Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  Spock did not answer—although Korgh wondered if the hail had surprised the Vulcan. Korgh nodded to Potok, who triggered the interface. “This is Potok.”

  “Where is Spock?”

  “He is detained.” Potok looked back at Spock and shrugged; he was telling no lie. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Captain Kirk.” A burst of interference rendered the next statement inaudible before the transmission cleared up again. “Did the repairs work?”

  Korgh gestured with his hands, encouraging the general to play for time. “We are looking at that now,” Potok said.

  “I copy. I’m in a workpod—I came out to the edge of the distortion zone hoping to hear you.”

  Korgh gawked. Kirk in a workpod? He looked urgently at Potok.

  “Repeat that,” Potok said. “There is too much interference.”

  “Just taking another look at your freighters, General. Tell Spock to hurry back. Workpod 6 out.”

  “Kirk is in a workpod.” Korgh chuckled as he contemplated the conversation. All his misfortunes were being balanced out in one day. He laughed loud. “If this new Enterprise is invincible, Vulcan, I doubt you can say the same for a workpod. Potok, hail him. See if we can lure him out here.”

  Potok complied, but got no response. “He must have turned back toward the freighters. Where Enterprise stands guard.”

  Korgh put his finger in the air, his thoughts racing. “Ah, but we only need to shoot one workpod this time. One unshielded vehicle, one shot.”

  “Enterprise has many workpods,” Spock said, stone-faced.

  “Workpod 6. I bet they even have a pretty number painted on it.” Korgh felt for his communicator again. “Odrok, did you hear all that?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “I will board the bird-of-prey. We must cloak and enter the nebula before Kirk returns to Enterprise.”

  “I cannot guarantee we will be undetectable,” Odrok said. “Our cloak has not been tested in these conditions.”

  “For Kahless’s sake,” Korgh said, aggravated. “Don’t you trust your own work? B’rel-class cloaks have been used successfully in planetary atmospheres.”

  “This medium is different. The nebular material emits metaphasic radiation. We might be undetectable, and we might not.”

  Kruge would never tolerate such hedging, and neither would Korgh. “Yes or no!”

  “I wouldn’t chance it. Not without some other misdirection.”

  Korgh’s eyes narrowed. What misdirection did he have at hand? He drew a blank. But he didn’t have to think of everything anymore. “Options, General.”

  “Were the freighter larger,” Potok offered cautiously, “you might adhere to it while cloaked and be carried in, hoping any odd emanations could be attributed to its malfunctioning systems. But this vessel can barely propel its own mass.”

  Korgh agreed. The general’s idea was a thought for another day—but it also suggested there might be another way. “Odrok, what if we coasted in immediately astern of the freighter? Closer than a targ on a leash.”

  No answer came from Chu’charq for long moments. And then: “We would be amid the exhaust of the freighter’s impulse drive—and also in the wake of any disturbed nebular materials.”

  “But with the freighter between us and the target, Enterprise might interpret any irregularities as being caused by the freighter. Correct?”

  “Until we got up close.”

  “How close?”

  “A thousand kellicams. No closer than eight hundred. The anomaly would draw too much attention after that. Enterprise’s science personnel are the best in Starfleet.”

  “Their science chief is my prisoner.”

  Korgh was mostly satisfied by Odrok’s answer, which was within range for torpedoes. But it presented another problem—which Potok pointed out. “It will take time for the bird-of-prey to decloak and peel off from the freighter. Add establishing a targeting lock to that, and Enterprise might well be aware of you before you achieve one.”

  Korgh punched the top of a console. “I won’t be stopped when we’re so close.”

  Frenetically, he went from station to station on the command deck, looking at each one. The freighter had no weapons. Naturally, it would have no targeting system of its own. But his eyes lit on a lonely terminal, sitting in the aft section. “What’s this?” He read from the display. “Odrok, what is a freight interlock system?”

  A long pause followed, during which he could hear Odrok consulting with the crew. Eventually, she responded. “It was an old system for moving cargo in spacedock. The freighter has a tractor beam for bringing loose objects toward the airlock—and targeting systems for those beams. The interlock coordinates with a space station’s tractor beam targeting system, so items can be passed off more easily.”

  Potok nodded. “I remember something like that. It is not much used since cargo transporters became more advanced.”

  “Could the freighter’s tractor beam targeting system be used to generate a firing solution?” Korgh asked. “And could we use the system to send you that data—so you can fire the instant you decloak?”

  Odrok went silent. Potok looked at Korgh as if he’d gone mad.

  But then Odrok spoke. “It should work. But it will require substantial rerouting of weapons command systems here. Photon torpedo systems would be slaved to your targeting system for the duration of the encounter.”

  “That is fine. I can serve as gunner here, remotely.” He had learned to fire from Commander Kruge, after all. “When I am finished, Starfleet will consider the Enterprise name a curse.” He ordered Odrok to begin modifications.

  Potok came to his side, watched by the Vulcan. “Yours is . . . an entertaining solution,” the general said. “I regret that we never saw battle together.”

  Korgh smiled and clapped his hand on Potok’s shoulder. “We’re seeing it now, General. Your honor will be restored before you know it. Qapla’!”

  Twenty-eight

  Sitting in the pilot’s chair just a couple of meters from Spock’s seated prison, Potok slowly guided the freighter back into the Briar Patch. Although the Klingons’ plan had come together quickly, Spock considered it had a significant possibility of succeeding. They were not just tactically clever, but reasonably well guided on the engineering side of things.

  It was not certain that the freighter could fly in tandem with the bird-of-prey without the latter being detected by Enterprise before it could act. But then Starfleet was still figuring out the properties of the Briar Patch; hence, the mission that had brought the Enterprise here. If the scheme worked, Captain Kirk would die without ever knowing what hit him.

  The Klingons were toiling to improve their chances. The young leader of the boarding party sat at the freight interlock station on the aft side of the bridge. Wearing a headset, he alternated between consulting with Potok, far forward, and the woman on the bird-of-prey about how to operate the system.

  “The cloak appears to be working,” Potok announced. “Our sensors detect nothing at all behind us.”

  “With this wreck, I’m not surprised,” the younger Klingon responded. “I’m more worried about Enterprise’s sensors.” He beckoned for his companion still on the bridge, the one guarding Spock. “Daglak, get back here. These readings make no sense. What do you think of them?”

  Daglak, who Spock surmised was some kind of engineer, hurried back to look at the readings. “I am not sure, my lord.”

  “Sit.” Rising, he unceremoniously thrust Daglak into the seat he had occupied.

  Spock had not initially understood why it was that Potok—clearly a thoughtful leader—showed allegiance to such a young and headstrong Klingon. But hearing the engineer refer to him as my lord suggested an answer. He was a person of importance to some house—and Potok may owe fealty to him. And while Spock had yet to catch his name, h
is actions further suggested he might be an intelligence agent of some kind. That fit with a trap theory.

  “Keep checking,” the young lord said, leaving the engineer to wrestle with the interface. Spotting Spock, he grinned and advanced on him. “Don’t waste your time looking at me, Vulcan.” Reaching the seat Spock was in, he swiveled it and locked it into position facing forward. “I want you watching when Kirk dies.”

  “He has already watched me die,” Spock said drily. “There is little to recommend it.”

  “Amusing. I will return with you to Qo’noS—as proof of what we did here. My people may not believe Potok, given his sentence. But they will believe you. Vulcans do not lie.”

  The engineer called forward to his leader. “My lord, there’s a voltage problem in the interlock transponder.”

  “Will it interfere with our ability to send targeting coordinates without Enterprise noticing?”

  “We’ll need to check the cables in the stern. There are several of them.”

  “This ship is scrap.” The young lord growled with aggravation and tapped his headset. “We are going subspace silent now, Odrok. I’m checking something with Daglak. Continue to follow and await our signal.” He and the engineer left the bridge for the hold.

  Enterprise was just barely visible as a tiny dot in the distance, occluded now and again by the clouds of the nebula. Spock had considered there to be a small chance that Enterprise might have intercepted some of the freighter’s earlier transmissions with the bird-of-prey. But the starship sat motionless, not reacting. It was likely that Uhura had detected nothing, given conditions in the Briar Patch. As far as Spock’s companions knew, the freighter was simply limping back toward them as planned—alone.

  It would be some time before he would be able to see the six freighters, much less any workpods. How long would Kirk stay out? Probably quite some time, Spock knew. Kirk was as dogged as he was suspicious of the Klingons. Spock regretted that Kirk’s distrust had driven him to inspect the Klingon freighters. But clearly, Kirk had been right to be concerned.

  And yet, Spock could not square a certain fact. As near as he could tell, General Potok had not been expecting to see this young lord with his bird-of-prey. Was it possible Potok’s freighters hadn’t been intended as a trap? And if they weren’t, how committed was he?

  With the lord and his men off the bridge, Spock had the chance to find out. “Potok.”

  The general did not respond—but in such cases before, Spock knew Potok had been listening. “I do not presume to know your traditions, General. But I suspect you would consider a cold-blooded killing to be without honor.”

  Potok mouthed an answer. “Killing is killing.”

  “Is it? Striking from hiding—this is accepted?”

  “So long as the Klingon announces himself. Kahless the Unforgettable said this.”

  “I see. And what is required of the announcement, General, in order to make a battle honorable? Kruge stalked Kirk’s starship while under cloak at the Genesis Planet. Was that honorable?”

  “Kruge showed his face before striking.” Potok shrugged. “His foe had time to respond. Indeed, Kirk was already aware and struck first. I saw the video that was recovered.”

  “What if Kirk had not been aware of Kruge’s ship? How much warning would have been enough?”

  Potok seemed frustrated by the line of questioning. “A Kling­on knows a worthy attack.”

  There was no science to it. Spock wasn’t going to get far by arguing particulars of a chivalric code he was only somewhat familiar with. Ahead, the clouds parted momentarily; Enterprise was larger, with glowing lights discernible in the space around it. A different tack was necessary—and one suddenly occurred to him. A logical one, using something Potok had thus far only touched upon. Klingon society, like many, was based on pledges and obligations—and sanctions for those who violated them. Potok clearly took his punishment seriously. But in light of it, what was he obligated to do?

  Stretching his neck as far as his bonds would allow, Spock glanced back to confirm they were still alone. “Your young lord said this act would restore your honor. Why were you banished, General? What exactly was your crime?”

  “My crime?” Potok’s head snapped back, allowing Spock to see the ire in his eyes. “I do not have to answer to—”

  “You would kill an honorable man, Potok—and my friend. I have the right to know who would do such a thing.” Spock pressed. “Were you assigned to kill Kirk before today? Is that why you were exiled—because you failed at that mission?”

  “No,” Potok said, his characteristic calm returning. He paused, casting a cautious look back at the aft doorway as he considered whether to elaborate. Seeing no one, he let out a breath and spoke. “You sought to aid my people, Spock—so I will give you a response. Officially, we were condemned for failing to kill our leaders.”

  “Your leaders. Of the Empire?”

  “Of our house. We rose up against them—and were defeated.”

  Spock began to understand. “ ‘When you strike at a king, you must kill him.’ ”

  “Eh?”

  “Words of a human poet. So your crime was treason?”

  “Yes—I mean, no!” Potok’s voice became a louder rasp, and Spock feared that the young lord might return. Potok must have thought that, too, for the general leaped from his seat and moved around behind Spock’s chair.

  “Just checking his bonds,” Potok said to someone Spock could not see. He could feel the general tugging at the harness. “We are seven minutes from Enterprise.”

  “We’d better hurry, then.” From the voice, Spock realized it was the engineer who had returned, and not the young lord. Potok continued yanking at the straps, a show that allowed him to speak quietly and quickly over his prisoner’s shoulder.

  “Treachery was their charge, and a false one,” Potok whispered. “Seeking to overthrow the weak and foolish is no crime, so long as you back it up with fist and blade. We were loyal to Kruge’s memory and to the interests of his house.”

  “Then why did you tell me earlier your sentence was deserved?”

  “Because we lost so badly, there was no honor in it.” The situation clearly pained Potok, and for a moment, Spock thought he was done speaking. The pause allowed him to hear the aft doors opening and closing. The engineer, he surmised, had returned to the hold and his maintenance work.

  Potok moved ahead of Spock, making a show of checking his wrist restraints in case anyone else entered. “Have you seen many battles, Spock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then you will understand what separates a good defeat from a bad one,” Potok said. Backing up a step, he turned his head to look out the port at the stellar debris. “We were undone from the start. We misjudged one situation after another. At the end, we—no, I grasped for a miracle. And in traveling to find it, I left those who trusted me most naked and open to attack.”

  “Your passengers.”

  “My allies on this craft—and the others.” His eyes were on Enterprise—and on the Klingon freighters now visible. “Not all who travel with me were present when the end came. But everyone was connected with someone who was.”

  “Your battle—does it have a name?”

  “No true Klingon would ever think it worth commemorating, Spock.” Potok looked much older now as he struggled to find words to describe the events. “Battle? It was scarcely a military engagement. Our opponents in the family were not even there! We faced warriors who fought only for pay. We should have beaten such people handily. We lost because I failed to act wisely in mounting our defense. We were harried. We made mistakes.”

  “A different human poet said, ‘It is a characteristic of wisdom not to do desperate things.’ ”

  “People of honor do not do desperate things either,” Potok said. “Not if they want to keep it.” He shook his head
. “We were surrounded and enveloped—but the disreputable curs would not allow us the chance to die with honor. Had our names not been erased from history, we would have wished them gone. For the name of Potok—and every person in my company—would have forever been tied to that calamity.” He inhaled deeply. “By comparison, exile for treason is a blessing.”

  Spock believed he understood. As agonizing as Potok’s fate was, the general and his people had willingly accepted the false charges to distract from their true source of shame. It made sense, given what he understood of Klingons and their attachment to personal honor.

  It also gave him the leverage he needed. He nodded toward the group of starships outside; a workpod flitted past one of the freighters. “If what you say is true, General, I would reason then that killing Kirk would not reestablish your good names. He did you no wrong.”

  Potok stared at him, clearly astonished by the statement. “He killed Kruge!”

  “In honorable combat,” Spock said. “Whatever happened in orbit, the battle on Genesis was fairly fought. Kirk and Kruge struggled valiantly with each other—and Kruge was defeated.”

  “You lie.”

  “I was there. They fought at the edge of a volcanic abyss. The planet was tearing itself apart. Neither Kirk nor Kruge asked for nor received any quarter. And in the end, it was Kruge who fell into the inferno.”

  Potok stared at him for a moment and then looked out the port. There was no mistaking the workpods now. Their interiors were lit, the occupants just starting to become visible. “It sounds,” the general said cautiously, “like a death that would have made a Klingon proud.”

  Spock knew that it was a death in a futile quest—a wrongheaded death, a needless one. But he did not say that now. “Killing Kirk here might have earned you acclaim and reward before the battle you lost. But it does not undo your failure against those you faced. Indeed, I would say that murdering Kirk in this manner is so far from an honorable act that you may never live it down.”