Hell's Heart by John Jackson Miller Page B

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 finishedhis 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œThat’s Kahless,” Hemtara said, pointing a gloved finger at the figure mounting the stage. “Or rather, the clone of Kahless.”
    â€œIt 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