Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  It was good to remind him of his responsibilities. “Be sure you are masked in the message you send. The Kruge character is only for the Unsung, to motivate them. People here should simply see the armed force.”

  “Of course. Is everything playing out like you thought?”

  “The Federation has been damaged. Picard has been humiliated. As I expected, he’s quickly picked up on the trail. When you see him—or anyone—you know what to do.”

  “The big finish. Well, you’ll get it.” Cross snapped his fingers and transformed into Kruge. “Thane out.”

  The screen became a mirror again. In it, he saw Odrok looking at the back of his head. “What is it?”

  “Just seeing Kruge again. I know it’s a facsimile—”

  “This again.” He stood up, impatient.

  “It reminds me of how long I have worked for his dream,” she said, looking maudlin as she walked around her room. “When can I come out of the shadows?”

  “When the job is finished. Have you double-checked the self-destruct systems on the relay satellites?”

  Odrok sighed. “I did earlier.”

  “Check them again,” he said from the doorway. “I have to be in the Great Hall when ‘Kruge’ sends his message to the galaxy. If you want to talk about the future, it starts after that.”

  Her arms sagged. “Yes, my lord.”

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  THANE

  Shift looked back through the doorway at Kahless, snoozing in the chair. “I guess we’d better get him ready to go.”

  In his guise as Kruge, Cross nodded. He walked into the study, where Kahless was snoring.

  “Seems a real shame,” he said. His voice sounded like Old Kruge now, thanks to Blackstone’s projections. “What I’ve done with this bunch of castaway crackpots here, he’s done with the whole Klingon race. He’s made the Big Sale. That’s the mark of a true artist.”

  He studied the emperor for a few long moments. Then he said, “Blackstone control ship, are you reading me?”

  “Always,” came a voice from nowhere and everywhere.

  “I’m coming up in thirty seconds to discuss some ideas.” He reentered the control room and kissed the back of Shift’s neck. “Transform into N’Keera and have Valandris take him to Chu’charq.”

  “Will do.”

  “And look around for my playing cards, will you? You’d think after a year working in this hole I’d know where I put things.”

  Fifty-four

  “You! Nelkor!”

  Lit by nebular light, the young guard across the animal pen turned. Worf stood outside the kennel, arms outstretched, and called out again. “There is something you should see.”

  “Go back inside,” Nelkor snapped.

  “It is the old man. The one you had chained up in the back.”

  “Potok? I’d forgotten he was there.” Nelkor peered at Worf. “What do mean, ‘had chained’?”

  “He is gone, escaped.”

  “What? That’s impossible.”

  “Think what you want. I thought you would care.” Worf turned and started to go back inside. It was a risk. He disliked deception—especially given the Unsung’s reliance upon it. But simply saying that Potok was sick, which was certainly true, likely would not have gotten the guard’s interest.

  Evidently the young guard thought Worf’s story was possible, because after a few moments he put on his helmet and touched a control on his wrist. Nelkor entered the pen, disruptor rifle pointed ahead of him. “I can see better in the dark than you can in this, so don’t get any ideas.” Approaching, he pointed. “Stay five meters ahead of me.”

  “As you wish.” Worf did exactly that as he walked into the darkness of the kennel. It meant that he was well ahead of the inside of the entrance when he reached and pulled a long chain, unloosing a mountain of feed pellets from the tank suspended overhead. Worf had turned the sluice so that rather than directing its contents into the various animal pens, it dumped everything at once onto Nelkor. The surprised guard stumbled under the sudden weight—and Worf charged him, kicking the rifle from his hands. Another kick put him on the ground.

  The rain of nuggets half-buried the sentry within moments. Worf quickly removed Nelkor’s helmet, eliminating his chance to transmit a distress signal. Five seconds later, he had the warrior’s disruptor in his hands.

  “Dust yourself off,” Worf said, delighted to be armed again. “Remove your gear. I need it clean.”

  After some encouragement, Nelkor’s gear was in a pile in the middle of the pen. Worf marched his grumbling prisoner toward the back stall, where he expected he could use some of the same shackles Potok had once worn to restrain Nelkor. They were there, but something else wasn’t.

  Potok really was gone.

  “You weren’t lying,” Nelkor said. “Did you release him?”

  “Yes—but he was sleeping here when I looked just a few minutes ago.” Worf was puzzled. He hadn’t seen anyone leaving, and Potok was barely able to walk as it was. “Did your people transport him out when I wasn’t looking?”

  “Why would we do that?” Nelkor seemed genuinely surprised.

  Worf didn’t have time to question further. He pushed the guard onto the ground and set to work chaining him up. “I will not hang you, as you did Potok. But if you make a sound while I am in earshot, I will do worse than that.”

  This time, the young guard looked at Worf as if he were telling the truth. And he was.

  • • •

  Just over a century after Commander Kruge ordered the creation of the Phantom Wing, another “Kruge” walked the decks of its flagship. After a quick conference with his technicians aboard Blackstone in orbit, Cross, in his Kruge guise, had moved his base of operations to Chu’charq, the bird-of-prey sitting at the vanguard of the parked squadron.

  Naturally, the Unsung had given him the run of the place; he had claimed the office behind the bridge on deck five as his private study. Seated at the desk, he toggled the door open to admit his new arrivals. First came Shift, looking inspirational in her full priestly regalia as N’Keera. Then, in accordance with his orders, Valandris and her fellow warriors brought the limp form of Kahless from the Fallen Lord’s home into the room. “Leave him on the couch,” he instructed. They did so and left to wait in the mess hall.

  “They’re getting excited outside,” Shift said once the door was shut.

  “I’m excited too,” Cross said. He turned the screen on his desk so she could see what he’d been working on. “You like it?”

  She was impressed. “They worked that up fast.” She glanced back at the snoring Kahless. “How do we play this?”

  “Go out and tell the Unsung I want everyone carrying ­ceremonial—oh, you know, those spear things.”

  Shift smiled at him. “Some Klingon demigod you are.”

  “It’s been a long year. But it’s about to be over.”

  • • •

  Wearing the guard’s gear and helmet, Worf worked his way through the network of tents and huts. It was easy: every place he passed was either abandoned or clearing out. Everyone, young and old, was heading for the Hill of the Dead for the midnight muster and the recording of the Fallen Lord’s message.

  Seeing the way into one of the ancient freighters clear, he dashed inside. Much of the ship was a shambles, having been used as living space for a century; he was glad that inside the helmet he couldn’t smell the place. A trip to the bridge was fruitless. While the equipment appeared marginally functional, command codes were necessary to activate the ship and its comm system.

  On impulse, he detoured back into the hold, wondering if he might find someone who knew the code. The cargo area was unoccupied—but not empty. He saw row after row of munitions: photon torpedoes with their propulsion systems detached. All were linked with some kind of cabling, which also co
nnected to several transceivers.

  It only added to the series of mysteries. Where did the Unsung get all this—and why have they wired part of their home to explode?

  Fearful the freighter was booby-trapped, Worf headed back outside, delighted to get away from the place. He immediately found himself before several similarly dressed Unsung warriors.

  “Put that rifle down,” one of them barked.

  Worf was ready to defend himself—when he realized none of the other warriors were carrying disruptors. One of them opened a locker and began distributing long pole weapons. He looked to Worf. “What are you waiting for? Lord Kruge wants us to have akrat’ka at the muster.”

  Reluctantly, Worf set his rifle on the ground and took the weapon. The akrat’ka looked like a painstik with a sharp, ­jagged-edged bayonet where the prod should be. He was relieved, at least, that the others didn’t know who he was: he could tell from the sensor readouts in his helmet that the gear was working to baffle life signs and all other information about its wearer.

  The Unsung’s penchant for anonymity had become his ally, but only for the moment. Heading with the others toward the muster, he knew his one chance to slip an addendum onto the Fallen Lord’s message depended on his looking unlike anyone else present.

  He could feel the differentiating factor safe in its hiding place in his boot. It was beyond a long shot, as gambits went. But the Fallen Lord had promised an audience of billions. Worf was willing to bet that included one person in particular.

  Fifty-five

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  EN ROUTE TO THE BRIAR PATCH

  Stellar cartography had been La Forge’s second home since Enterprise began its trip to the Briar Patch. The starship had scanned for any hint of the Phantom Wing both while in warp and during periodic slowdowns—and while the engineer could have looked in on the progress from anywhere, he found the room with its holographic depiction of the cosmos the best vantage point. Having a visual representation of what was on all sides of the vessel helped give context to the impossibly large variety of emissions the ship was tracking.

  But even with that assistance, it seemed impossible to narrow down the possible signals for study. Lord Korgh had certainly helped matters by revealing what sorts of ships they were searching for, but a rogue force that had a hundred years to prepare had plenty of time for modifications. La Forge had told his team to assume the Phantom Wing ships were a completely new class when it came to searching for their cloaking devices.

  He was about to give up for the night when the door opened behind him. “Hi, Aneta. Back again?”

  “I was going to say, ‘Still here?’ ” The security chief walked to the railing near where he was sitting.

  She had visited the room often, though they had seldom talked much during those times. The two of them had been in the same boat since Gamaral, with both their departments working double shifts in the hopes of redemption. It had been all they could do to prevent it from becoming a competition. When verbal javelins were coming at him from the Klingon High Council, the last thing the captain needed was finger-pointing within his own crew.

  La Forge stretched, barely suppressing a yawn. “I’m just hoping we’re going the right direction.”

  “We follow the intel,” Šmrhová said. “It’s all we’ve—”

  A chime interrupted her, while in the void above and to her left, a white marker appeared.

  “Something’s happening,” La Forge said, working the interface to bring up the magnification.

  “What is it?”

  “There’s a strong subspace signal emanating from a location in neutral space on the outskirts of the Xarantine sector. There shouldn’t be anything there.”

  “Signal? What kind of signal?”

  “It’s a powerful transmission. Vid. No audio.” La Forge looked up. “Computer, project incoming image from the isolated grid point.”

  “Projecting image.”

  Stark golden lettering appeared against a black background. Two lines, one in Klingon and the other in Standard, both said the same thing:

  STAND BY.

  La Forge touched his combadge without thinking. “La Forge to Picard.”

  “Yes, Commander?”

  “I think someone’s about to tell us something.” And they want to make damned good and sure we hear it . . .

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  THANE

  Worf had found it very difficult to slip away from the other warriors marching toward the clearing at the foot of the Hill of the Dead. But once there, he’d found it wasn’t that hard to go unnoticed. So many armored members of the Unsung were there, all relentlessly jostling to find their way to the front area facing the rear of the nearest bird-of-prey. Spotlights had been set up, highlighting both it and the throng. Whatever “Kruge” was going to tell the rest of the galaxy, Worf realized, he wouldn’t be showing a disciplined army. The Unsung were more of a horde.

  Maybe that’s the idea.

  In the rear of the group, Worf set down his akrat’ka and pretended to adjust his boot. Removing it, he found what he’d hidden inside and applied the bit of resin he’d found in the kennel to it. He affixed it to his weapon, just below where the blade met the shaft. He put his boot back on and made for the gathering.

  Forcing his way forward took time—time he feared was running out. How long was it until midnight? It was impossible to tell from Thane’s sky—but looking up, he was pleased to see there was no cloud cover. Pushing his way between annoyed warriors, Worf faced the bird-of-prey and prepared himself.

  The younger children were boarding the other birds-of-prey, he saw: taking tours or going someplace? Whichever, it had left only warriors on the ground, two hundred or more, all holding weapons like his. He wondered if Valandris was here, somewhere, in this sea of helmeted heads.

  Probably. He had thought on occasion he was getting through to her. She had seemed strong and decisive, things a Klingon should aspire to. Her potential truncated from the start, her malnourished spirit had looked anywhere and everywhere for guidance. To Potok, who had failed to provide any. For some reason, to Worf. And, critically, to Kruge, or whoever the Fallen Lord really was. He still could not believe that—

  Ahead, the landing ramp of the lead bird-of-prey opened, washing the ground in reddish light. Worf recognized the markings: it was the ship that had brought him to Thane. Chu’charq, Valandris had called it. Two members of the Unsung descended first, each bearing imaging devices. One turned to face the vessel, while another scanned the crowd. It was time. With a glance at the sky, Worf repositioned his lance and turned so he was facing the recording unit.

  If Worf was worried about anyone looking at him, he needn’t have been concerned, for the Fallen Lord emerged next—­wearing black gear like everyone else. He had a helmet under his arm. At the sight, the crowd rumbled with approval.

  The scarred Klingon paused at the foot of the steep ramp and called out. “There are no leaders in this movement. I am one of you. For today, I will appear as you. And we will appear united.”

  Everyone around Worf cheered, fists pumping. He struggled to retain his position.

  “You were condemned for crimes committed before you were born,” the Fallen Lord continued. “Crimes in fact committed by the lowest of the low—raised high by those in power. Dishonor is honor. The Empire is turned upside down. With justice meted out on Gamaral, you have begun to turn it back.”

  Cheering began again—but “Kruge” raised his hand to forestall it. He put on his helmet and turned. “Behold,” he said, his voice amplified by his helmet’s public address system. “Look upon another low thing raised on high by the Empire.” He looked back up into the ship. There, the emperor appeared, naked from the waist up and wrapped in chains. He looked about the assemblage as one in a daze.

  Kahless? Worf broke from his stance. What did
the Fallen Lord intend?

  “He is shy,” the old man said. “Encourage him, Valandris.”

  Another black-clad figure appeared behind Kahless, holding a lance. She prodded his back. He moved down the ramp, foot by leaden foot, barely able to keep his balance on the sharp incline.

  “In the Empire they perform a rite at the Age of Ascension,” the Fallen Lord said. “Today, we will show the Empire that growing up means putting aside childish things—including pretending.”

  He gestured toward the warriors nearest him, who responded by queuing into two parallel rows at the end of the ramp. Others around Worf got the same idea, quickly lining up. He struggled to make his way toward them, but everyone was in motion now.

  Higher on the ramp, Worf saw Valandris stop her slow, prodding advance. Did she know what “Kruge” intended?

  He looked on the weary emperor’s bowed head and stepped clear. “You were born from blood on a knife,” the Fallen Lord said to Kahless. “Feel our blades—and end.”

  “No!” Calling out, Worf forced his body through the crowd like a machine. But there were too many, on either side of Kahless, jabbing him with their weapons. They were not the painstiks of the adulthood ritual. The blades were jagged and cut deep. He heard a mournful cry and could see Kahless no longer.

  • • •

  Cross looked to his right as the Unsung took their bloody turns. There was a commotion—and not simple overexuberance. There was violence, wrestling. He couldn’t allow his scene to be disturbed. Drawing his disruptor from his holster, he took aim at the writhing thing on the ground and fired.

  The body incinerated quickly. He knelt and pulled up a chain attached to a bloody, snapped collar. “Now begins the new day!”

  An Unsung soldier lunged through the crowd, grasping for him. Valandris, who had been under some kind of spell, snapped out of it and rushed downward. The powerful attacker struck Cross in the midsection, knocking him on his armored backside. Valandris threw her body into the attacker—and the scrum was on. Tumbling, Cross saw the same person over and over again: when all of them looked alike, everyone in the mob became the mystery assailant to be attacked, the Fallen Lord to be saved. Looking up, he saw a warrior sailing overhead, thrown by someone. No fighter, Cross rolled over, desperate to protect himself.