Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  In perhaps the most tantalizing thread, Odrok had learned that a number of researchers had been making preliminary inquiries into methods that would allow birds-of-prey to fire torpedoes while cloaked. Such research was not authorized by the Defense Force, and it wasn’t something any house would admit to studying. Striking while invisible was a tactic worthy of a Romulan. But such a capability would have an important effect as a deterrent, and if a house did make a breakthrough, it could change history. It definitely sounded like the sort of thing Kruge would have been interested in, and while Odrok hadn’t learned of any successes, what little research she had discovered was now in Korgh’s hands.

  The metal mountains of the scrapyard loomed ahead, set well away from the more trafficked areas. Korgh had been right to walk, rather than beaming directly in; it had afforded him the chance to study the approaches to the place. Beyond mounds of debris, he led his companions into what had once been a hangar for the early colonists. Now it was Mount Qel’pec in reverse, holding mostly the gutted remains of starships being torn apart by a multispecies team of scavengers.

  Buur Malat was what Korgh had imagined—mostly. A one-legged Orion forcibly retired from active piracy, he seemed unaccountably sunny as he directed workers around his chamber of refuse. Seeing the Klingons approaching, he laughed. “What, did your boss leave you behind?”

  Korgh—who had been left behind in the not too distant past—had to fight the urge to reach for his disruptor. Instead, he decided to take advantage of Malat’s unwelcome familiarity. “Yes, we are trying to catch up with our friend. You repaired his ships?”

  Malat laughed. “Offered to buy those freighters for scrap, but they insisted on moving on.”

  Korgh nodded—and looked around at the Orion’s henchmen. Malat wasn’t concerned by his guests, and so neither were they. Korgh reached for a pouch of local currency he had bartered for on landing. “Do you know where they went?”

  “Yeah, while we were installing the crystals, one of my guys heard them say where they were headed. It was some Klingon-speak. Clock, brock, something like that.”

  Korgh blinked. “The Klach D’Kel Brakt?”

  “Oh, yeah. That’s it.” Recognition appeared in the Orion’s eyes. “The humans call it the Briar Patch.” He chuckled. “If those crates make it there, you shouldn’t have any trouble finding them. Because that’s as far as they’ll get.”

  Korgh nodded. Potok’s choice of the Klach D’Kel Brakt made sense. Potok had assisted Kor in a battle there, and the inhospitable place was a good hole to crawl into. He looked at the money pouch and tossed it in front of the metal prosthesis that served as Malat’s left foot. “How long ago did they leave?”

  “Four weeks ago, I’d say.” Malat stepped back and began the awkward process of kneeling. “Hey,” he said, reaching for the pouch, “why would anyone want to go to the Briar Patch, anyway? You boys in trouble or—”

  Korgh answered with his disruptor. Buur Malat vanished in a blaze of energy—and now Korgh fired again, targeting the closest worker. And then the next closest.

  Caught unawares—and evidently unarmed—the other scroungers retreated into the hulls of the spacecraft they were working on. Korgh turned to face his three partners, who at least had found the fortitude to draw their weapons.

  “After them,” he ordered. “I will watch you kill everyone here—and then you will go back and find that dilithium merchant and kill him too.”

  One of the engineers balked. “But he told us all he knew.”

  “And he will tell no one else. And you will reclaim some scrap of your dignity—while I help General Potok reclaim his.”

  Twenty-four

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-A

  INSIDE THE BRIAR PATCH

  While Klingons might not show all the emotions that humans did, their feelings were usually unmistakable. Perhaps, Spock thought, narrowing the emotional spectrum to just a few colors had the effect of increasing the intensity of the moods they did show.

  Experience had not prepared him for Klingons who felt nothing. Since meeting Captain Kirk—and realizing they could do nothing to harm him—the life had drained out of the younger Klingons. As each hour of imprisonment passed, they behaved more like Potok, who sat as still as a Kolinahr adept. Reentering the brig with Kirk and Scott, Spock found they had not moved a centimeter.

  Spock wasted no time. “Commander Scott has completed his study of your freighters, Potok. The vessels are dying, in a mechanical sense. As will the people aboard, if you do not act.”

  No response.

  Perhaps, Spock thought, more detail would be motivating. “Commander Scott?”

  “We’ve sent crews about the freighters in workpods,” Scott said. “They’re in as rotten a shape as we’ve been talking about. Worse, maybe. But I think they can be repaired.”

  Kirk asked the engineer, “Your people saw no weaponry attached to the ships? No hidden torpedo launchers, no disruptors?”

  “Nothing obvious. But I wouldn’t give odds on launch doors even opening, given the corrosion.”

  “Keep looking,” Kirk said. The captain had not budged in his distrust of the Klingons.

  Seeing no reaction to any of it from Potok, Spock queried the engineer. “Can you repair the freighters from the workpods?”

  Scott thought for a moment. “We can try. I suspect there’s quite a lot inside that needs replacin’—but just scrubbing out some of the intakes should get them moving again.” He hesitated. “Even so, it would be faster if someone on the inside was runnin’ diagnostic checks as we worked.”

  Kirk said, “I don’t think that’s happening. They’re not answering our hails at all anymore.”

  Scott grimaced. “And I don’t suppose you want to be putting our own people inside.”

  Kirk spoke abruptly. “No. Not the way they feel about us.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “And what way is that?”

  The captain was incredulous. “Spock, they attacked you in the transporter room.”

  It was a reaction to a stimulus, for certain. But the situation had not changed, and Kirk’s return had not even prompted so much as a muscle spasm among the Klingons. The first officer continued to watch Potok closely as Kirk and Scott talked about the freighters. And while he was no expert on the emotional states of Klingons, Spock knew plenty about the lack of emotion and what it should look like.

  It occurred to him that he was seeing something after all. Potok was solemn, but not serene. There was something else going on there—something troubling the Klingons unrelated to their imprisonment by a hated enemy and their fear of being rescued by their own kind. It required more study—and there was only one way to get more information.

  “Mr. Scott,” he asked, “could diagnostic evidence from a single freighter be used as proof-of-concept on your repairs?”

  “Aye. The freighters are all alike. If the fix works for one, it should work for all.”

  “Then I volunteer to board Potok’s craft to monitor the diagnostics as it is repaired.”

  Kirk put up his hand. “Spock—”

  “Captain, as you have observed, we are at this stalemate because of my encouragement,” Spock said. “I believe it is my responsibility to resolve this matter and get us under way.” He paused. “I will take a security team, if you prefer.”

  Exasperated, Kirk looked at Scott. “Twenty-four hours, and it’s not our problem.” When the engineer shrugged, Kirk looked to the overhead. “Not a second more.”

  Spock stepped close to the force field and addressed Potok. “An offer has been made. Would you accept my team aboard your vessel?”

  The older Klingon sat motionless for several moments. But just as Spock was about to conclude no answer was forthcoming, the general closed his eyes and spoke. “I will.”

  That snapped his companions out of their spells. The fema
le objected louder. “General, no!”

  Potok crossed his arms, refusing to entertain opposition. “I did not lead our people here to die.”

  “Ah,” Kirk piped in. “Then why did you lead them here?”

  Spock thought the question ill timed. The general simply ignored Kirk. “I guarantee your safety.”

  “Very well, then.” Spock turned to Scott. “Prepare the workpod teams.” Then he glanced at Kirk. “With the captain’s permission, of course.”

  “Of course,” Kirk said, putting his fingers on his forehead, mimicking a headache. Taking a deep breath, he looked back at Potok. “About that guarantee—normally Klingons swear on their honor.”

  Potok spoke without looking at Kirk. “That is the Klingon way.”

  “But you didn’t swear on your honor.”

  Kirk waited for a response, but if the general said anything more, Spock did not hear it. The first officer turned and left the brig.

  Walking swiftly, the captain caught up with him in the hall. Spock didn’t wait for his objection. “Jim, I know you do not approve—”

  “Don’t approve? Why shouldn’t I approve?” Kirk wore a mild expression of unconcern. “It’s not like we’ve just crossed half the galaxy—risked everything—all to get you back.”

  Seeing that sarcasm was failing to provoke Spock, Kirk dropped it. “This plan is reckless. We’re not going to let them take you hostage.”

  “And neither will I. While I go over with Potok, his companions will remain here, as insurance.”

  “Pawns for a king. You’re a better chess player than that.”

  “I am no king,” Spock said. “And I am not sure Potok is either. I have found no record of him in the files supplied us by Starfleet.”

  “Really. And what does that tell you?”

  “Political conditions have long limited our knowledge of the players within Klingon military hierarchy. General is a common rank—it is entirely possible our agents simply have never heard of him.”

  “That’s one explanation,” Kirk responded. “Or he could be an intelligence agent himself, on a mission for the Empire.”

  “That is another explanation.”

  “I’ll tell you—whatever happens here, as soon as we’re free from this part of the nebula, I’m going to ask Starfleet to call their ambassador.” He touched Spock’s arm to stop him before the turbo­lift. “I just don’t want to have to tell Command we fixed the man’s starship—only for him to run off with my first officer.”

  Spock contemplated for a moment. “The general seems to respect the concept of parole, at least as it existed on your world as far back as the nineteenth century. He has already expressed concern for his shipmates. He will not use his liberty to put his companions at risk.”

  “Playing Klingon psychologist?” Kirk shook his head and called for the turbolift. “I’m glad you’re so sure about what he’ll do, Spock. But there are hundreds of Klingons over there. I’m just as concerned about what they’ll do.”

  Twenty-five

  KLINGON FREIGHTER I (STARFLEET DESIGNATION)

  INSIDE THE BRIAR PATCH

  If anything, Commander Scott had underestimated the damage to the Klingon spacecraft. Spock concluded that from his first moment aboard Potok’s battered freighter. Except for the dozens of passengers on board, it would be considered a total derelict.

  The captain had overestimated the threat the Klingons posed to Spock. Once transported aboard with Spock’s party, Potok had made an announcement over the crackling internal comm system about what the Starfleet officers were there to do. After that, no one had molested or interfered with the visitors in any way; Spock’s three-member security escort had had nothing to do but stand around.

  Since his role in Scott’s repair plan required him to work from the bridge, checking telemetry, Spock had neither asked nor been invited to tour the rest of the ship. But he did have occasion while checking interfaces to peer back into the cargo area. It had both enlightened and puzzled.

  Dozens of Klingons—males, females, and children—sat in the hold. And while large gatherings of Klingons tended to be raucous, this one seemed anything but. Passengers sat on the deck, others on metal crates. Some fed themselves from small containers. But all were silent, sharing the mien Potok had displayed.

  The general continued to be a mute presence, standing by as Spock moved from one bridge station to another, responding to the workers outside the hull.

  “Freighter one, this is team seven. Intake manifold plate twelve cleaned. Request reading.”

  Spock consulted a display. “Functioning at seventy-three point two percent.”

  “Seventy-three point two percent, understood. We’ll hit it again. Team seven out.”

  They were making progress, if slow; eleven hours remained until Kirk’s deadline, when the probes would complete their scientific work and Enterprise could depart. Spock speculated that, now that repairs were under way, success on the first freighter might merit an extension. But that depended on the captain, whose view had not changed. He had instead ordered additional scans of the freighters, searching for any offensive capabilities yet unseen.

  The first officer had not seen any weapons aboard, although he had no idea what was in the crates the passengers were sitting on and around. But he was fairly certain the freighters posed no threat to Enterprise or its work teams. If any interfaces controlled external weaponry, they were not located on the bridge—at least so far as Spock had discovered.

  Another reading was requested—and Spock reported improvement. He remarked on it to Potok, still lingering nearby. “Even greatly damaged, this vessel is resilient,” he said. “It is a compliment to Klingon engineering.”

  “I am not a Klingon,” Potok murmured.

  There was nothing wrong with Spock’s hearing. But still, he asked Potok to repeat his statement. “Are you speaking genetically,” Spock asked, “or metaphorically?”

  “I don’t know what you mean by that.”

  “I mean—”

  “I know what you mean.” Potok shot an uncomfortable look at the Starfleet security officers aft. He moved forward, toward the port overlooking where two of the other freighters drifted.

  Kirk had accused Potok of engaging in word games earlier, and Spock had no interest in participating in one now. But he had spent enough time in Potok’s company that he didn’t sense the Klingon would bother with them either. Potok said very little, and whatever he did say usually held some meaning—even when it seemed contradictory.

  Then, thinking back on those he had seen in the hold, another idea occurred to Spock. “I have a theory,” he announced. “You are not fugitives, but rather outcasts of some kind. Is that accurate?”

  Potok gazed through the port. “We are cast out.”

  “Indeed.”

  He let Potok stand and stare. What did it mean to be a Kling­­on exile? Their society was steeped in history and tradition, and few outsiders could claim to know them. Assuming the Klingons preferred it that way, Spock decided he would have to press ahead carefully.

  He stepped forward and joined Potok at the port. “You have your freedom, but not your identity.”

  “A Klingon without a name is a targ without a head.”

  Spock gestured behind him. “Is this true for all on board?”

  “It is.”

  “Then when you came here, you were heading out of Kling­­on space. To resettle.”

  “We were heading out of Klingon space—to nowhere.” Potok took a breath and closed his eyes. “It is . . . uncommon for so many to be in our predicament. Klingons do not have communities of the exiled. The shamed do not seek the brother­hood of others.”

  “And yet, so many condemned at a swath.”

  “I expected . . . I don’t know what I expected.” Potok opened his eyes and cast them down.
“No one ever thinks that this—this thing will happen to them. It is beyond death, Vulcan, beyond prison. Worse, when you know what I know—that the sentence is deserved.” He looked up at Spock. “It is even beyond Gre’thor, our hell, because we are all alive. It is hell’s beating heart.”

  Spock simply nodded, allowing Potok to continue if he wanted to. He did. “I expected everyone would go their own ways, would separate. They still might.”

  “Are there families here?”

  “Our spouses and offspring are likewise condemned.”

  Then separation is not so easy, Spock thought. Individual exiles might drift apart—but there were ties binding the passengers together that transcended whatever judgment had been proclaimed against them.

  One burning question remained. What had Potok’s people done? And did it make them dangerous?

  There was no place to work those inquiries into conversation. When Potok turned and walked aft, the Vulcan could tell the general had shared all he was going to.

  Even so, there was some ray of hope Spock could give him, for whatever good it did. He turned to call after Potok. “General, I do not presume to tell you I understand your plight. But I understand your ship, and I believe our work will make a difference for your people.”

  “Nothing will make a difference,” Potok said. He looked somberly back from the door to the bridge. “Not unless you know how to make this ship travel through time.”

  Spock raised an eyebrow. “Forward or backward?”

  Potok retreated into the cargo hold without answering.

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-A

  INSIDE THE BRIAR PATCH

  “Receiving data from all the probes,” Uhura announced.

  Yes, Kirk thought, inwardly jubilant. Time’s up.

  “Signal intermittent,” she added, “but the probes are designed to transmit on multiple subspace bands. Data loss appears to be minimal.”

  “That’s what I love to hear,” Kirk said. “Tell Scotty to be ready to recall his teams. Hail Spock. The Klingon Empire can take it from—”