Kirk said, with an exasperated sigh. “That’s never worked before.” He shook his head. “Hail them, Uhura. Mister Sulu—we’re not going any farther inside this mess. If they don’t want to come out to talk to us, they can have this little rat’s nest all to themselves.”

  • • •

  The metaphasic radiation of the Briar Patch, Uhura had discovered, caused a variety of communications problems. It took fifteen minutes to establish contact, and that was intermittent at best. Transmissions were garbled at this distance and barely cleared as they approached; closing the distance was allowed very reluctantly by Kirk.

  The communications issues didn’t seem insurmountable; perhaps starships decades or centuries hence would have fewer issues conversing inside the zone. That was one of Starfleet’s hopes in having the Enterprise deploy probes. But when a response finally did come from one of the freighters, it might as well have been garbled for all the sense it made.

  “We hear you,” a Klingon voice said. “Go away.”

  “Charming as usual,” McCoy mumbled.

  “Please clarify,” Uhura said. “Are you asserting Klingon territorial control over this region?” The area wasn’t exactly contested, whatever had happened earlier with the Romulans. Nobody really wanted it.

  But the freighter’s answer had stymied them all. “We are not Klingons. We are not in distress. Leave us alone.”

  They clearly were Klingons. Chekov had finally chased down the ship in the databanks; it was an obsolete freighter model once manufactured on Qo’noS. And the speaker’s voice, to the best it could be heard, was confirmation enough.

  “This is nonsense,” Kirk said. “Shields up. We’re leaving.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow as the shields were raised. “They are not threatening.”

  “Then they’re fine where they are. I’m not bringing this ship any closer—whoever they say they are or aren’t.”

  Spock put the magnified imagery he had been looking at up on the main viewscreen. “Captain, we are in no danger—but I suspect the Klingons are.” He stood and walked to the view­screen, pointing out the multiple points of desiccation on the freighters’ hulls. “They have been in the Briar Patch long enough to foul most of their systems.”

  The imagery spoke more convincingly than Spock could. Intake manifolds were completely caked with foreign matter, particles that only served to att
ract more.

  Reluctantly, Kirk looked over to the engineering station, where he had called Montgomery Scott up to view the vessels. “Do you concur?”

  “Aye. They’re not goin’ anywhere.”

  Kirk, exasperated, looked to McCoy. “They may not want our help.”

  McCoy shrugged.

  Returning to his station, Spock gave Kirk a few moments to ruminate. Then he glanced in Uhura’s direction and offered, “Captain, may I speak with the Klingons?”

  Kirk gave a smile that wasn’t very convincing. “Be my guest.”

  “Freighter captain, this is the Enterprise’s science officer,” Spock said over the comm. “We have examined your vessels. You have neither impulse nor warp capacity. Have your engineers examined your systems?”

  A pause. Then, the response: “We have no engineers.”

  Uhura turned off the feed from the bridge while Kirk looked to Spock. “Your play.”

  Spock signaled for Uhura to reopen the channel. “Are you passengers?”

  Another pause. “We are all passengers.”

  “All? There are no service personnel?”

  “We are all passengers.”

  “What is the condition of your life-support systems?”

  “It is not important.” The signal was cut from the transport.

  “All passengers, no engineers, no life support.” McCoy smirked. “That sounds like the worst cruise ever.”

  Scott spoke up from his station. “They’re in the severest part of the Briar Patch. With all the corrosion, I doubt they’ll still have life support in a week.”

  Kirk was unmoved. “I’m not getting any closer.”

  “I believe,” Spock said cautiously, “that local conditions would not prevent achieving a transporter lock.”

  “I’m not sending anyone over there. Instant hostage.”

  The last word seemed to Spock to rankle in the captain’s mouth. But as understandable as Kirk’s reasons for being suspicious of Klingons were to Spock, he found the kneejerk response discouraging. Perhaps, Spock thought, there is an answer that would inoculate the Enterprise from the risk.

  With a few moments of thought, he had it. Motioning to Uhura to reopen the channel, Spock said, “Freighter captain, we want to render aid, but we need to meet one of you face-to-face to discuss the terms of our cooperation. This must take place aboard our vessel. Will you do this?”

  Kirk glared at him. “Spock.”

  “You gave me permission to ask them questions.”

  “Granted.” Kirk shrugged. It didn’t seem as if any response was forthcoming from the freighter. “Helm, take us back out of—”

  Over the comm, the Klingon responded with halting reluctance. “I . . . agree to be transported for this discussion. For . . . the other passengers’ sakes.”

  “You are the captain, then?”

  “I speak for the passengers. But I am not the captain. I am no one.”

  The transmission ended. McCoy clapped his hands on the railing and gave Spock a patronizing smile. “See? He’s no one. I don’t know why we were concerned.”

  Twenty-one

  It was a fool’s errand Spock was on, and McCoy thought the Vulcan responsible for more than a few. Of course, as the doctor had seen many times over the years, Spock tended to be right with amazing frequency. The science officer’s guess about the whales had saved Earth. Bureaucracies tended not to reward the playing of unlikely hunches; the fact that Starfleet had done exactly that said much about the organization and the respect they held for Spock’s judgment.

  But McCoy wasn’t so sure Spock was handling the Klingon freighters correctly. Spock hadn’t been back in the land of the living for that long—and while he might have some notion about the condition of the Klingons’ ships, he knew less about the Klingons’ mood.

  And his captain’s mood, for that matter.

  McCoy encountered Spock on the way to the transporter room. Four security officers followed behind the Vulcan. “Why the backup?”

  “Hostage exchange,” Spock said, never breaking stride. “The Klingon we spoke with is transporting over with representatives from the two other vessels whose comm systems still worked. But I do not expect any difficulties.”

  “Just you attending?” McCoy started walking alongside Spock.

  “Correct. The captain has chosen not to join us.”

  “No wonder about that.” McCoy shook his head as they reached their destination. He grasped Spock’s arm, holding him back as the security officers filed into the transporter room. As soon as the doors closed and they were alone, the doctor spoke. “A mission of mercy to help Klingons. Spock, your timing stinks.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow.

  “Klingons killed your friend’s son.”

  “I was there, Doctor, if not in full possession of my faculties.”

  “I know. I had them.”

  “But I remember what happened.”

  “Do you remember what the Klingon at our inquiry said? ‘There shall be no peace as long as Kirk lives.’ Or words to that effect.” McCoy looked into Spock’s eyes to see if he was getting through. He wasn’t. Just the cool, detached stare. “It’s not just that this is too soon, Spock. I don’t think Jim will ever be okay with the Klingons.”

  Spock reluctantly nodded. “Perhaps.”

  “No perhaps about it. Put your logic aside just for a moment, and think of your friend.”

  “I am, Doctor.” Spock looked back down the hallway, seeming to choose his words carefully. “I do not think Jim Kirk would approve of a starship captain leaving distressed individuals to die. If we left them, the captain would regret it. It is logical that I, his friend and first officer, should try to spare him that pain.”

  McCoy rolled his eyes. “Save us from Vulcan angels.”

  “The Vulcans have no angels, Doctor. But I can recommend several treatises on our beliefs if you are interested.”

  “I’ll pass.” McCoy returned a wan smile. “Well, let’s take a look.”

  The transporter room doors opened, and the pair walked inside. Ostensibly, Kirk had ordered McCoy to attend in case the Klingons needed medical attention. The doctor assumed that he had been sent to play watchdog in Kirk’s absence, making sure the first officer didn’t offer more aid than necessary.

  “Energize,” Spock ordered. Scott activated the controls. The transporter lights came up. The signals seemed to take longer than usual—perhaps a side effect of the conditions in the Briar Patch. When the three figures finally materialized, McCoy had to blink to believe what he was seeing.

  Most of the Klingons he had met belonged to the Defense Force; all had a martial air, whether they were generals or grunts. Few of those meetings had been pleasant, but he had come away with the definite notion that the Klingons had a dress code. If they did, Enterprise’s three visitors had missed the memorandum. Two males and one female, they wore tattered clothing made of rough material, almost burlap-like—and it hung loosely on them, as if it had been obtained secondhand.

  Or more like tenth-hand, McCoy thought.

  While two of the unwashed Klingons looked about the same young age, one of the males had seen some living. His long hair was a deep brown, highlighted with silver streaks—but it was soiled and stringy and not bound in the Klingon manner. As his companions looked around the transporter room warily, the older male’s dark eyes never left the pad beneath his feet.

  The security officers took a step forward after confirming that no weapons had beamed across. It was never polite to frisk the guests. The confirmation didn’t fill McCoy with confidence. The older Klingon seemed sedate, but the other two appeared wound up. Always the diplomat, Spock nevertheless gestured for the security officers to holster their phasers.

  Spock focused on the senior Klingon. “Did I speak with you earlier?”
r />   “Yes.” It was a guttural acknowledgment, little more than a cough.

  “What should we call you?”

  The flooring’s hypnotic power over the older visitor seemed unbroken. “I have no name.”

  “Let the record show,” McCoy mumbled.

  The Klingon woman spoke up in Klingon. The universal translator caught it. “This is a Starfleet vessel. Are we your prisoners?”

  The younger male, irritated, barked at her. “Do not speak.”

  She appealed to their elder. “Potok, we must know.”

  The tatterdemalion said nothing in response—but at least now he had a name, or so Spock surmised. “You are called Potok?”

  His arms hung limply at his sides. “Call me what you will. It does not matter.”

  McCoy had met some sullen Klingons before; Maltz, the sole survivor of Kruge’s bird-of-prey, had been downright suicidal when he first saw him. Potok’s mood seemed a shade different from that, but not by much.

  “This is a Starfleet vessel,” Spock said. “We only wish to ascertain your needs.”

  “We have none,” Potok said.

  Great, McCoy thought. Then thanks for dropping by.

  But now he had noticed something else: a deep scar on Potok’s face, from a cut delivered some time earlier. The skin had closed, but the surrounding area looked swollen and infected. The doctor gestured. “Have you had that looked at?”

  Potok shirked away, allowing his hair to fall over the cheek with the gouge.

  “Enterprise has medical facilities if you are in need of them. You and all your passengers.”

  The younger Klingons looked to each other—and then to the walls and surfaces, in search of inscriptions. They spoke to each other hurriedly in Klingon before facing Spock. “What . . . is this ship?” the male asked.