Hell's Heart

by John Jackson Miller

  He was on his hands and knees in the dirt when the madness subsided a little. Unsung warriors who had been in the pile now left, all running up Chu’charq’s ramp. A warrior reached for him. “Lord Kruge, is that you?”

  “Of course it is,” he said, flustered. “Who are you? Who was that?”

  His rescuer removed her helmet, and he saw that it was Valandris. “It could have been Worf, my lord. He escaped into the ship.”

  Cross could barely remember to speak in character. “Execute him!”

  She paused for a moment before disappearing up the ramp.

  He was incensed; his show had been crashed. He heard a voice in his helmet comm. It was Gaw, the leader of his Blackstone team in orbit. “Cross, are you all right?”

  “Forget about me. Did you get the imagery from the recorders here?”

  “That’s affirmative.”

  “Can you edit the riot out and use the rest?”

  “We’re on it.”

  All was not lost. “Send it as soon as it’s ready—with the message.”

  “Don’t you want to see it first?”

  “We’ve got someone to kill down here,” Cross said. “Someone else, that is.”

  Fifty-six

  FEDERATION CONSULATE

  QO’NOS

  Riker reached a diplomatic staffer’s desk just in time to see the transmission from the start. Enterprise had alerted him immediately, and the admiral had broken off his conference with the Federation’s negotiating team to find a spot in front of a screen.

  The “stand by” message disappeared, replaced with a soundless visual. A teeming throng of warriors, dressed as the assassins from Gamaral, stood with long weapons in their hands. Some stood in shadows, others in bright light as the camera tracked past. Words appeared in Klingon and Standard at the bottom of the screen:

  WE ARE THOSE YOU WILL NOT FACE. WE ARE THOSE WHOSE DEEDS GO UNSUNG.

  Riker tried to focus on the individual warriors. There were so many, gathered like a horde of ancient barbarians before an attack. Eyes locked on the screen, he tapped his combadge. “Mister Ambassador, there’s something you ought to see . . .”

  THE GREAT HALL

  QO’NOS

  The ambassador was already watching it. Rozhenko had been invited into the councillors’ retreat, a location off the main chamber where the Klingons practiced their version of cloakroom politicking. Lord Korgh had been holding court there for the better part of an hour. Korgh had been open with everyone about the origin of the Phantom Wing; now he was recounting how General Potok and his discommendated companions and descendants were on a vendetta to destroy his house. He’d found a sympathetic audience; most were as outraged as he was.

  But when the councillors’ aides put the message up on the viewscreen, the room fell silent. The Klingons gawked at the size of the force as the captions changed:

  KLINGON HONOR IS A FRAUD. THE SO-CALLED NOBLES OF THE HOUSE OF KRUGE WORE HONOR LIKE A COSTUME BOUGHT AT A BAZAAR.

  “Those are the assassins,” someone said. “Korgh was right!”

  KLINGON COURAGE IS A CHARADE. THE HIGH COUNCILLORS AWARD TITLES TO OLD COWARDS WHO NEVER FOUGHT FOR THEIR CLAIMS.

  “They mean me,” Korgh said emotionlessly. He did not wait to see more. “I must go to the council floor.”

  “What?” asked the ambassador. “Council isn’t in session.”

  “It is now,” Korgh called out. He was already on his way.

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  XARANTINE SECTOR

  Picard had endured terrible things in his career, from horrors with the Borg to Cardassian torture. But when a figure appeared on the bridge viewscreen in chains and being prodded down the ramp of a bird-of-prey, he steeled himself. Here, as Enterprise raced toward the source of the message, the captain knew he was about to see something just as ­terrible.

  KLINGON TRUTH IS A SHAM. THE PEOPLE KNOWINGLY ACCEPT A COUNTERFEIT KAHLESS AS THEIR MORAL LEADER.

  Silence made it all the more eerie as the image of the prisoner held for a moment before closing in. Nearby, he heard several officers gasp. It was the face of Kahless. Weary and ­battered—but also serene, resigned.

  Elsewhere on Enterprise—and, Picard was certain, in the Klingon Empire and everywhere else—people were studying the images, looking for any possibility of forgery. But the face, and the nobility in that face, could belong to no other. It was unmistakably the emperor.

  DISEASE IS TAKING THE BODY. LIMBS MUST BE SEVERED. THE SURGEON WEARS A MASK. THE UNSUNG ARE THE KNIFE.

  Picard winced as the first lance pierced Kahless’s skin. And then another, and another. He could hear the tumult the sequence was causing around him on the bridge, but he forced himself to continue watching, as regicide continued, in slow-motion.

  THE OPERATION WILL BE PAINFUL. WE MUST PUNISH THE EMPIRE. WE MUST PUNISH THOSE FOOLISH ENOUGH TO ALLY WITH IT. WE MUST PUNISH ANY WHO SEEK TO BARGAIN WITH IT.

  If Kahless was not already dead, the shot from the lead warrior’s disruptor ended his agony. The scene shifted to show not just the single bird-of-prey, but all twelve ships of the Phantom Wing parked in a compound surrounding a large hill. The full scale of the force was now apparent.

  WE ARE THE CHILDREN OF THE TRUE KAHLESS. WE ARE THE VOR’UV’ETLH WHO WILL NOT FALL. WE ARE THE UNSUNG.

  YOU WILL NOT FIND US. WE WILL FIND YOU.

  The viewscreen went black—and the original message re­appeared. Picard read it in a solemn whisper. “Stand by.”

  THE GREAT HALL

  QO’NOS

  Martok was reportedly on his way to the council chambers; Korgh had already been speaking for minutes. It was not unprecedented for councillors to gather in the absence of the chancellor, particularly when an emergency threatened the Empire—but it was unusual for a single councillor, especially the most junior, to have the attention of the hall.

  The message had been repeated into the chamber, and it had given Korgh more to talk about.

  “You saw their numbers. Read their threats. Killing Kruge’s cousins was not enough. They fashion themselves as the new vor’uv’etlh. A cult of self-appointed judges and executioners out to cleanse the regime!”

  Korgh could not remember the last time anyone had mentioned the vor’uv’etlh in the Great Hall. If the topic was not taboo, it was certainly not the appropriate place: members from that sect had invaded the chamber and died there. But the message Cross had produced had invoked them first, and their name united the councillors like nothing else.

  “And now Kahless is dead—no thanks to the Federation who lost him. I demand—”

  “Demand what?” a booming voice replied. Martok strode into the chamber, taking his seat. “Who are you to make demands?”

  Korgh turned, unafraid. “I was demanding action of all Kling­ons, Chancellor. We must act before these so-called Unsung can. Crush the life out of this resistance—before all the discommendated curs in the Empire decide they, too, should rise against us.”

  “We will do exactly that. We are tracing the message to its source,” Martok said. “It appears Enterprise will get there first.”

  “Ah.” Korgh turned back to the rest of the councillors, smirking. “I’m sure we all find that quite reassuring.”

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE-E

  XARANTINE SECTOR

  Enterprise was barely out of warp when a tiny flash appeared on the bridge viewscreen.

  “The transmitting station,” La Forge said from the engineering post. “It’s just blown up.”

  “What?” Picard looked to his right. “How?”

  “Self-destructed. We’re the only ship in the sector.”

  Picard frowned. “A proximity sensor? Did we set it off by arriving?”

  “Seems so. But I think it was just a repeater,” La Forge said, continuing to check his interface. �
�It was receiving the stand-by signal from somewhere else. Now that we’re here, I know where it came from.”

  FEDERATION CONSULATE

  QO’NOS

  Riker sat back, stunned. There was no mistaking the message and its import. He was in a nightmare, comparable to that which had transpired when Chancellor Gorkon had been murdered. At least there were no Federation fingerprints on the apparent execution of Kahless. But Starfleet was responsible for Kahless being in danger.

  And this murder had been broadcast to the whole Klingon Empire—and anyone else who had picked it up.

  He ran back his recording of the message. It wasn’t broadcast live, Riker noticed—nor with sound. The former didn’t surprise him; the image seemed crisp and managed, designed for maximum intimidation. The silence was strange.

  And so was something in the crowd.

  The admiral hailed his flagship, which had been pa­­tiently waiting for him in orbit. “Titan. This is ­Commander

  Tuvok.”

  “Just the person I wanted to talk to. You have it?”

  “We are analyzing it now.”

  There wasn’t any need to define what “it” was: Titan had seen the broadcast, and he knew Tuvok, a former intelligence officer, would have been all over the message by now. “I want you to take an enhanced look at the warriors. Right at the beginning, when they’re panning across.” Riker shook his head in disbelief as he thought about what he was about to suggest. “I think I’m seeing things . . .”

  Fifty-seven

  UNSUNG COMPOUND

  THANE

  Worf’s boots tramped noisily on the deck plating as he ran. Darting into Chu’charq after losing his weapon in the scuffle had been a decision made on impulse; he stood no chance against the multitude. He had no desire to sacrifice himself, not when he had a chance to warn others of the Unsung.

  It had been the right choice. As near as he could tell, every member of the Unsung who could wear armor and carry an akrat’ka had been on the surface as part of the muster. He’d only seen a few Klingons during his mad dash through the bird-of-prey; children and elders, they’d simply gotten out of his way, assuming he was supposed to be there. They only realized he wasn’t when his pursuers entered, shouting; but they were armed only with lances, unable to fire at him.

  That couldn’t last. If there was one thing birds-of-prey had plenty of, it was weapons lockers. Seeing one up ahead on deck five, Worf tried the door. Locked. He kept ­running—only to collide with an armored warrior exiting the mess hall. Worf punched hard, smashing the shorter Klingon against the access way. A second shove sent his opponent hurtling backward into the hall. There were ­others inside, he saw—having cut through the room in search of him. Worf quickly cycled the door shut and continued running forward.

  The long central corridor lay ahead, spanning the neck of the bird-of-prey on the way to the bridge. He wasn’t going to be able to launch Chu’charq on his own—much less with a mob in pursuit. But he might have time to use its comm to send a ­message—hopefully, something a lot better than what he had tried to do outside. That had been a ridiculous, futile effort. Worf could only hope that Chu’charq’s bridge crew had attended the muster.

  Entering the bulbous bow of the spacecraft, he saw small transporter rooms to either side of the hallway. There was no sense even trying; he’d tried the transporters a deck below and found them pass-code protected. He skidded to a halt just before the door of the bridge—and found it, too, locked against entry.

  There were voices inside: high-pitched. More children, he supposed. But if they had sealed the door behind them, then they likely had seen it as a place of refuge against their intruder. They had been warned about him. Worf backed away from the door warily. By entering the central corridor, he had trapped himself. At any moment, one of the other ships could beam armed personnel to the bridge. That would be the end of it.

  He turned back up the hall heading aft. Another weapons locker; another door sealed tight. Worf could hear the distant approach of yelling warriors, nearing the end of their chase. He stood firm, gathering his strength and resolve, ready for the final fight.

  “Death . . . before . . . chains . . .”

  The words did not come from up ahead—but rather, behind him somewhere. From the weapons storage area, or maybe the office behind the bridge? It sounded less like a war cry than an anguished, drunken wail. “Death before chains” was the Eighth Precept of Kahless the Unforgettable—but somehow, something in that voice sounded like the other Kahless. His friend, now the martyr.

  Ignoring the approach of his enemies, he looked around, hoping to hear the voice again. He did not. But as his eyes darted about, they lit on something he hadn’t considered before: the door to a chute, only to be used in absolute last resort, when it was better for a Klingon to live to fight another day.

  He tried it. This door was unlocked.

  • • •

  Outside, Cross didn’t want to set foot on Chu’charq until Worf was captured or killed. As Kruge, he bellowed angrily, “I want answers!”

  Valandris ran toward him. “My lord,” she said, breathless, “we found Worf’s guard bound in the kennel.”

  “So it was Worf.” Cross waited for her to catch her breath. “What else?”

  She held out her hand. “I found this thing in the dirt near the entrance. We don’t know what it is.”

  “My cards!” Cross said, breaking character for an instant. He snatched the pack away from her. What was Worf doing with these?

  And now—quite by coincidence—he lifted his eyes from the pack and saw a single card on the ground, trampled and dirty near a fallen akrat’ka. He knelt beside it. Cross saw some kind of gummy material was on the back of the card. He leaned down and reached for it—

  —and was bowled over by a sonic blast. Something travelling at high speed and low elevation rocketed over his head; it felt like someone had fired artillery at him. Valandris dove toward him, covering his body.

  When he rolled over, he saw a blazing contrail tracing back to the neck of Chu’charq. Turning his head to follow it, Cross saw an escape pod hurtling outward at extreme speed. An unguided missile, it had clipped the eave of his hut and soared over the Hill of the Dead, out of sight.

  Valandris realized what had happened first. “That was Worf!”

  You think so? Cross thought. This time, he didn’t have to fake the rage he often spoke with as Kruge. “After him!”

  • • •

  It was not the Klingon way to run from conflict; escape pods only existed for use in the event of a malfunction or when the survival of warriors served a greater tactical good. Bird-of-prey pods tended to be of high quality, able to survive reentry onto a variety of planets.

  But as Worf had quickly found after overriding the safety mechanism, they were not designed to be launched while their parent vessels were parked.

  In populated areas.

  Surrounded by jungles and swamp inside a crater.

  Worf did not see what building the pod smashed through; it was rotating so violently he couldn’t see much of anything through the forward ports. He felt the collision, however—and his armored form was jolted again, when the green pod caromed off the surface and went skyward once more.

  The near-impervious construction of the passenger hold kept him alive, but the second impact meant the end for the pod’s attitude control system. Worf held on to his restraints with all his might as the lifeboat spiraled. The interface before him reported a confused stream of telemetry data: high speed, but not much elevation. The series of jolts that followed was different: the capsule seemed to be skimming off something soft. With a last, lazy twirl, the escape pod buried itself in blackness.

  Brackish liquid oozed against the port. The vessel had landed in a swamp, Worf realized. As bad as that was, the fact that secondary thrusters had finally decided
to light was worse. The force of their impulse drove the pod down, threatening to bury it at the bottom of the ooze.

  It would have, had the escape pod not struck something massive in the guck. It changed the pod’s orientation, directing the sputtering engine’s thrust downward. It was enough to reach the surface—but not enough to free it from the slough.

  Worf wasn’t going to wait to see where it went next. Unstrapping himself, he fired the explosive bolts that held the hatch shut. As the door disappeared into the dark, the recoil from its expulsion sent the pod spinning and bobbing. Water gushed in from outside.

  Seeing it, Worf thought about removing his helmet. He reconsidered, remembering that the Unsung gear hid his life signs from any pursuers—and there were certain to be some nearby soon. Worf knew the pod had a subspace transponder that had gone live the second he exited Chu’charq.

  He also knew it had been designed to be removed in case of emergency. He fumbled for and found the latch that locked the device to the control systems. It removed cleanly—and as he pulled it off its supports, he saw the half-meter-wide device had straps tucked beneath so that it could be carried on someone’s back. Throwing one of the straps over his shoulder, he tried to stand—and immediately was knocked back down as the pod rocked crazily.

  It is sinking again, Worf realized. The thruster had finally died—but it was more than the weight of the incoming deluge carrying it downward. Clambering onto the acceleration chair with the transmitter on his back, Worf reached for the opening above. He pulled free from the pod and splashed into the warm quagmire—where the weight of the armor and the transmitter nearly took him under. Having either was surely a mistake, but it was too late to do anything. He had to stay afloat.