Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  “What have you got there?” Kahless asked.

  “Terran playing cards.” Worf knew before he even took the lid off the box; it was the right size and weight.

  “I do not feel like games.”

  “I did not bring them. The would-be Kruge had them.” Worf sorted through the ancient-feeling cards. The imagery was clearer on their backs: according to the captions, the card backs depicted the Federal Building in Chicago on Earth in 1933. Judging from the logo on the ace of spades, Worf imagined the deck was a souvenir from some exposition. “What would he be doing with these?”

  “Someone comes,” Kahless said. Worf looked to the side and quickly shoved the deck into a pile of straw.

  Accompanied by three sentries, Valandris tromped into the kennel. All four were wearing the black battle gear Worf had seen the Unsung wearing on Gamaral; Valandris’s opaque helmet was under her arm. “Get up, clone. You’re needed again.”

  Worf stood up and barred her approach. “He has just returned from your pits,” the commander said. Two of the sentries stepped forward, pushing Worf back. “This torture must stop!”

  “He’s not going back to work,” Valandris said. “Lord Kruge wants to see him.”

  Worf glared at her as the third guard detached Kahless’s shackle from the crossbar above. “Your ‘Kruge’ is a fraud,” Worf said. “Captain Kirk saw him die a century ago.”

  Valandris shrugged. “Everyone here knows that story. It’s part of what Potok would tell us all to remind us of how he’d failed Kruge’s memory. He also told us that Kirk led his own crew in mutiny against the Federation. I think such a man knows how to lie.”

  Valandris and the guards marched the weary Kahless from the kennel. Worf followed. He reached for her as the others exited the pen.

  She wrested away. “What now?”

  “Valandris, I am serious. Your people are being lied to. Even if he were Kruge—”

  “He is!”

  “—he was a villain. He destroyed the Grissom, had Kirk’s son killed in cold blood. All in a foolish attempt to gain a weapon of incalculable power for the Empire.”

  “That doesn’t sound so foolish. Potok and the elders revered him.” She looked back in the direction of the Hill of the Dead. “The hunt and the memory of Kruge. That’s all we’ve had. Lord Kruge was the one person we were told was deserving of respect.”

  “Not all Klingons back then agreed what he did was wrong. It was a different time. But Kruge’s approach has been abandoned. The Federation and Empire are close allies.”

  “And he would remind them of the natural state between hunters and prey.”

  “With you? With those warships? Who brought them here?” Worf asked.

  “We did. He and N’Keera arrived in the first—Chu’charq, the ship that brought you in. He taught us to fly. With him, we retrieved the other ships, one at a time, from where he had hidden them.”

  “And all the weapons and munitions here? Did those miraculously appear?”

  “He told us where to find them. He also sent some of us for additional training with his allies.” Valandris opened the gate to the pen. “I don’t have time for this.” She turned to the armed guard. “Worf must remain here, Nelkor, until the Fallen Lord renders his decision.”

  The guard didn’t like it. He was likewise wearing his black battle gear, with his helmet sitting nearby on the ground at the ready. “I would join the muster and be seen by our enemies. Everyone will be there!”

  “Then one more won’t make a difference in that crowd. Your voice will be heard with ours.” She looked back at Worf for a moment—and then headed off after Kahless and his escorts.

  Nelkor turned around and pointed his disruptor at Worf. “Back inside.”

  Frustrated, Worf turned toward the kennel. He looked up at the darkening sky, where the nebulosities above were growing more vivid by the moment. Midnight would be many hours off, given Thane’s slow rotation, but time was running out. It didn’t take much imagination to figure out what kind of message “Kruge” would be sending. He’d be showing he had a squadron of birds-of-prey—and an army of assassins, just like those on Gamaral, to use them.

  Worf stopped outside the door and stared upward. The Fallen Lord would be sending a message, but he’d have to show off his warriors. And that meant Worf might be able to send a message as well.

  Fifty-two

  The last thing Kahless felt like doing after his labors was trudging up a hill. But neither did he feel he was in any position to challenge Valandris and her guards, who had marched him, his hands still chained together, up toward the Fallen Lord’s home. Along the way, he had looked in stupefaction at the squadron of birds-of-prey parked at the foot of the hill. Members of the Unsung were hard at work transferring their arsenal aboard the ships. How, he wondered, had the existence of such a force managed to slip past everyone’s notice?

  His escort led him inside the building atop the hill—through the anteroom and into the study Worf had described. The Fallen Lord was seated in a large chair, reading from an old map. He spoke without looking up. “Seat him.”

  Kahless watched as N’Keera, the leader’s young aide, whisked out from behind a long curtain holding a simple stool, two-thirds of a meter tall. Valandris and her companions moved Kahless to it and forced him down upon it.

  “My lord wishes to speak with the clone in private,” N’Keera said, drawing a hypospray from the folds of her garment. Valandris took Kahless by the hair and yanked him downward, making the side of his neck available for the injection. Once it was done, N’Keera addressed the guards. “He will not be a threat. Leave this home. I will call you when Lord Kruge has need of you.”

  Kahless felt the effects immediately—but in truth, in his exhausted state he did not need much pacifying. Valandris and the others dutifully departed, while N’Keera went back behind her curtain.

  “I see you drug your guests,” Kahless said. The emperor’s voice dripped venom, but speech was about all he felt capable of. Even remaining upright on the stool was requiring a surprising amount of effort.

  The old man finally looked back on him and stood. “Welcome, Kahless. I apologize for our first meeting—that was for the consumption of the Unsung. You may call me Kruge.”

  “I call you ruler of assassins—and no true Klingon.”

  The scarred figure stared at him for a moment. Then he laughed. “Well, you’re right about that. No sense wasting any more time.” He snapped his fingers—

  —and in a flash of light was replaced by someone much different. Kahless blinked. Where the would-be Kruge had stood, there now existed a gangly young man in a dark-green three-piece suit. His blond hair was immaculately coiffed—and the irises of his eyes were completely black.

  Kahless struggled to focus. “What are you? A changeling?”

  “You think I’m a changeling? Really?”

  “We defeated the Dominion. You may be able to dupe these discommendated fools, but my people will sniff you out.” Kahless bared his teeth. “They will destroy you.”

  “I’m no changeling—but I take it as a compliment. I’m actually Betazoid. Telepathic abilities are a wonderful tool for an actor. It helps to know how your audience feels.”

  “Then you know I feel disgusted.”

  The young man laughed again—though again was not the right word, because his melodic voice sounded completely different from what he had used as Kruge. Kahless could not believe the sound had come from the same person. “My name in the trade is Cross. I’m glad to meet you.”

  Trade? Kahless looked at the Betazoid suspiciously. “What is this?”

  “Magic,” the Betazoid said. “It’s what I do.” He walked over and pulled back the curtain, revealing a small control room. N’Keera was there, working at an interface and taking no notice whatsoever of Cross’s transformation.

&nbs
p; Cross snapped his fingers again—and in another flash, N’Keera was replaced by a lithe Orion female. Even younger than the Betazoid, she was quite beautiful, to the extent that Kahless understood the aesthetic standards of her kind. She looked back at Kahless and gave a jaunty wave. “Hello.”

  The energetic Cross swept into the command center and put his arms on her shoulders. “Better, no?” He smiled at Kahless. “She’s called Shift. Every magician needs an assistant.”

  “This is no magic.” Kahless nodded toward the computers. “This is trickery. Technical gimmickry from those machines.”

  Cross looked around. “What, this? No, this is for local support—and to replicate food that isn’t squirming. The real magic’s upstairs in Blackstone.”

  “In what?”

  “My support ship in orbit. You wouldn’t have seen it—it’s cloaked. My truthcrafter team’s got all sorts of equipment. Projection, holography, special effects.” He stepped back out into the study and waved his arms around at the decor. “Even set design. Every production needs a good crew.”

  “Fraud,” was all Kahless could say. He wanted to strangle the man just for being chipper. He also was furious with himself: in his time of self-doubt, he had disregarded his historic forebear’s wisdom and allowed himself to be enslaved. And by such people? Unforgivable!

  He forced his muscles to move—but instead, between exhaustion and the drug, he started to slide off the stool.

  Cross rushed forward and caught him—or tried to. “Heavy, aren’t we?” he said, guiding Kahless to the chair where the Kruge character once had sat.

  Kahless looked up at him in a haze. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Because it’s great.” Cross clasped his hands together and looked at Kahless, as if expecting understanding. Seeing none, Cross explained. “Yes, I am an actor—and a magician. There are other practitioners in my circle you might have heard of—Jilaan, Kerphestes, Ardra—all who use variations of the same school of technological arts. We don’t fool individual marks, like common con artists. We build myths. We make audiences of entire species, entire worlds. History itself is our drama. That’s the real magic.”

  Kahless’s head swam. He was fading—but his outrage kept him going. “You tricked these Klingons. Sent them to kill for you.”

  “Oh, not for me.” Cross waved off the accusation. “Though I do like seeing what I can make them do. Getting people to kill for you, that’s a pretty powerful performance.”

  Through gritted teeth, Kahless spoke woozily. “You’re . . . sick . . .”

  Cross put his hand over his mouth in a show of concern. “I think you are too. Shift, how much of that stuff did you give him?”

  The Orion woman called out. “I couldn’t have him pouncing on us. You know how they are.”

  “I guess you’re right. It’s a shame, though.” Pulling up the stool Kahless had been sitting on earlier, he brought it before the emperor and sat. Cross leaned over and appealed to Kahless. “I really wanted more of a chance to talk to you. We’re kind of in the same line, you and I. And you’ve been playing to a much larger crowd. There’s so much I want to ask you. I’m sure you’ve got plenty of tips to share.”

  Kahless mouthed the only words on his mind. “Death . . . before . . . chains.” From somewhere, he heard a chime.

  “Incoming message,” Shift called out. “Cross, it’s your partner.”

  “Damn.” Reluctantly, Cross sat back upright. “I’ve got to take that, Kahless. It’s sort of—well, let’s say it’s the backer behind my little show here. That’s a nice chair. Why don’t you just try to sleep there?”

  It didn’t take Kahless any effort to comply.

  Fifty-three

  THE OLD QUARTER

  QO’NOS

  “Who seeks an audience with the great and powerful Kruge?”

  Korgh rolled his eyes. “Don’t waste my time, Cross.”

  “Sorry. Just paraphrasing an old children’s story. Hero of mine, actually—another illusionist.”

  “My time is too short for your nonsense.” Korgh didn’t know what made Cross babble like this; the Betazoid had always been prone to these flights of verbal fancy. He also rather doubted the hero of any children’s story would appreciate the worship of a man who had helped engineer the decapitation of one of the great houses of the Klingon Empire. “Give me your report.”

  “The show starts at midnight our time. I’ve already synchronized with Odrok.”

  Seated in Odrok’s apartment, Korgh looked over at his companion. Odrok had disguised the controls for the secret comm setup to look as though they belonged to a defunct environmental system; in a place as shabby as hers, it fit right in. The cracked mirror in her bedroom was actually a viewscreen; the transmitter was up on the roof, hidden amidst centuries of electronic bric-a-brac. That accumulation was part of the reason they had chosen the home for her; the fact that one of his former employees at the House of Kruge lived upstairs as an invalid gave him cover for occasionally stopping by.

  It was incredibly dangerous for him to speak to Cross at all, but he had needed to on occasion—and it was always the plan that they confer at a certain point in the countdown. Fortunately, Odrok’s system altered his voice and appearance before the signal even left her home. His scrambled subspace signal was being relayed through several different satellites—and that was before it reached the chain of repeater stations he and Odrok had deployed over the years to allow for contact without interference from the nebulae that surrounded Thane.

  Korgh had already known of the practitioners of the Circle of Jilaan, and what they could do; Potok had been right a century earlier in saying that he would discover many useful things in his travels. The Circle’s illusions, generated by cloaked support vessels, were an offshoot science that varied from conventional holography. They could be projected through buildings and into starships, with visuals that responded to the performer’s facial expressions and movements.

  He’d met Cross through Odrok, who had encountered the Orion woman, Shift, on one of her missions; Odrok and Shift had been in communication often during this operation. And as peculiar as Cross was, it was Korgh’s partnership with the Betazoid that had made everything possible. The residents of Thane neither knew nor respected Korgh. The original discommendated settlers were dead from disease or the perils of Thane, and Potok had only ever told their descendants about Kruge. Thane’s community, leaderless by design, would only respond to a legendary figure. Once Korgh, as Galdor, had supplied Cross with the House of Kruge’s trove of biographical data, the Betazoid had been able to create a convincing portrayal of a Commander Kruge who had survived the inferno.

  And the trickster had created something else.

  “I hear congratulations are in order,” Cross said. “You’ve got your house at last. Glad the holo worked out.”

  “It was adequate.” More than that; Korgh’s eyes had bugged when he’d seen it. Cross’s wizards had created a perfect record of an event that had never happened. “It did the job.”

  “Some job. Take some credit yourself—it was some performance. I’ve never seen anyone pull a fifty-year con. And apart from the hologram, you did it all without technical magic.”

  Odrok coughed. Korgh ignored her. “I don’t understand this answer you sent Odrok about Worf. Why did the Unsung seize him? I never intended for them to take any prisoners but Kahless.”

  “Calm down, old man—you’ll burst an artery. And we told you—Valandris brought him along. They seem to think he’s some minor celebrity.”

  Korgh had heard the hunter’s name before. “This Valandris is supposed to answer to you. Didn’t she tell you that she had him aboard Chu’charq when they were on the way to Thane?”

  “Yeah, she called that in.”

  “And why didn’t you order him terminated then?”

  “He wasn’t on
the target list—hers or mine. And you’re the one that wanted to cut down on how often you and I spoke.” Cross shrugged. “Besides, I wanted to see how well my Kruge routine played with a Starfleet officer. More important, I wanted the Unsung to see it. You’ve got big plans for these fanatics, Korgh. The only way it’s going to work is if they’re totally and completely sold.”

  “And how did keeping Worf around help that?”

  “It’s good to have a heckler at a performance. It wakes an audience up, gets them on your side. These people all saw me take Worf’s questions without fear—and they saw me shut down every one of his lines of attack. They’re wilder for me than they’ve ever been.”

  “Why couldn’t you have used Kahless for the same purpose?”

  “The Unsung wouldn’t spit on Kahless if he was on fire. The Klingons in the Empire may be big fans, but the only thing these people know is that he’s a clone and that he rules the people who made their lives miserable.”

  Korgh frowned. He hated to admit it, but that made sense.

  “Oh, and I was able to do some ad-libbing thanks to all the records you sent. Once I knew Worf was here, we ran a check and found there was a Worf back in Kruge’s time—he actually litigated Kirk’s trial, if you can believe that. It made for a great line to be able to pull out against Worf earlier.”

  “Fine. You’ve made your show of Worf. Now be done with him. I want him executed.”

  Cross chuckled. “All right, I guess I’ve made my point with him. I’ll send people over after the big broadcast tonight. I’ll have them whipped into a proper froth by then anyway—I’m sure someone will do it.” He winked.

  Korgh simply stared. There was something wrong with Cross, he’d always known: he seemed to look on others as characters in some production, whose deaths were just lines in a script. That had come in handy, but Korgh knew not to trust Cross too far. Korgh had played a role for decades for a good and honorable reason. Cross did his pretending for wealth—and for sport.