Hell's Heart (6 page)

Nine

T
HE
C
IRCLE OF
T
RIUMPH

G
AMARAL

T
he event organizers selected to assist the Federation Diplomatic Corps had done a wonderful job, Picard thought. The aesthetics were just right. Thirteen great stone pillars rose from the circumference of the plaza, with ornate braziers installed atop each. Beneath that, each column bore the etched symbol of the Klingon Empire, the seal of the House of Kruge, and the names of the heroes of the Battle of Gamaral. Thirteen columns for thirteen honorees: veterans like J'borr and Udakh, and surviving heirs, like A'chav and M'gol.

The columns sat upon mammoth plinths, three meters high, each with an arched passageway permitting an individual to enter the circular plaza from an external waiting area. A raised semicircular bowl wrapped around behind each column, providing each noble a small seating area for his or her guests. Everything was equal; no branch of the family could claim it had a better view than any other. As Galdor had designed it, the nobles could be beamed down to their designated waiting areas in any order; all would step through the columns and onto the Circle of Triumph simultaneously when the sun set.

In all, it was a sparkling monument both to the veterans and to the speed and industry of the Federation and those who served it. Galdor appeared to approve. The
gin'tak
was walking about in the waning light of early evening, inspecting everything. He wore his usual garb, conveying simple refinement; Picard had switched to his dress uniform.

The captain could also see, at the periphery, his security chief Šmrhová and her team at work on the last bit of protection: transporter inhibitors, ready to be activated once all
the VIPs were in place. Picard didn't expect any trouble, in part because, as Galdor had jokingly put it, “all the family's enemies are already here.” But the captain was concerned about the report he'd just gotten from Worf, who had stepped out from Kahless's small underground waiting lounge—a small but comfortable building half-embedded at the Circle of Triumph's center. Picard had listened gravely before sending his first officer back to the emperor's side.

No sooner had Worf headed down the stairs than Galdor approached the captain. “The final touches are in place, I see.” He gestured to Å mrhová and the inhibitor towers, all a respectful distance outside the plaza.

“Just as you suggested,” Picard said. “The lieutenant's security team will shut down all transporter use to this area five minutes before the ceremony. Should any trouble require evacuation or reinforcement, we can deactivate the field instantly.”

“Excellent.” The Klingon gazed toward the center of the plaza. “And Kahless?”

“Present,” Picard said, trying to force a smile.

His expression didn't fool Galdor. “So is he here or isn't he?” He laughed loudly. “You don't sound sure.”

Picard cast a glance around and stepped in closer to Galdor. “We . . . may have a problem.”

“Problem? There can be no problems. I have slain them all, with cuts to the throat.”

“I am not sure about this one.” Picard took a breath. No, there was no better way to put it. “Kahless suspects that the Battle of Gamaral may not have been the great victory it was vaunted to be.”

For a moment, Galdor looked as if he had no idea what to say.

Then, he slowly asked, “How . . . did he form this suspicion?”

“Kahless wanted more information about the battle for his speech. Commander Worf interviewed several of the nobles aboard.”

“That's a relief,” Galdor said. “I was afraid the emperor had met some of the nobles himself. Then he
definitely
would have formed an opinion.” He looked keenly at Picard. “Will he speak out during the ceremony?”

“Worf thinks he might. And as I am responsible to you, I wanted you to be aware.”

“Thank you,” Galdor said, although his tone didn't seem overly appreciative. “I am sure Worf tried to dissuade Kahless. Does he want me to speak to the emperor?”

“Worf wasn't sure it would help—but it is your right to try,” Picard said. “
Would
it help?”

“It would not, because I would be forced to speak truthfully to him.” He turned and gestured to the columns ringing the circle and the names engraved upon them. “Of course these were no heroes—and their progeny present have inherited all their flaws. Shall I tell you of the battle?”

Picard nodded.

“There was a general. The leader of the uprising.” Galdor started walking across the plaza. “You will not find him in the official records; because of his crime of disloyalty, his name is no longer spoken. But the family knew it, and I know it.”

He pointed outward, above the columns and the trees to the darkening sky beyond. “Five House of Kruge battle cruisers pursued the general to Gamaral. Why he came here for his last stand, even the family's secret history does not say. But it does tell the rest: the cruisers that chased him here were manned almost entirely by mercenaries and hirelings. Not Klingons—
aliens!
—in the pay of the nobility. Nobles who counted their precious skins too dear to expose them to battle.”

Picard went white. “You don't mean—?”

“I do. Today is the first time any of these ‘veterans' have ever laid eyes on Gamaral. They have never set foot on it.”

The captain could barely believe it. Honor was important to him—and everything to a Klingon. He was helping to honor heroes who had never seen the battlefield. He looked from col
umn to column, reading the names until he had to find something else to focus on. His eyes fell at last on Mount Qel'pec, slowly vanishing into the twilight.

Galdor stepped beside him and stared at the same scene while he began again. “Whatever your people thought of Commander Kruge, Captain, he was a true Klingon—and his standards were high. He thought his kin to be layabouts, reckless, or both. That is why he put his faith in his trusted officers instead.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed. “Had the officers only found an heir to back, their uprising would have been considered legitimate. An acceptable act in the battle to control a house—to preserve ­Kruge's legacy.”

“But he found none?”

“Mmm. It is not relevant now.” The old Klingon turned away from the mountain and began pacing the circle. “When their hirelings soundly defeated the officers, the nobles depicted them as false friends of Kruge's, seeking to rob his corpse. When that was actually
their
intent.”

Picard found it all dizzying. He regarded the columns, where he could no longer make out the names inscribed beneath. A small mercy. “How could this have remained a secret for all these years?”

“There is an old proverb which I believe is present in every language in the galaxy,” Galdor said. “
Money talks
.”

And if people want to remain rich, they say nothing
, Picard thought. Lights appeared above as the braziers atop the columns lit automatically. There was no more time to let the situation sink in. But he had no idea what to do. “This is . . . a predicament.”

“These are the facts we face, Picard. And if the moral leader of the Klingon Empire knows them, I can only imagine what he'll say.” Galdor looked back at the central rostrum atop Kahless's waiting area and took a deep breath. “No, there is no need to imagine. The emperor will pass judgment. A judgment long overdue. And back home, the whole Empire will see it.”

Picard studied him. “You sound as though you don't mind if that happens.”

The
gin'tak
's face froze. “Of course I mind. Protecting the house is my job. But I cannot say I never thought this a possibility. Klingons are not Romulans. Secrets are not our breath and blood.”

“But . . .
you
knew. Galdor, if the nobles were acting in a way detrimental to the house, didn't you have recourse as house steward?”

“You speak of
ya'nora kor
.”

“Yes.” Years before, Picard remembered, the House of Mogh's
gin'tak
, K'mtar, had invoked the rite over the issue of Alexander's schooling.

“I could not call out one heir as venal without accusing them all. I could not destroy the house to save it—and so I lived with their lies. And that is
my
shame.”

Picard's combadge chirped. He touched it. “Picard here.”

Šmrhová reported from the security station, just outside the Circle of Triumph.
“We're ready for
Enterprise
to send down the guests, sir.”

“Very good. Picard to
Enterprise
, are the nobles ready?”

Chen's voice responded.
“They are, sir.”

He looked at Galdor, who silently nodded and turned away. “Thank you, Lieutenants,” Picard said. He straightened, resolved to accept what came. “Make it so.”

Ten

G
amaral had been a Federation world for decades, but a newcomer would be forgiven for thinking otherwise this night. The braziers atop the columns of the Circle of Triumph burned proudly, giving the appearance of a glowing island amid the untamed forests. At the circle's center, a warm breeze blew at the Klingon banners draped beneath the rostrum. Around the perimeter, troughs of superheated stones bathed thirteen honorees' platforms with orange light.

The older nobles stood as best they could. The younger ones stood proudly, living statues to be admired by their guests and the countless Klingons back in the Empire watching the event via live comms. They had sung songs of their victory and of the glory of Commander Kruge. They had heard their
gin'tak
read a proclamation from Chancellor Martok, celebrating the
may'qochvan
and the success of their house.

And they even tolerated Picard, who, at Galdor's invitation, walked around the plaza addressing the assembly on behalf of the United Federation of Planets. Yes, Gamaral was a Federation world now, but no interstellar border could part the near-century-old friendship between the Federation and the Empire. The captain had rewritten his speech at the last moment, removing comparisons of the alliance with the partnership between the members of the House of Kruge; he now knew the latter to be a craven compact based on a mutual lie. He had also thought it better to leave out the words Riker had suggested, subtly nudging the House of Kruge toward supporting the goals of the upcoming H'atorian Conference.

And he did not mention the Battle of Gamaral.

With words of welcome in fluent Klingon, Picard finished
his remarks and crossed the plaza, making for a spot near the perimeter. He would wait in the stands provided to old Lord Kiv'ota, who had brought neither relatives nor sycophants; Worf was already there, observing with an expression Picard thought was a cross between concern and barely concealed disgust. The captain felt the same way.

Picard didn't expect the other nobles would complain about him and Worf being in Kiv'ota's gallery. Their attention was, of course, all on Galdor, who had begun the ceremonial naming of heroes. By drawing small stones from a golden pot, he let chance select the order in which he called the names. And if anyone minded being called later, Galdor cushioned the blow by lengthening the oration he did about the particular noble's military exploits. By the tenth or eleventh name, his hagiographies were several minutes long, all delivered extemporaneously.

If Galdor's touch with the nobles had impressed Picard before, now the Klingon dazzled him with wordplay. The captain knew how Galdor secretly felt about his masters, and yet the
gin'tak
managed to weave a tapestry of words making each one a hero. Even drunken young Lord M'gol, whose connection to the events of 2286 was the most tenuous of all, was made out to be a living embodiment of the spirit of his ancestor. And why not, Picard thought. M'gol's grandfather hadn't fought here, either.

The captain was struggling to maintain interest when Galdor reached the end—and after leading a brief chant, he announced they had a most honored guest. A gong sounded, and Galdor swiftly retired from the sawed-off conical rostrum, stepping down the back steps into the waiting area.

And then Kahless rose from below,
mek'leth
in hand, to take the stage to the cheers of all. Troughs that had been smoldering erupted high with blue, then crimson flames—washing the speaker with light.

“I expect you know who I am,” he declared loudly to the nobles. “And you can be certain that I know who
you
are . . .”

V
ALANDRIS
'
S
E
XPEDITION

O
RBITING
G
AMARAL

Valandris's people had drawn lots to see who would do which job; it was the fair thing to do in a culture where no one had status over another. It was just as well, because she would never have been able to decide which assignment she preferred.

Certainly, going to Gamaral's surface would have been a delicious prospect—especially given who was down there and what was going on. But the
Enterprise
, still floating obliviously outside the forward port, made for a fine consolation prize.

Still, what was happening in the “Circle of Triumph”—what a name!—governed her next moves. Disruptor in hand, she stood near Hemtara's signal station, watching the screen with the broadcast from Gamaral. No descrambling was necessary: it was being transmitted to the entire Klingon Empire.

“That's Kahless,” Hemtara said, pointing a gloved finger at the figure mounting the stage. “Or rather, the clone of Kahless.”

“It doesn't matter to me either way. He's the trigger.” Valandris turned toward the transporter room, and several of her companions rose to follow. “Send the word to the other ships. It's time.”

T
HE
C
IRCLE OF
T
RIUMPH

G
AMARAL

The audience seated around the Circle of Triumph may have been small, but the cheering for Kahless never seemed to stop. The emperor's appearance was no surprise to the nobles, who
had requested his presence; Picard sensed that their cheering was as much in self-celebration for having gotten him to attend. Outside the arena, the ovation would be taken at face value. Kahless had not spoken in his official capacity to the people of the Empire in a long time; untold multitudes would be watching. Picard glanced about the arena and saw the sensors in place, broadcasting everything. The captain's breath caught in his chest as Kahless at last called for quiet. Whatever followed, everyone would see it.

“You wonder why I have been away,” Kahless said, stalking around his elevated perch so all the nobles would have a chance to see his face. “I was created to remind the people of today of the teachings of Kahless the Unforgettable. I played that role diligently—until, some years ago, I began to see things in a different way.”

Picard looked to Worf, who shrugged. The speech was new to him.

“I realized that in an honorable empire, I would not be considered special at all,” Kahless continued. “Each and every Klingon has the same role to play. Every Klingon's actions, at every moment, should serve as a reminder of the teachings of Kahless. My actions—and yours.” He pointed across the plaza to Worf with his free hand. “And yours,” he said, pointing now to one of the nobles. “And yours, and yours!” Voices rose in affirmation as Kahless continued to point to his listeners in turn.

Finally, he stared downward. “My job, then, was no different than anyone else's. And as I saw the Empire endure many challenges, I also saw many Klingons acting as they should.” He lifted his eyes to the sky. “I saw honor return to its proper place in the Empire. And I saw a worthy leader rise in Martok!”

Picard noticed some vocalizations of support, but also a lot of shuffling in the audience at Martok's name.

Kahless kept on. “So I took my leave of you. I felt there was nothing else I needed to say, nothing else I could teach.”

“No! No!” called out one of the nobles, which was certainly the politic thing to do; others were quick to follow.

Kahless ignored the cries of support and took the
mek'leth
in both hands. “That is why I left. Now, I will speak of my return. I was told of a great battle, a century ago—and a great house of the Empire, which took part. Not knowing of it, I agreed to come here, to speak to the victors.”

Silence fell across the plaza. Picard watched as the clone looked down at the
mek'leth
and the names glinting in the shimmering light. Kahless gritted his teeth for a moment. Then he spoke again slowly and with increasing forcefulness. “The more I heard about this battle, the more I wanted to see the people who had taken part. I knew I had to tell them what I thought. And I knew:
that
is why I had returned from exile. To tell them—and to tell the whole Empire!”

Cheers again. Picard, knowing what was coming, felt like covering his face. He looked instead to Worf, who he expected would be graven as a statue.

But Worf was not looking at Kahless. Instead, his first officer's eyes were fixed on a spot beyond the rostrum—above the place where two of the VIP seating sections came together.

“Captain,” he whispered. “Someone is moving there!”

It took a moment for Picard to spot what Worf was looking at. A silhouette perched where no one should be, a glint of metal. Kahless, his back to the intruder, hit his crescendo. “Let me tell you
nobles
what I think of—”

“
Kahless!
” Worf sprinted down the few steps to the plaza floor, even as Picard's hand went for his combadge
.

Startled—as everyone was—Kahless glared down. “No, Worf. I will not be silenced—”

Disruptor fire drowned out his next words. And then, no one could hear anyone.