Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  “Perhaps you could not hear our hail given the interference,” Spock said. “This is U.S.S. Enterprise.”

  McCoy grinned weakly. “Welcome aboard.”

  Even Potok reacted to the news, finally showing a pulse. And more. “Enterprise?” The older Klingon snarled, baring broken teeth. “Impossible.”

  “Impossible how?” McCoy asked.

  Potok glowered at the doctor, providing McCoy his first good look at the Klingon’s piercing eyes. “Impossible because Enterprise was destroyed months ago. Sabotaged, in the Mutara Nebula, to murder Klingons.”

  “I disagree with your characterization of events—but this is that ship’s successor,” Spock said. “Registry number NCC-1701-A, under Captain James T. Kirk.”

  “Kirk?” Potok’s younger companions said in unison—and launched themselves from the transporter pads toward Spock. The security officers converged on the wayward Klingons from either side before they could reach the Vulcan—only to see Potok suddenly springing to life behind the others. He, who had looked defeated and spent minutes earlier, now moved with the speed of his younger companions, charging the scrum like an angry bull. Potok struck the group hard, causing bodies to fly. One of the security officers tumbled toward McCoy, just missing him.

  A full-scale brawl ensued. The female tried to strangle one of the guards, while her male companion tried to wrest another officer’s phaser away. Potok, meanwhile, climbed off the pile and started moving toward the exit. McCoy, who had been standing in front of the doorway, put his hands before him, trying to stave off the suddenly wild-eyed Klingon. “Whoa, there. Let’s talk this—”

  Spock let his hands do the talking. With a lightning lunge, he caught a firm grip on Potok’s arm and yanked him away from McCoy. Potok spun, flailing; his fist struck the side of Spock’s cheek and would have caught the Vulcan full in the face had it not been for Spock’s Suus Mahna training. Spock wrested the Klingon around by the arm and shoved, making Potok a projectile against his female companion.

  The security officers grabbed her where she fell. The young male, who had risen to free her, collapsed in surprise as Spock applied a pinch to the back of his neck. Recovering from his tumble, Potok turned to see two of the guards pointing phasers at him. And while that didn’t appear to intimidate him, a look at his subdued companions caused him to yield.

  The fire continued to rage in Potok’s eyes for several moments—until he suddenly sagged. The guards had no trouble taking him into custody.

  “This was not necessary.” Spock shook his head. “We greeted you as guests. Now, I am afraid you are our prisoners.”

  “Dinner for three in the brig.” McCoy took a deep breath as Potok was escorted out. “I hope you like the food.”

  Twenty-two

  “Forty-seven hours and ten minutes,” Kirk said in the turbo­lift.

  “Excuse me?” The fresh-faced Bolian ensign sharing the lift looked up at him expectantly.

  “Sorry—I was talking to myself. You do that when you’re in command. There’s a class for it.”

  Not understanding, the Bolian meekly exited on his deck. Kirk restated his destination: the brig.

  Forty-seven hours and ten minutes. That’s how long Enterprise’s probes required to send back the minimal information about the Briar Patch needed to satisfy Starfleet. It had been, for Kirk, a countdown. He wasn’t going to stay in the area a moment longer than he had to.

  He had hoped that the freighters would get going on their own, but Scotty said they seemed as dead as ever. Kirk knew he would need to exit the Briar Patch at some point to send a clear transmission about the Klingons’ presence to Starfleet, but he had mixed feelings. On one hand, he absolutely wanted Command to know about them—they could be up to anything. Yet he feared being dragged even further into some kind of Klingon plot.

  Further than Spock dragged them, that is. And now, thanks to his first officer, Enterprise had guests.

  There wasn’t any question in Kirk’s mind that the Klingons in the freighters were trouble. Trouble for whom, he didn’t yet know. But as long as he had control over their destinies, those answers didn’t interest him much. The report from his security officers had told all. They had been typically mum Klingons when they boarded, lashing out when Kirk’s name was mentioned.

  Well, fine. He didn’t mind being a source of irritation to the whole race. They were an annoyance to him. He would see them because Spock had asked. And then he would be done. He exited onto the deck and checked with the security officer.

  He found the prisoners held together in a single force-field-protected cell. Spock and McCoy were outside, conferring about something. Kirk looked at the Klingons for just a few moments. Their clothes were out of the ordinary, to be sure—they were pulling a kind of sackcloth-and-ashes routine for some reason. If it was a disguise, it certainly didn’t matter. They were otherwise garden-variety Klingons, full of insolence and rage and stalking about their cell like caged animals.

  Or, rather, two of them were. One wasn’t. Older, he simply sat on the cot, staring off into space. Maybe he’s all paced out, Kirk thought. Let’s get this over with.

  He stood before the force field, defiant. “I’m James T. Kirk.”

  The younger Klingons stopped in their tracks and glared at him, enraged. “You killed Kruge,” the female hissed.

  “All in a day’s work,” Kirk deadpanned. The two seethed and cursed in their language, but the captain’s expression didn’t change. The response had been more glib than he’d intended, but he wasn’t about to feel guilty for avenging his son.

  The young pair turned back to their older companion and found him motionless, still sitting on the cot. Unable to do anything else, the two slowly retired to the back of the cell.

  Kirk moved to face the silent Klingon. “What’s the matter? Didn’t you hear me? I’m James T. Kirk.” He continued to stare at the older Klingon, but could not provoke a reaction.

  As stoic as a Vulcan.

  “He seems to be the leader,” Spock said. “I overheard one of his companions calling him Potok. A few minutes ago, they both called him General.”

  “General?” Kirk smiled, his suspicions confirmed. So they were warriors, after all. “General Potok, is it?”

  Saying nothing, Potok turned his head to stare at the bulkhead. Spock stepped to Kirk’s side. “He seemed to revile the term when his juniors said it.”

  “That’s the only sign of life we’ve seen out of him,” McCoy said. “That, and when they tried to redecorate the transporter room.”

  “Curious,” Spock said. “When no guard is present, we have seen from the sensors that his juniors assume an identical pose. Their recent stalking displays have been entirely for our benefit.”

  “What do they do,” Kirk asked, “sit around moping?”

  “I do not believe Klingons mope.”

  Kirk stared. The life had gone out of the younger Klingons. They slumped on their cots in the same manner as Potok. The general, if that is what he was, seemed dragged down by more than captivity. He had less life in him than some corpses he’d seen. “Could he be suffering from something?”

  “There’s nothing physically wrong with him, to the extent we know about Klingons,” McCoy said. “He’s got a scar that looks worse than it is. But he seems a bit off from the usual grade of dour and sullen. I’d almost say he’s depressed.”

  “Of course they’re depressed, Bones. Who likes captivity?”

  “Seems like it’s more than that—and I think it’s the same with the other two. The only life they’ve shown since they got here was when your name was mentioned—and just now when you walked in. But like you saw, even that played out.”

  Kirk doubted that. Just imagine if this force field weren’t here. He looked impatiently at Spock. “You asked me down here. What do you want?”

  Spock turned and
addressed the prisoners. “Potok, if operations are required to aid your fellow passengers, they can only occur with Captain Kirk’s approval.”

  Potok flinched a little at that, before returning to his sphinxlike expression.

  “We must ascertain why you are here,” Spock continued. “This area is part of a Federation study. When Kor withdrew after the Battle of Klach D’Kel Brakt, Starfleet believed the Klingon Empire had no further interest in the region. Was that assumption incorrect?”

  Potok said nothing.

  Spock pressed on. “The Federation does not wish to challenge any Klingon rights in this region. Our peoples are not formally at war.”

  Still, silence. This is a waste of time, Kirk thought.

  “Your spacecraft are in need of immediate repairs, or your people will die. Are you capable of repairing them on your own? If you do not wish to accept aid from Enterprise, we can contact Qo’noS and ask them for—”

  “No!” Potok snapped.

  McCoy mumbled to Kirk, “That got us somewhere.”

  The captain shook his head. “I’m definitely reporting these people to Starfleet. Especially if he’s a general.” Kirk stared at him. “Are you a general?”

  “I do not answer to that title—and I do not answer to you.” It was a mild rebuke, nothing in comparison to his juniors’ earlier outbursts.

  Spock interjected. “Potok, then.”

  “I do not answer to that.”

  “Then what is your name?”

  “I do not have one.”

  That’s it. Kirk turned to leave. “They’re playing games, Spock. I don’t have time for this. And I’m damned if I’m not going to report them. Let the Klingons fish them out of the Briar Patch.”

  Spock looked toward the prisoners, deadly serious. “Potok, my captain intends to send you back to Klingon space. He will contact Starfleet, who will contact the Klingon Empire to retrieve you. Should we do that?”

  Potok focused on the Vulcan and spoke slowly. “They will not come.”

  Kirk looked at McCoy—and then shrugged. “Keep working on them, Spock,” Kirk said. “You’ve got forty-seven hours.”

  He exited, and McCoy stepped out into the hall with him. “That was a waste of time,” Kirk said.

  McCoy nodded. “You could have a better conversation with a jack-o’-lantern.”

  The captain grinned in spite of himself. Where did McCoy get these bromides? He started walking down the hall, the doctor beside him. “It’s not putting us out. We’ve got to be here anyway.”

  Then he remembered something. “You know the strangest thing?” Kirk asked. “Uhura told the freighters we had taken their spokesman into custody. Their response was something like, ‘Oh.’ ”

  McCoy chuckled. “Maybe they’ve all got the blasé bug.”

  “If only the whole Empire caught it.” After a moment, he stopped and looked at McCoy. “Bones, what do you make of those people? An invasion force? Should we board the ships?”

  “I’ve been watching them. With the exception of that little set-to in the transporter room and then when you walked in, I don’t think they could attack a good meal. And Potok’s got it worse than the others. None of the bluster they’ve all got.” The two paused, and Kirk watched McCoy’s eyes as the doctor looked back toward the brig in contemplation. “It sounds crazy to say this,” McCoy said, “but it’s almost as if his pride had been amputated.”

  “You’re right, it does sound crazy. But I like the sound of attacking a good meal.”

  Twenty-three

  MERCANTILE DISTRICT

  JYLARNO IV

  I have got to find some real Klingons, Korgh thought as he wiped the blood from his knuckles. A viscous orange, the fluid came from the face of a big bruiser from a species Korgh had never troubled himself enough to learn the name of. The hulking male belonged to one of many of the races of the bazaar, here on this world light-years beyond the Empire’s borders. Whatever he was, he had successfully intimidated three members of the Twenty in public.

  Korgh summarily broke his nose, bringing the monstrosity to his knees with a thud.

  “We are Klingon,” Korgh said, grabbing the creature by one of his horns. “You will speak to us with respect.” He drew his d’k tahg with his other hand and put it to the alien’s neck. “Understood?”

  The merchant gurgled before croaking something that sounded like agreement. Now Korgh looked back to his plaintive engineers, possibly the worst landing party he had ever gone anywhere with. “And do you understand? Do not allow scum such as this to impugn you again.”

  “Yes, my lord.” The engineers were not much older than Korgh, but they quickly deferred to him.

  Too quickly, Korgh thought. That was the whole problem. The cha’maH had spent so much time in their academic world that they had neither the skills nor the pride of a warrior. Korgh might turn some of them into well-rounded Klingons, were he willing to wait a hundred years. He wasn’t—and it was that fact that had brought him to Jylarno IV. Potok and his disgraced companions had stopped here—and they were the warriors he needed.

  “I will now repeat the question my companions asked,” Korgh said, allowing the blade to scrape at the merchant’s neck. “You met a group of Klingons in need of new dilithium crystals some time ago. Where did they go?”

  “I don’t know—”

  “Very well.” Korgh withdrew the blade from the alien’s neck—and in a swift motion, sliced off one of his horns. The creature screamed as blood gushed anew. “Now,” Korgh said, “answer again. I am sure I will find a part of you that you prefer to keep intact.”

  On his hands and knees, the orange-spattered merchant begged for a chance to comply. “I fence . . . pirated crystals. I don’t install them. I sent them to Buur Malat in the scrapyard north of town. He does such work.”

  Korgh looked across the urbanized area. “They went to Malat?”

  “They did.”

  Korgh kicked the merchant in the gut, causing the creature to collapse in agony. “Pick up your horn and go. If I find you have lied, you will not see the sunset.”

  He put his d’k tahg back into its sheath. It was a new one, replacing the one he had imbedded in one of the engineers he preemptively slew on Gamaral. He had incinerated that corpse, along with Chorl’s, to hide the fact that he had been present. Looking around, he saw that the others on the street had given their encounter a wide berth. Such violence was common on Jylarno.

  He glanced back at his engineers. “Follow,” Korgh said, starting north. “And try not to be mugged by any old women.”

  Before his search began, Korgh had left the other eleven ships of the Phantom Wing cloaked in orbit around Aesis, each ship with a single engineer aboard. None of them would be able to depart on their own, and Odrok had installed security codes in their communication stations preventing them from transmitting messages to the others. Korgh wasn’t about to allow someone to run off with his squadron ever again. The engineers would have a sole purpose: decloak their vessels upon his return once he arrived bearing supplies and, hopefully, crews. The arrangement had left him with only Odrok and six engineers to run Chu’charq, but that was more than they’d had in their relay flights from Gamaral.

  Chu’charq’s first stop had been Qo’noS, where the fact that Korgh was almost entirely unknown to Kruge’s relatives had come in handy. In the streets of the First City, he had made contact with several people who had been familiar with the discommendated warriors. No Klingon would speak the names of the condemned aloud, and Korgh chose not to refer directly to any of them for fear that someone would suspect a connection. Rather, he had posed as a buyer looking at properties. When Potok and the rest of the discommendated had departed for parts unknown, a lot of choice real estate had become available.

  Korgh’s casual inquiries yielded that Potok had made use of seven Klingon fre
ighters the general had captured years earlier from Orion pirates. The Orions, worse than Romulans, had stripped almost everything of worth from the starships—and Potok had been warehousing the hulks until they could be broken down for scrap. Once the discommendation sentence was handed down, the ships had become makeshift living quarters. Finding life on Qo’noS too much to bear, Potok’s people had gotten the freighters running and departed.

  For Korgh, it had then been a simple matter of hopscotching from planet to outpost, following Potok’s trail on the way out of the Empire. Korgh always kept Chu’charq cloaked whenever he could. After all, the vessel did not exist as far as the Klingon Defense Force was concerned.

  The people he met were often willing to tell him of the passage of Potok’s ramshackle flotilla, even if they had no idea who was aboard. If they had not been willing, Korgh had convinced them otherwise—as in the case of the merchant.

  As they crossed the bridge into the northern sector, his communicator beeped. It was Odrok, confirming that she had broken into the local authority’s computers. Dozens of articles of Klingon memorabilia—sashes, medals, d’k tahgs—had been exchanged for local currency with several of the traders around the time Potok would have been visiting. It galled him to think of Kruge’s most loyal warriors bartering their glorious pasts for necessities—and it filled him with a renewed sense of urgency.

  “Find the location of these so-called dealers,” Korgh said to Odrok before signing off—and he had no doubt she would get the answers. He had come to depend on her and now understood why Kruge had such faith in her abilities.

  What was more, Odrok had gathered intelligence from other houses. Posing as a member of the House of Antaak, she had obtained preliminary designs for supple, flexible body armor resistant to phasers; the concepts were far from proven, but Korgh could see the value of having the gear before it went into production for the entire Defense Force. Another piece of intel from a different house dealt with improving long-range covert communications between ships under cloak, a concept Kruge definitely would have wanted to learn more about.