Hell's Heart (28 page)

Fifty-three

T
HE
O
LD
Q
UARTER

Q
O
'
NO
S

“W
ho 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.

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.”

U
NSUNG
C
OMPOUND

T
HANE

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

“Y
ou! 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 connected 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.