Hell's Heart (23 page)

Forty-three

N
EAR
M
OUNT
Q
EL
'
PEC

G
AMARAL

W
hen Jean-Luc Picard had first beheld Mount Qel'pec, all Gamaral was at peace—or so he'd thought. Visible from the Circle of Triumph, it had added a natural, undisturbed majesty to the setting.

The captain hadn't known that the mountain had already been disturbed. Now anyone could tell, thanks to the efforts of La Forge and a swiftly dispatched Starfleet Corps of Engineers team. A deep maw gaped halfway up the mountain's height, with machinery stationed outside on recently leveled staging areas.

There was no way to inspect the inside of the cave; the interior was a rubble pile. The Corps had been edging inward, hoping to get better readings so their industrial transporters could get a fix on items inside. Picard went to the recovery area, a reasonably flat clearing in the forest half a kilometer from the mountain's base. There he saw La Forge and Jaero, a Tellarite ensign, apparently operating a junkyard.

“How are the excavations going, Geordi?” The captain looked around at the mangled metal debris, much of it taller than he was. “I'd say you've found something.”

“Needles in a very heavy haystack. But the needles are pretty big too.” The commander checked the padd in his hand and then looked up to an engineer perched atop a battered triangular structure. “I think this one probably goes with piece forty-seven.”

“Aye, sir.” The engineer slid to the ground in a controlled descent.

Picard looked across the area. Some of the debris was smashed
beyond recognition. But some fragments, like the one nearest him, were in better shape. All had designated spaces on the clearing; he saw another structure, a vertical beam of some kind, materializing in an empty spot.

“We've transported out ten metric tons so far,” La Forge said. “We're trying to bring out pieces in such a way that the remaining ones suffer the least damage from settling.”

“Trying and failing,” Jaero said. The ensign stood before a sizable console that was projecting a three-dimensional model of the mountain's innards. “The S.C.E. team is working quickly.”

“Time is of the essence, Ensign.” Picard walked to the display. It was a cacophony of color depicting mineral deposits, air pockets, and the occasional blinking region representing a foreign object. He could tell that part of the mountain had once been artificially hollowed out. “Is there any chance the assassins were hiding in there? Using it as a staging area?”

“I don't think so, sir,” Jaero said. “From the settling and compression, I believe the ceiling was purposefully collapsed between fifty and two hundred years ago. That's as close as I can get.”

“That's a rather large range.”

La Forge nodded. “But the equipment pegs it at no earlier than a hundred twenty years.” He led Picard from the display through the debris identification area. “It's this stuff—pieces of derricks, scaffolds, molding devices—everything you'd need for a graving yard. Someone was building starships in there.
Klingon starships
.”

“You'd told me in your report,” Picard said. “But seeing it is something else. What do the Klingon investigators say?”

La Forge gestured to several Klingons poring over pieces large and small. “They tell us the equipment's at least a hundred years old. They've found nothing more recent.”

“Have you found any starships?”

“Not so far, but it's hard to tell. Spare parts, but it's not
always clear what we're looking at. A lot of it's been pulverized.” La Forge led Picard to a patch of ground ringed by small red flags. “On the other hand, take a look at this, sir.”

Picard knelt, not willing to disturb the jumble of jutting metal spokes. “This is from the inside of a computer core, correct?”

“Isolinear chip racks—probably data support for the construction systems. The chips are destroyed, but that's not the interesting thing.” La Forge knelt beside Picard and pointed. “The Klingon engineers say there should be a microscopic tag engraved on these plates—a control number used back then by the Defense Force. It's been removed.”

“Can you tell that even with this damage?”

“It's not just on this unit. We've seen enough pieces like this that it looks deliberate. Whoever was building starships here was doing it off the books. That, or they didn't want anyone coming along later knowing whose facility this was.”

“Possibly both.” Picard stood and looked through the trees to the mountain. “You said the ceiling was brought down on purpose. Could it have been a result of the bombing, during the Battle of Gamaral?”

“Unlikely,” La Forge said. “There should have been impact evidence on the slopes that would be visible even now. If the forces the Kruge family sent thought there was something here, wouldn't the family have known about it?”

“I would assume.” Picard stared at the opening on the mountain. “I need your best guess. Could it have been a pirate's nest at some point?”

“Not with this much machinery made in the Klingon Empire. I don't think too many pirates have resources like that.”

Picard turned and looked back at the recovery area with its three-dimensional puzzle—and worked through a puzzle of his own. Was the Battle of Gamaral the result of a desperate flight to a secret, possibly illicit Klingon shipyard? And if
the mountain had produced starships, what had happened to them?

“Well done, Commander. The S.C.E. team can continue your work. I need you back aboard
Enterprise
.”

“I guess it's time.” La Forge let out a breath of relief. “It'll be nice to get clean again. Where are we going?”

“I'm not sure yet,” Picard said, looking back at the mountain. “But I know where I need to go to find out.”

U.S.S. E
NTERPRISE
-
E

O
RBITING
G
AMARAL

“That . . . was less than helpful,” Picard said, stepping off the transporter pads with Chen.

“That's a safe way of putting it,” she replied.

The captain had needed to pay a call on the commander of
I.K.S. Daqtagh
, the vessel now coordinating the Klingon investigations at Gamaral; Picard had hoped that by sharing what he had learned about the mountain below, he might get information about the defeated party at the Battle of Gamaral.

But the commander had received him coolly, evidently not impressed by
Enterprise
's inability to protect Kahless. He had certainly found a number of places to bring it up in conversation. While he had the same data Picard did about the demolished ship forge inside Mount Qel'pec, he couldn't accept that as much as a single ship could have been built without the Klingon Defense Force's knowledge.

It probably would have been better if Chen had not brought up General Chang, who had managed exactly that. But it probably didn't matter. It was as Worf had found in his earlier inquiries:
Daqtagh
's database described the losers of the Battle of Gamaral only generally, naming no names.

“I still don't understand,” Chen said, walking with the captain into the hallway. “Klingons love their history. Yet while
there are plenty of songs about the winners of the battle, not one mentions whom they defeated.”

“The losers were discommendated—their names purged from all accounts by the emperor at the time.”

“I'd want to keep track of them, in case there was a chance of them wanting to get even.”

“It doesn't work that way, Lieutenant,” Picard said. “The discommendated would not be expected to rise up against anyone. Their shame would prevent it.”

Still, given what he'd seen below, it at least seemed worth pursuing. “I am waiting to hear from Chancellor Martok,” Picard said, accompanying Chen into the turbolift. “Maybe someone in his administration has a long memory.”

“I guess you could always ask Galdor—I mean, Korgh.” Chen gave an awkward shrug. “He did seem to be the master of family knowledge.”

“I'm not sure I'd believe what he told us.” The captain thought for a moment. “Then again, it might give him a chance to show his sincerity.” He took a deep breath and touched his combadge. “Bridge, this is Captain Picard. Please open a channel to
Gin'tak
Galdor—or Korgh—on Qo'noS. He should be reachable through the House of Kruge. I'll take it in my ready room.”

“Actually, Captain, that won't be possible,”
Glinn Dygan replied.

“Why?”

“We found out when we tried to get Chancellor Martok for you. He's called the High Council into emergency session.”

“What does that have to do with Korgh?”

“He's there. He appears to be the topic.”

Picard raised an eyebrow. “I wonder,” he asked of no one, “what kind of show he'll put on
this
time?”

Forty-four

T
HE
G
REAT
H
ALL

Q
O
'
NO
S

“T
he scholars have spoken,” Martok told the assembly. “Galdor is indeed Korgh, son of Torav.”

The noise in the chamber was deafening. Cheers erupted from some; angry protests from others, who might have hoped to profit from the House of Kruge's dissolution. Somewhere on the periphery, General Kersh was voicing her outrage. No one could hear her.

Korgh reveled in the moment. He unclasped his black cloak and let it fall to the floor, revealing the military uniform beneath. He had, after all, been in the Defense Force under Kruge; while he had not worn it in nearly a century, he had been delighted to find that the uniform still fit.

Martok waited for the din to subside. “Korgh's DNA matches what was in the Defense Force record—and it has been found at several sites where Kruge was known to be in the latter years of his life. The experts have also evaluated the recording from the archives. It, too, appears to be genuine.”

Korgh had never had a doubt about the genetic evidence; he had been in those places. The latter was a fabrication from his brilliant partner on Thane—and he'd felt no compunction in submitting it. It was a scene that
should
have happened. That was enough.

Martok stood and took something from one of his aides. “The High Council recognizes your claim, Lord Korgh. Step forward.”

The room went silent as Korgh stepped forward, gave a salute, and lowered his head to the chancellor. Martok draped the golden chain over Korgh's head. He felt the weight of the
golden symbol of the House of Kruge against his chest for the first time.

“Kruge's seal was destroyed with him long ago,” Martok said. “With this facsimile, the Empire recognizes your service to the house and your attempts to save its members. And it recognizes you as sole heir.”

“Thank you, Chancellor.” Korgh turned and faced the councillors and raised his hands skyward. “For the Empire!”

The audience erupted again with cheers and hoots. Korgh smiled broadly as he walked into the circle of councillors—and found a space open for him to stand. Taking his place, he looked about and saw faces he had known for years, all looking on him differently.

The day had been so long in coming, so carefully prepared for. He had finally achieved what he wanted, so long ago. But it was not the only thing he desired—and now, seeing Worf's whelp and Riker standing in the rear, Korgh knew he could not lose sight of his larger goal. He'd already set events in motion there too—and now he was in a position to play his part in them.

He got his chance almost immediately. Martok called for silence. “Now, before we were interrupted . . .” he announced, drawing light laughter. “This council had been discussing the timing of the H'atorian Conference with our Federation allies.” He nodded in the direction of Riker and Rozhenko. “This empire will not allow some cowardly band of killers to impede matters of state. With the House of Kruge again whole, I am prepared to schedule the conference for—”

“I object, Chancellor!”

“What?” Irritated, Martok eyed the crowd.

“I object,” Korgh said, stepping forward. “This conference should not go forward—and should never have been considered!”

Initially steamed, Martok instead laughed heartily. “Head of a house for five minutes and already arguing policy!” Other
listeners joined in his amusement. “You may well be Council material after all, Korgh.”

Korgh let the chancellor have his joke. “This so-called conference has always been about letting the scum of the ­universe—Kinshaya and who knows what else—traverse space the House of Kruge has always protected. You even expected one of our worlds, so recently devastated by the Borg, to play host to this affront. You propose to continue with it, now that our nobles—some of whom opposed the whole idea—were recently killed by unknown hands?”

Korgh's outburst had taken several councillors by surprise, he saw. But he could tell they were catching his implication. Martok had caught it too—and was none too pleased. “Neither we, nor the Federation, have found evidence that any Typhon Pact power was involved in the assassinations—or Kahless's kidnapping.”

“Ah, yes. We're depending on Starfleet investigators. Tell me, how good were they at securing our emperor?”

Shouts rose from the councillors. Some were offended that he'd taken Martok on. But others shook their fists in ­agreement—and vented their anger in the direction of the Federation observers. Ambassador Rozhenko, apparently startled by the sudden criticism in open council, stepped forward preparing to speak.

Korgh spoke again before he had the chance. “I knew Kruge,” he said, holding the symbol hanging from his neck. “I was his protégé. And I can tell you Kruge would have reviled this alliance. He gave his last breath in fighting the existential threat the Federation posed. He warned of a day in which the Federation banner would fly over world after world—”

“They don't claim planets anymore by planting flags,” Martok grumbled. He was no longer smiling.

“No, they bring ‘ships of exploration.' And how they multiply.” Korgh was in motion, stalking around the center of the council chamber as all eyes followed. “Kruge said they would not
stop at the Neutral Zone, that they would find some way to push past. Here we are, a hundred turns later, and what do we see? The Federation pushing farther into the Beta Quadrant, with members now on the complete other side of the Empire from Earth. Did they ask if they could take these territories? No.”

“The peoples of those worlds joined the Federation of their own free will,” Rozhenko shouted.

“Their own free will!” Korgh laughed. “Those planets are on
our
doorstep, son of Worf. They have no right to make that decision freely.” He sneered, suspecting the whelp would be easy to take down. “Ah, but now your Federation comes along asking for something at last, after they have already taken worlds that should be ours. They want guaranteed passage through
my
house's holdings to their ill-gotten gains.”

“We do not guard the spaceways against loyal allies,” Martok said. “The Accords already guarantee the Federation the right to transit.”

“But they don't stop there, do they? They're not just asking for passage for their own. They want the lanes open to the trash of the galaxy. Kinshaya, Romulans, Breen. And worse.”

The ambassador tried to interrupt. “
Gin'tak
—”

“
Lord Korgh!
”

“Lord Korgh,” Rozhenko said, chastened. “You know very well the reason. These routes wend through Klingon territory, yes, but also through space claimed by others. Unless the passages are reciprocal, there can be no free-flight corridor.”

“Perhaps there should not be.” Shouts rose from the council agreeing.

Martok spoke up. “We are not negotiating the treaty here.”

“We shouldn't be negotiating it at all,” Korgh said. “And why should they hear us discuss it?” He pointed in Riker's direction. “I demand that
human
—and his pet ambassador—be removed from these proceedings.”

Riker stepped forward to Rozhenko's side and spoke defiantly. “We were
invited
, Lord Korgh.”

The admiral wasn't going to be as easy to bait, Korgh knew. But there were avenues he could take. “This is a place for Kling­ons, not outsiders.”

“I served as an officer aboard
I.K.S. Pagh.
I have fought beside your people. Our interests are the same.”

It was the response Korgh expected. “We're well aware of your record, Admiral—well aware. I think Klingons would find it curious that you've taken such an interest in us.” He leered at the other councillors. “
Some
Klingons, anyway.”

Martok pounded his fist against his chair. “You've said enough, Korgh. The alliance with the Federation is beyond question. It is not under discussion.”

After a moment's pause, Korgh's expression softened. “As you wish.” He made a show of stepping away from the center of the floor. “But I say again, Kruge would have detested everything about this conference idea.”

“How would you know what a dead man would want?”

Martok,
he thought,
you might be surprised at just how much I've thought about what Kruge would say today.
But Korgh allowed himself only the hint of a wry grin in response.