Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  “Then you must go after them,” Korgh snapped. He tried vainly to wrest free. “Where is Chu’charq?”

  “Aft. Enterprise never detected her. The bird-of-prey is standing by, as I instructed.”

  “You instructed?”

  Potok nodded. “I should not act as general, I admit. I no longer have the honor of command. It is taking a while to get used to this.”

  “Honor? Honor demanded Kirk’s death!”

  “Your honor,” Potok said. “We lost ours, falling prey to those who fought for greed.”

  “He killed your friend, your colleague! You must avenge Kruge!”

  “And then what? Kruge will not know of our revenge—and those who rule his house will act as though we had nothing to do with it. You cannot sing the name of someone who has none.”

  Korgh stared at Potok—and then stopped struggling. The general nodded to the toughs. They released him and stood watchfully nearby.

  “You blundering fool,” Korgh said, rubbing the back of his neck where the Vulcan had pinched him. “We were bringing Spock as our witness. The Federation would have announced Kirk’s death—and the Vulcan would not lie about who was responsible.”

  “I agree. The Vulcan does not lie. He saw our situation as clearly as if he had been born on Qo’noS.”

  “I haven’t got the slightest idea what you’re talking about. Potok, Commander Kruge trusted you!”

  “Yes. He trusted us, rather than his family. We did not owe him revenge. We owed him our best efforts to protect what he could not in death.”

  Korgh stared at Potok, not comprehending.

  “We owed him that, Korgh—but we were fooled. Fooled into thinking Kruge’s cousins would put the good of the house and the Empire above personal gain. Fooled into thinking we could save the system from itself. Fooled into believing we could wipe away a series of bad tactical decisions if we only had your miracle fleet.” He shook his head. “That shame cannot be wiped away by killing Kirk.”

  “But—”

  “It would not save his house, and you know it. No, Korgh. They may have discommendated us for the wrong reasons, but that doesn’t mean there aren’t right reasons. We must shoulder this.”

  “I can’t believe this.” Korgh looked at him, unaccepting. “Think what you’re saying here. You’re condemning your children and your children’s children—for seven generations!”

  “They are of my line. Who else should speak for them? And what good can come from a family stained?”

  “Ask Kruge’s relatives,” Korgh grumbled. “By the time seven generations have passed, there may not be any house left to save.”

  “And that will be their fault. But it is also ours.” Potok reached out and put his hand on Korgh’s shoulder. “But you can change all that.”

  “What?”

  “We are discommendated, but you are not.”

  “I don’t get your reasoning. I also failed to save the house from itself.”

  “You never took up the fight. Your name was barely known to my own people—and unknown to the family at large. You were never condemned.”

  “It wasn’t for lack of trying.”

  “It is an important distinction—and one you should take advantage of. Our fight is over. But you still have the opportunity to act.”

  “I do have the Phantom Wing,” Korgh said. “I just can’t make much happen when the only ones serving me can’t unsheathe a dagger without cutting themselves. And I don’t know how far I’d get with mercenary crews.”

  “You’d be no better than the nobles with their hirelings.”

  “That’s why I came to find you. What am I to do?”

  “You will think of something. You are young, Korgh; you will live a hundred years or more. You will find things in your travels that will help you.”

  “I can’t imagine what.”

  “New allies. Skills that will serve you in good stead.” Potok removed his hand from Korgh’s shoulder. “Kruge made such a journey through life. Why do you think so many of us sacrificed so much for Kruge, when we saw no advancement from it? He made an impression. Go make your mark.”

  “That sounds like the advice of someone who still wants to fight.”

  “That coin is spent.”

  Korgh exhaled. He had come so far—he didn’t want to let go. He started to move toward the cargo hold. “Let me ask your people. Some will come with me.”

  Potok barred his way. “They will never follow you. They never have been following you. In a way, we have been following Kruge all along, even after he died. Even at Gamaral. Kruge will be the only one we will ever follow.”

  Somberly, Potok passed Korgh his communicator. “Transport across with your team. We are heading back into the nebula.”

  “Going back?”

  “I know of a place. I think our repairs will get us that far.” Potok wore a faraway look. “It will sustain us—barely.”

  “Tell me where. I will check on you.”

  “I will not accept you. This is our last conversation, Korgh, son of Torav. You are a Klingon, proud and strong—and should not speak with such as me. For my father had no son.”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  OUTSIDE THE BRIAR PATCH

  After returning to the bird-of-prey, Korgh had been tempted to blow Potok’s freighter out of the sky. Six other freighters would have remained, carrying a sizable force; he could have declared himself the passengers’ leader, hoping that mass discommendation had not stolen the fight from them as it had in the general’s case.

  Instead, a fleeting sensor reading had sent him and Chu’charq off in search of Enterprise, which he hated now above all else. He desired vengeance against the Starfleet crew not just for Kruge’s death, but for Spock’s actions against him. And for his inaction too: by allowing Korgh, Potok, and the other Klingons to go on their way, Spock had shown an insulting lack of regard for them all.

  At least, Korgh had thought of it as insulting; it was impossible to know what the Vulcan thought. Their ways were strange. Nevertheless, he swore to make Spock pay for his act of disdain. One more name added to Korgh’s hit list.

  The fruitless side trip cost him. On his return, the freighters were gone, having made their way into the nebula. Disgusted, Korgh had ordered his crew to scan for Potok’s possible heading and destination. Sixteen hours later, they were still searching—but the engineers had only slim leads. They were exhausted, having been dragged this way and that.

  Korgh knew the feeling. Ordering them to keep at it, he procured a bottle of bloodwine from Chu’charq’s galley and staggered toward the command quarters. Entering the darkened chamber, he collapsed on the couch just inside the entryway. He was prepared to drink himself into oblivion, if sleep did not claim him first.

  The stopper was barely out of the bottle when he realized he was not alone. Setting the bottle on the table beside him, he placed his hand on the hilt of his blade. He spoke to the darkness. “Kahless the Unforgettable said to strike quickly, or strike not.”

  “It is a good lesson,” replied a shadowy figure seated across the room.

  It could be none other than Odrok. The flintiness of her voice still made his ears bleed. “How long have you been there? What is it?”

  “I wanted to see you,” she said, rising. “No—I needed to see you.”

  Odrok had never visited his quarters before. It was a breach of discipline, of course—but more than anything else, it puzzled him. He did not find her attractive, and he had never known her to think of anything other than warp drives and cloaking devices.

  And yet as she sat now on the edge of the couch, she seemed suddenly willing to be familiar.

  “Go away,” he said, releasing the d’k tahg and placing his hands over his face. All the muscles there were weary, and he had little interest in seeing Odrok.
“Whatever it is can wait.”

  “It cannot. I need to warn you. Time is not on your side.”

  He sat up. “Now what? Something about the ship? Or the Federation?”

  “Neither. The way we parted company with Potok—the other members of the Twenty do not understand.”

  “What do I care if they understand?”

  “You must care.” Her dark eyes glinted in the low light. “They supported Kruge and have supported you. But they have not forgotten that you killed three of their number on Gamaral. And if Potok is unwilling to provide your army, they are unlikely to become one themselves. They are not warriors.”

  “That is obvious.” His eyes narrowed. “Are they talking about abandoning the cause? I would have to kill more. I will not let them take the secret of the Phantom Wing back to the family.”

  “Nothing has been said that I have heard.” She added in lower tones: “But those words are coming.”

  Korgh’s brow furrowed, and he looked keenly at her. “What of you, Odrok? Are you loyal?”

  “To Kruge? Forever,” she said without a beat. “And I would be loyal to a true heir of Kruge, adopted or otherwise.”

  Korgh slapped his breastbone. “I am his heir!”

  “Then prove it.” Odrok raised her hands before her, speaking with heartfelt passion. “Any son of Kruge’s would share his grand vision. His ability to find ways to reach his goals, even when it means working outside the system. Commander Kruge didn’t wait for anyone’s permission when he found out about Genesis. He acted.”

  And I have been reacting, Korgh said to himself. His attempt on Kirk’s life had been the first time he’d had the initiative since Gamaral—and that had been squandered. Even sorry Klingons would not respect a hunter who kept losing the quarry.

  “You believe,” he said cautiously, “the others would follow without question if they knew I had a plan?” He looked at her. “Would you?”

  “Yes.” She grasped at his arm. “Consider what I became for Kruge. A mimic, going from house to house, posing as loyal while I stole secrets. The tactics of a Romulan. But Kruge saw their worth—and I saw his. I am willing to continue doing what is necessary to secure his legacy, even if it takes a hundred years. But you must prove worthy.”

  “I don’t know about a hundred years,” Korgh said. “But I’m still alive—and I do have time. Potok was trying to tell me that—I see it now. The nobles still have no idea I’m a rival for control of the house. I didn’t even tell the Vulcan who I was.”

  Odrok responded with a toothy smile. “You think like an intelligence agent. But it must be coupled with action.”

  “Smart action,” he said. Something about this failure was causing him to see the events of the past several months more clearly. “I didn’t have enough people, with the right skills, to take on Enterprise. Even Gamaral wasn’t the right time to take on the family. It was all too fast. When Kahless said to strike quickly or strike not—he wasn’t condemning people who chose avoiding a hopeless fight.”

  She nodded, clearly liking what she was hearing. “Kahless never counseled stupidity.”

  “And I have the Phantom Wing—and will have it until I need it. What was it Amar, one of the ancients, said? ‘Never draw a weapon until you intend to use it.’ ”

  “Something like that. That dagger remains undrawn. I just want to make sure you keep control of it.”

  Korgh eyed her. “If Kruge trained you to lie, then how do I know you’re dealing honestly with me?”

  “Because I am still here. I have been a spy, Korgh—but I was a scientist first. A researcher only abandons her experiment when it has no chance of success. I still think you can become Kruge—can be for the Empire the person Kruge would have and should have been, had he lived. So long as I remain at your side, you will know that I still believe the experiment can work—my lord.”

  “Then I will expect to have your company for a long time.” Korgh poured them both a drink.

  ACT THREE

  KRUGE’S FIRE

  2386

  “O, death’s a great disguiser.”

  —William Shakespeare

  Thirty-two

  THANE

  “Watch yourself, Worf!”

  The rocky soil beneath Worf’s feet bulged and broke. As the ground exploded upward, he tumbled away, landing squarely on his back. Looking up in the twilight he beheld a giant crimson leech towering eight meters tall. Surrounded on three sides by rows of long, spiny pincers, the creature writhed furiously for a moment before wresting free of the hole it had created in the sloping ground.

  Worf didn’t wait to see what it would do next. He already knew the pincers provided it a means of propulsion—and that he was its target. With both hands, Worf grabbed a long, flat rock uncovered by the leech’s seismic eruption. He rolled over and held it before him as a makeshift shield. A powerful pincer slammed violently against the rock, which snapped in two in Worf’s hands. Another alien limb lunged for him . . .

  . . . and withdrew just as quickly, as blast after blast of concussive force struck the creature. Worf saw the Klingon woman who had abducted him firing at the beast with her weapon. The tubular monstrosity unleashed an earsplitting screech and reared backward. Puncturing the ground in a different place, it plunged back into the depths. Several seconds of rumbling later, only a cloud of dust remained.

  Satisfied the thing had departed, his brown-haired abductor walked toward him. Valandris offered her gloved hand to help him up. Worf refused it and got to his feet on his own. “What was that thing?”

  “It’s called a zikka’gleg,” she said matter-of-factly. “Those legs it’s running around on—they’re actually its feeding tubes. Let one of those things puncture your flesh, and it’ll suck you dry in half a minute.”

  I will pass on that, he thought. “Do they attack people often?”

  “Everything attacks everything here,” she said. “It’s the only thing you can say for living on Thane: there’s good hunting.”

  The Enterprise’s first officer had not agreed to go on a nature hike with his Klingon captors; he wasn’t interested in cooperating with assassins, much less accompanying them on a hunt. But a hunt had broken out nonetheless. Parking their still-cloaked starship on the rim of a crater, his guards had been leading him down toward their camp when they caught a scent on the roiling wind. A herd of grotesque ten-legged creatures had made its way into the foliage-shrouded bowl below, threatening the place that was their destination. Before Worf knew what was happening, many of his escorts had hared off to various hidden weapons caches to trade their disruptor rifles for weapons more appropriate to taking on wildlife.

  Only Valandris had remained with him. She had ably incinerated two of the uglies with her disruptor rifle before switching to a sonic weapon that drove them away. Having just done the same to the zikka’gleg, she pointed the way forward, where the rugged terrain of the crater slope gave way to jungle and swamp.

  Worf had seldom seen so many different kinds of biomes in such close proximity. The massive high-rimmed crater was eight kilometers in diameter. Thane had multiple such impact features, some interlocking—and all, according to his guide, were home to their own peculiar topographies and wildlife, under the perpetual twilight of a nebula-filled sky.

  There was no cloaking the interior of the starship Worf had arrived in, and his captors had made no attempt to blindfold him. It was clearly a B’rel-class bird-of-prey—unlike any he had ever seen.

  Worf had only been on the twisting path a minute when his attention turned from threats beneath his feet to those overhead. Colossal gray ferns strained and snapped as something large and black tore down from the sky. Again the Klingon woman was ready, firing a sonic blast that winged the long-limbed flying thing. It slammed into the muck beside the path, splashing Worf. Slinging her weapon, his abductor gave a feral cry and leape
d atop the beast. The dragon-like creature writhed and flopped about madly as she drove her dagger into its neck repeatedly.

  The beast rolled over, shaking her off into the muck. The avian turned toward Worf, who noticed for the first time the sacs of luminescent jelly coating the creature’s abdomen. It spread its wings and took to the sky, vanishing above the ferns.

  Valandris clambered out of the mire, a dripping, muddy mess. She looked back at Worf and laughed. “I keep having to save you.”

  “If you gave me a weapon, that would not be necessary.”

  “If I did, you’d try to get away again. You should know by now there is nowhere you can go.” Valandris looked to the sky and swore. “My blade is still buried in that thing’s neck. It was a good one, too.”

  Everything has a weapon on this planet but me, Worf thought.

  “I didn’t want to kill it,” she said, flicking the mud from her clothes.

  “You seemed to be making the attempt.”

  “Until I noticed the sacs. Did you see those things on her belly? It means she gave birth to a litter recently—she sheds those pouches when she feeds her young. You step on one of those bags by accident and the whole family comes after you, thinking it’s the dinner hour.” Wiping her face, she smirked. “I lost an idiot uncle that way.”

  Worf looked off in the direction the creature had departed. A side path branched off there, with the massive gnarled trunks of petrified trees curling over the walkway. The wounded animal was nowhere to be seen. “What do you call that beast?”

  “The lesser valandris.”

  “I thought that was your name.”

  “I’m the greater one.” Serious again, she unslung her rifle. “We’re not supposed to have names at all, you know. But I like it.”

  In the low light, she looked like a younger version of K’Ehleyr, Alexander’s mother and Worf’s deceased mate—if K’Ehleyr had been raised in the wild and needed to be kept on a leash. Valandris wasn’t much different from the creatures of this, her self-described homeworld: single-minded, completely aware of her surroundings, and prone to sudden movements.