Free Hell's Heart by John Jackson Miller Page B

organizers’ messages are not. It is the one who calls himself Kahless, the emperor. The other Klingon appears to be Worf.”
    The first name she had expected—but not the second. Yes, she thought. It made sense he would be here, if his starship was.
    Hemtara spoke again. “The ground crew is beginning to install transport inhibitors, as we expected.”
    â€œDo we care?” Valandris asked.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGood.” The woman understood the technologies involved better than she did. If Hemtara wasn’t concerned, Valandris wasn’t.
    Tharas leaned in Valandris’s direction. “Still, we could act now,” he said. “While they’re alone in the woods. It could be fun, like a real hunt.”
    â€œThis is a real hunt. And you know very well that’s not the plan.” No, Valandris knew they had to stick with what their companion vessels were doing. That meant remaining under cloak while they continued to scan the stone clearing on the surface. “Keep tracking. We wait.”
    Tharas grumbled, but not for very long. If there was one thing their homeworld taught its people, it was patience. So long as Enterprise remained oblivious to them, the hunters could remain in the blind indefinitely.
    Valandris knew they wouldn’t have to. After a lifetime, it was all coming together. She mouthed the word, unspoken: Soon.

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 Å mrhová and her team at work on the last bit of protection: transporter inhibitors, ready to be activated once allthe 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.
    â€œJust as you suggested,” Picard said. “The lieutenant’s security team will shut down all transporter use to