Hell's Heart (18 page)

Thirty-three

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

H
YRALAN
S
ECTOR

“T
hat phaser shot did it,” Lieutenant Å mrhová said. “Orion spacecraft's shields are down, Captain.”

Picard ordered, “Transport our away teams.”

“Lieutenant Konya, phasers on heavy stun,” Å mrhová said.
“Deploy!”

Picard glanced at his Czech security chief. The forcefulness of Šmrhová's command contrasted strongly with the extreme care she had taken not to damage the vessel with
Enterprise
's weapons. She'd struck
Dinskaar
with love taps, just enough to disable its shields.

But every security officer aboard
Enterprise
felt personally responsible for chasing down the Gamaral assassins, and none more so than Šmrhová. The Orions had a piece of the puzzle, and they weren't going to give it up willingly. They had to be persuaded.

“All three teams successfully aboard
Dinskaar
, Captain. Decks two, four, and five.”

“Secure all data storage systems.”

“Aye, Captain.”

La Forge was back on Gamaral, working another lead—but the chief engineer had found the clue that had brought them here. Inspecting the massive cargo haulers that had generated some odd readings on their way into the Gamaral system, La Forge had found telltale indentations on their exteriors, corresponding to magnetic landing clamps. Several vessels—the markings did not conclusively reveal what kind—had ridden past the sentry probes while affixed to the cargo containers.

Such a tactic would only have been of use to someone who
knew the haulers' destination. That had led the
Enterprise
to look into Spectacle Specialists, the third-party event arranger that Federation Diplomatic Corps had engaged to build the ceremonial facility. Spectacle's reputation was peerless; no one shady would have gotten the assignment. But when an inventory revealed that one of the firm's padds was missing, an
Enterprise
forensic specialist had discovered something Spectacle had not: evidence of a burglary by a local criminal on Hyralan.

That lead had been a breakthrough—but it also led to problems with Picard's partners in the investigation, the Klingons. Justice was a hammer to a Klingon; Federation justice a scalpel. An old aphorism, it was proving truer by the minute. Additional Klingon teams had joined the investigators left behind by General Lorath, all looking into what was now popularly known as the Gamaral Massacre. Ostensibly the Klingons had the same goals as the Federation: finding the assassins and rescuing their emperor.

But more than once, in the last couple of days, overzealous warriors had either damaged what might have been valuable ­evidence—or introduced delays in the acquisition of further leads.
Enterprise
would've found
Dinskaar
earlier had the Kling­­ons, discovering the burglar who'd sold the padd to the Orions, not caved in his skull trying to convince him to talk.

Picard wasn't about to do anything that would cut the Kling­­ons out. This was but one of the prices of alliance. The captain was equally concerned that no similar mistakes come from
Enterprise
's team. Admiral Akaar hadn't hesitated to grant the starship a lead role in the investigation; it was on scene already and had the most information. The admiral knew that the crew had something to prove. Therein lay the danger. It was up to Picard to make sure that the reasonable urgency his officers felt didn't carry them—and their chances to find Kahless and Worf—away.

“Receiving data from Team Konya,” Å mrhová reported.

“On screen.”

Picard saw the darkened corridors of
Dinskaar
, lit every other second by blasts of disruptor fire. “Lieutenant, did the lights fail or did we knock them out?”

“Neither, sir. I suspect it's a delaying tactic.”

Picard didn't like it.
Enterprise
had superior numbers; he had no doubt it would eventually overwhelm the Orions. But a pirate who was stunned wouldn't be able to talk for some time—and those minutes could be costly.

“Intensify our scans,” he said. “Use our teams' scans to corroborate. Start pinpointing Orion counterattackers and beam them directly to our brig. Disable any weapons in transit.”

“Aye, sir.” Å mrhová began making the orders.

“Hail incoming,” Glinn Dygan said. “Captain, DS9 finally got through to the Hunter homeworld.”

“I'll take it in my ready room,” Picard said, rising. He was reluctant to leave the raid raging on the main viewscreen—especially now, with his ship about to accept prisoners. But multitasking had been the order of the past few days. And while subspace calls to the Gamma Quadrant had been made possible again since the repair of the cross-wormhole subspace array, the Hunters hadn't responded before now.

The male face on screen in his ready room had olive-colored skin, with dark hair topping his distinctive cranial ridges. The green-eyed Hunter wore a dour expression, which changed only a little when Picard sat down.
“Captain Picard? I am Joden, high warden of my people.”

“I am grateful to you for responding. I realize there are few official contacts between our peoples as yet—”

“And this is unlikely to change. In our first contact with the Federation, one of your officers interfered with a hunt.”

Picard knew the story. Years earlier on the old Deep Space 9, Hunters had pursued a Tosk, a bipedal sentient bred to be hunted for sport, through the Bajoran wormhole. Miles O'Brien had helped the Tosk escape, starting off diplomatic relations with some enmity. “I understand our past ­differences—but I
was hopeful you could help us now. Did you have a chance to look at the materials our Federation envoy-at-large sent?”

“I did. I didn't respond to her. And had you not kept calling, I wasn't going to respond to you.”
The Hunter frowned.
“Frankly, I found your queries insulting. We did not trade our technology with anyone, Captain Picard—and certainly not the people who attacked you.”

“I appreciate that, Warden. However, the method used to board our ships has hallmarks of not one, but two Hunter technologies.”

“I saw the data you sent. The resemblance to our practices is uncanny—but it is also a coincidence. Our focus is entirely on our sport.”

Picard thought for a moment. Joden's denial squared with Starfleet Intelligence's assessment of his people. No Hunters had been known to stalk other species for pay or political gain—and since the Deep Space 9 incident, their Tosk-­hunting activities in the Alpha and Beta Quadrants had been practically nonexistent.

But the assassins' technology had to have come from somewhere.

“I apologize, sir,” Picard said, “but I do not know much about your homeworld. Do you have any visitors from outside?”

“Rarely. Nothing spoils a good hunt like having to stop and entertain.”
Joden paused, and his expression softened.
“I do remember there was a group of Klingons who visited us six months ago. T
hey stayed for several weeks.”

“Klingons? In the Gamma Quadrant?” It was a connection worth exploring. “Were they engineers? Or perhaps a trade delegation?”

“They were hunters, on safari. We had heard of the Klingons' reputation, so when they asked to join our hunt, we agreed. They were quite good. They killed several fine Tosks.”

“What do you remember of them?”

“There were four of them. Three younger ones, along with an older woman—much older. She did not go into the field with them, preferring to stay in our compound. I suspect she prepared their meals or something. I can find the names from the licenses we issued.”

“I appreciate that,” Picard said. “Is it possible that these visitors might have stolen your technology?”

The Hunter looked as if he had never considered the possibility before.
“I suppose it could have happened. We only preserve our secrets against the Tosks, Captain—to maintain our competitive advantage. Hunting parties protect their gear from others for the same reason.”

“But the Klingons would have had access to it?”

“For quite some time, yes. Particularly the older female who was alone in the compound.”
The Hunter shook his head.
“But theft? That would be crude behavior, if it happened. If you see them, tell them I said so.”

“Did they return through the wormhole?”

“So far as we know. Is that all, Picard?”

“I apologize, sir, but I have one more question. You said you had an official record of them. Do you have any imagery of these Klingons?”

“I doubt it. We don't watch ourselves—we watch the Tosks.”
Joden paused for a moment, and a trace of a smile crossed his face.
“Are
you
on a hunt, Captain?”

“Of a kind.”

“
There is nothing better in life. May you soon hear the footsteps of your prey.”

“Thank you, Warden. I appreciate your help.”

The transmission ended, and the Federation emblem replaced the image on screen. Picard sat back and took a breath—and regarded the teacup on his desk, long since cold. Before he could touch it, his combadge chirped.

“Å mrhová to Captain Picard.”

“Go ahead.”

“I'm in the brig on deck five with our first prisoners. They're ready to negotiate.”

“I'm on my way. Have Glinn Dygan send a message to our Klingon counterparts—and to Admiral Riker on Qo'noS.”

“Affirmative.”

Picard rose, leaving the desk and drink behind. He didn't know if he was hearing the prey's footsteps. But the captain suspected he was about to hear something.

Thirty-four

K
LINGON
H
IGH
C
OUNCIL

Q
O
'
NO
S

“I
bring word from the Federation,” Admiral Riker shouted. “And a pledge.”

He had made the announcement the second he had entered the shadowy chamber, without regard to protocol. It was highly irregular for an outsider to be allowed before the Klingon High Council, much less to address it; bursting in and speaking out of turn was almost certainly forbidden.

And, Riker thought, it was absolutely the right thing to do.

“We have caught the trail of the cowards who struck at Gamaral,” he said. Stopping just before the huge Klingon emblem on the floor, he was well aware of the angry glares from the two semicircles of councillors who had turned to face him. Riker looked from one to the next without a hint of fear as he spoke. “The assassins showed no respect for Federation territory—and less for Klingon ritual. Now we will show
them
something. A sky filled with starships bringing justice—and a message:
You have made the worst mistake of your lives.
”

For a long moment there was only silence, and Riker wondered if
he
had made the mistake, violating tradition and ritual. But then several councillors raised their fists to the sky and gave shouts of angry affirmation, and the rest soon followed. Glancing ahead, Riker saw Martok. Formerly the commander of the Ninth Fleet, the one-eyed Klingon now led all the Empire's forces as chancellor. Seated on his throne and flanked by two of his senior advisors, the black-haired Martok nodded gently in approval of the tactic.

“Admiral Riker speaks the truth,” Martok said. “I am aware of the investigation's progress because the Federation has given
our forces complete access.” He pounded his fist on his armrest. “We will find the emperor and deliver these criminals to the gates of Gre'thor . . .
together
!”

More cheers. Riker gave a Klingon salute and retreated, never turning his back to the assembled councillors. Columns created several alcoves near the rear of the chamber; he found Alexander Rozhenko, the Federation's ambassador, in one near the entrance.

“You win,” Alexander whispered to him as the whoops continued. “That worked.”

“Maybe.” The young ambassador, already concerned over his father's abduction, had been worried about how Riker's tactic would be perceived. The admiral knew he had no choice. It was the first council meeting following the massacre, and everyone knew Riker was present on Qo'noS. He knew the Klingons wouldn't respect his ducking an appearance.

Neither, he suspected, would they want to see the representative of a valued ally fall on his sword. Riker had to take the weapon in hand and hold it high—and he had. It was political posturing, yes, but then, so was the response he'd just received. The cheers he'd gotten were shows of support for the alliance with the Federation—and implicitly, for Martok, its greatest supporter. They were certainly not for anything to do with Gamaral and its aftermath. Five of the councillors present had already raised hell with him, as had a significant number of random passersby on the streets of the capital. A house had been decapitated, the emperor kidnapped. Faith in the Federation and the Khitomer Accords was bound to suffer.

So far, at least, the critics were speaking privately rather than in the mass media. Martok had managed that. The chancellor was already squeezing all the major families behind the scenes, making sure none of their houses had anything to do with the assassinations; he'd also discouraged scapegoating. Riker and the Federation had never asked for anyone to be silenced, but the chancellor saw things differently. His close
ties with the Federation were certainly in no danger, but the H'atorian Conference, which Martok had supported, might be in trouble.

That didn't surprise Riker in the least. The House of Kruge managed the Klingon territories the proposed free-flight corridor was expected to run past. Could the empire really bargain away rights when the masters of that house had just been assassinated?

For now, it appeared that the event was still on. “They addressed the matter of the conference before you came in,” Alexander whispered. “Some grumbling and a joke.”

“What joke?”

“They're glad that
they'll
be running security at H'atoria and not us.”

Ouch
. Picard and Starfleet had better find the hostages and abductors quickly.

Martok moved to new business. “We have a duty to avenge the House of Kruge. But we must also grapple with its future status. Those who lived on the house's worlds must be secure. There can be no power vacuum on the frontier.”

Alexander nudged Riker. “I don't know if we ought to stay for this.”

The admiral nodded. “They're about to wheel and deal.” With Alexander in tow, Riker turned toward the chamber doors, preparing to leave—

—when a group of Klingons barged in, nearly knocking the pair aside. Wearing uniforms of the Defense Force, the newcomers were escorting someone.

As the second intrusion in less than ten minutes, Martok took this one more seriously. “What's going on here?” His guards stepped forward, their disruptors drawn—only to hold back when they recognized the figure at the center of the crowd. Riker could not see who it was, but the assembled councillors could. Cries rose up. “
Galdor! Galdor!
”

Riker had never met the
gin'tak
of the House of Kruge, but
he imagined a blood-stained black robe wasn't his normal attire for appearances before the High Council. The old man also held a
mek'leth
, which again didn't strike the admiral as normal for this setting.

Martok didn't seem to think so either. “Why the weapon, Galdor? You're too late to save your masters.”

“I did what I could,” Galdor said, winded from his rush inside. “And I apologize to this council for the manner of my entry.” He nodded to one of his escorts. “Many of you already know my son General Lorath. He and his officers were tasked with getting me here as quickly as possible.”

Galdor turned and put his hand on his son's shoulder. “Your people may go. But you may wish to stay and listen.”

General Lorath turned to the chancellor and saluted. Then, as his officers filed out, he withdrew to the rear of the chamber, finding a spot across the entryway opposite Riker. The look he gave the admiral crossed all lingual and cultural barriers.

Ahead, Martok's eyes were still on Galdor's
mek'leth
—but now he seemed to recognize it. “Is that—?”

“The weapon inscribed with the names of my masters? It is.” Galdor held the
mek'leth
up in the light, so all the councillors could see. “What is about to happen here involves the house they served. It is right we should think of them now, before I have my say. Because the truths I am about to speak will change the future of the Empire.”

Riker shot Alexander a meaningful glance.
Maybe we'd better stick around.