The last thing Kl’rt remembered before waking up in the empty room was killing the human.

  His mission had been a simple one: to bring the traitor to the top-floor meeting room. Kl’rt considered it a great privilege to be given the honor of capturing the false one. True, Worf might have looked like a Klingon, he might have called himself “son of Mogh” as if he were a true Klingon, but Kl’rt knew better. It was like Rov told him: He was a traitor, the foulest of the foul. He was a wam serpent who had insinuated himself into the House of Martok, then helped that one-eyed coward remove Gowron from his rightful place as chancellor. And now what they did to the emperor whom Gowron had welcomed home was just despicable….

  But Rov would stop them, expose them for the petaQ they were, and Kl’rt would help him in whatever way he could.

  That, at least, had been the plan.

  B’Urgan had said that the device she’d fabricated would neutralize any Federation or Klingon weapons, which was why they were forced to use the weapons of the filthy Breen. But Kl’rt did not mind using them if it meant they would achieve their goal.

  How, then, was I rendered unconscious?

  Kl’rt remained still, but opened his eyes just enough to take in his surroundings. He was in a large windowless room. He was unbound, but lying up against one of the walls. The only distinguishing features of the room were the turbolift doors, currently open to an empty turboshaft, and the figure of Ambassador Worf standing near them. Kl’rt had memorized the embassy’s floor-plans—including the classified subbasement—but nothing like this room was on those plans.

  I will continue to feign unconsciousness until the time is right for me to strike. Rov had said all along that Worf was the most dangerous foe the empire had ever faced. Kl’rt had dismissed that as rhetorical hyperbole, but now he saw that Rov was correct. Somehow, without the use of standard weapons, he had rendered Kl’rt unconscious and brought him somewhere outside the embassy.

  The traitor looked over at Kl’rt. “You are awake. Good. I require information.”

  How did he know—? Kl’rt put the thought out of his head. He knew, so Kl’rt would deal with it. “Where have you brought me?”

  “I said I require information.” Worf was, Kl’rt saw, studying a Starfleet tricorder, but now he closed it and walked toward Kl’rt. “I have no reason to provide you with any.”

  As soon as Worf was close enough, Kl’rt leapt to his feet and attacked. He had always been skilled at weaponless hand-to-hand combat—as a boy growing up on Mempa VIII, he’d always done well in brawls, and even wrestled professionally for a time, before he was expelled due to what the judges mistakenly deemed dishonorable behavior. The drugs he took in no way affected his performance; they simply allowed him to breathe more easily.

  He therefore came at Worf secure in the knowledge that he could take a diplomat with little trouble.

  A second later, he was sprawled on the floor, wondering why his entire face hurt.

  “You will not move until I say you can,” Worf said. “Now speak—where is the device that is blocking use of weapons?”

  “I will die before I tell you anything, traitor!”

  The ambassador tilted his head. “That is the second time you have labeled me a traitor. Why?”

  This question Kl’rt would happily answer. “You have been a puppet of the Federation all your life, and through you, the Federation has controlled the empire.”

  “Really?”

  Kl’rt spit on the empty floor. “Do not attempt to deny it! First you had K’mpec killed and then framed Duras for the crime, paving the way for your first puppet, Gowron. But he was too strong for you—he found Kahless, made him emperor, and then would not listen to your Federation lies when he invaded Cardassia or during the Dominion War! So you had him killed and installed your one-eyed fool. Now you have stolen the emperor from us!”

  “The emperor remains on his throne where he belongs. Your words are the ramblings of a deranged toDSaH.”

  At that, Kl’rt laughed. “I do not expect you to admit it. But your days are numbered, traitor. We will expose your perfidy, and your blood and that of your slime devil of a chancellor will paint the streets of the First City!”

  “And how will this goal be accomplished?”

  Kl’rt folded his arms. “I will speak no more to you, traitor. As I said, I will die before I tell you anything.”

  “Of course. That is the way of all cowards.”

  “You dare call me coward?” Kl’rt leaned forward, but did not get up. He did not know how, exactly, Worf managed to knock him to the ground before—he had moved that fast—but he wasn’t ready to risk it again.

  “No dare is required—I simply speak the truth. Dying for your cause is easy. It requires no effort on your part, no sacrifice. You simply sit there and spit like a rabid targ and wait for me to kill you. No, the true act of bravery is to live for your cause—and to suffer for it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Worf reached into his pocket and pulled out what looked like a small weapon. “This weapon has three settings—stun, kill, and burn. The kill setting is fixed, but the others have levels. Different species have different tolerances for what will stun them, and the amount of power required to burn something will vary depending on the target.” He pushed two buttons on the weapon, based on the beeps Kl’rt heard. “It is now set on light burn. Your embassy record indicates that you are left-handed. I will therefore fire on your right arm if you do not answer my question. That will leave you with a one-centimeter hole in your arm. If you continue to be uncooperative, I will fire on your left arm, and your capacity as a warrior will be greatly diminished. After that, I will proceed to your feet.”

  “You lie. You are a Federation diplomat—you won’t torture me. You are soft and weak and have no taste for blood.”

  “Don’t I?”

  Something in the ambassador’s tone made Kl’rt hesitate. That, and the pain he still felt in his face, most of which was now localized in his jaw and right cheek.

  But it did not matter. “Do your worst, traitor. Rov is no fool. I could tell you nothing even if I wished to. I do not have the information you seek. If there is a device such as that you asked of, I have not been informed of its location. And even if I had been, I would never reveal it to you. It does not matter if you slice off my arms and legs, if you leave me suffering for all eternity, if you cast me onto the Barge of the Dead yourself, I will say nothing!”

  Kl’rt stared directly into the traitor’s brown eyes, refusing to give in, refusing even to blink. I will not let you down, Rov. I believe in our cause, and will die for it—or, if the traitor will resort to such tactics, I will suffer for it, too.

  Finally, Worf looked away. “I believe you.”

  That caused Kl’rt to blink in surprise. “What?”

  “However, your response is no longer relevant. I already have all the information I need. Rov has just broadcast his demands to the Great Hall. In addition, I have the positions of all of your fellow terrorists.”

  Only then did Kl’rt realize why Worf had looked away from Kl’rt’s gaze. It was not a show of cowardice or of defeat. The ambassador was simply showing Kl’rt that he was now wearing the earpiece that had been assigned to Kl’rt. No! How could I have been so stupid?

  “At first, I thought I would require your intelligence, as Rov had changed frequencies when they discovered that your body was not among the corpses on the second floor. However, a few minutes ago, my tricorder was able to determine the frequency, and I have heard everything Rov has said.”

  In the brief time that Kl’rt had served at the embassy, he had never once seen the ambassador smile. Indeed, his lack of true passion was one of many things that branded him as a false Klingon.

  Now, though, Kl’rt saw Worf smile. It wasn’t an especially broad one. His lips just curled upward a bit. Still, based on his usual, that was the equivalent of a wide grin, and it was the first thing Kl’rt had seen since waking up in this room that truly scared him.

  “I therefore have no further use for you.”

  Fully expecting to be shot, Kl’rt was surprised to see Worf pocket the phaser. “What are you doing?”

  “I am leaving. I must take back the embassy.”

  Again, Kl’rt laughed. “By yourself?”

  “Yes.”

  “You really are a fool.”

  “I have little choice. The empire will not negotiate with terrorists, and no aid from the Federation can possibly arrive in time. Even if it could, I doubt that Martok would allow Starfleet to take any unilateral action without his approval. He will destroy the embassy and all those inside it before allowing himself to be extorted by bloodworms such as yourself.”

  Shaking his head, Kl’rt said, “You will not succeed.”

  “You would be wise to hope that I do, Kl’rt, son of Krul. For my success is the only hope for your rescue.” He pointed to the open lift doors and the shaft beyond it. “That turboshaft is the only means in or out of this room. Only two people in the empire know of this room’s existence—three, including you—and I am the only one of those two who knows that you are here. If I am successful, I will come back for you. If I am not, you will live out your days in this room. There are no weapons here, nothing with which you will be able to take your own life, nor is there any food or water—you will be forced to waste away like an old woman, and then stumble your way to Gre’thor like the honorless petaQ you truly are.”

  With that, Worf turned and entered the turboshaft.

  Panic slicing into his chest, Kl’rt leapt to his feet once more and ran for the doors, trying to stop Worf from shutting them.

  He reached the entryway just as the doors slammed shut with a most resounding thud.

  Placing the tips of his fingers at the seam of the two doors, Kl’rt attempted to pry them apart, but he could not gain purchase.

  He felt around for something on his person that he could use to wedge between the doors, but he carried no blade, and Worf had taken his disruptor and his communications device.

  Looking around the room, Kl’rt saw nothing but blank walls and an empty floor. There didn’t even appear to be a mote of dust.

  This is worse than torture, and reveals you as lower than the Lubbockian slime devil we all thought you to be, Worf. You should pray that I die down here, for if I live, I will not rest until you are dead at my feet.

  The sounds of Kl’rt pounding on the turbolift doors faded as Worf climbed back up the shaft away from the sub-subbasement. In order to implement his plan of attack, he needed to be far away from the sensor-resistant walls of the lower floor. Though the space had been cleared of everything—even the interior walls—whatever was in the walls, floor, and ceiling that kept the secret room literally off the radar still interfered with tricorder readings. He needed to be able to screen out specific life-forms if his plan was to work.

  Once he reached the fifth floor, just under where the shaft forked into a second shaft for the east side of the building, he paused, hooked his right arm around one of the ladder’s rungs, and removed the tricorder from his pocket with his left hand.

  From what he’d overheard on Klahb’s communications channel, one of the Starfleet security guards assigned to the embassy was also still at large. Worf needed to locate that guard first.

  He screened out the conference room from the tricorder’s scan. That was the last place he could go right now; all the hostages were there, and it was the most heavily defended room. I need to engage in guerrilla tactics to win this battle, he thought, and that means avoiding the heart until all the extremities have been cut off and are bleeding.

  Once that was done, he scanned for life-forms in the rest of the embassy. The first thing he noted was that the subbasement was clear. That space Worf knew about, not because he was ambassador but because his position as head of strategic operations for the Bajoran sector and later as fleet liaison between Starfleet and the Defense Force during the war gave him clearance to be aware of the floor’s existence. Worf wasn’t surprised to see that it was empty, as it explained the faces among the hostages he saw that he didn’t recognize, but he was disheartened, as it meant that Vark and Rov had found out about the subbasement’s existence, which pointed to a leak in security.

  Then again, this entire operation points to a leak in security. One that I intend to plug.

  In addition to housing several top-secret operations and data, the subbasement was also where the embassy’s main computer was kept. That meant that whoever had locked out the security system—based on what Worf had overheard, that was someone named Torvak—was doing so remotely. That provides one option on how to disengage the security lockout.

  The other life-forms he detected were two Klingons moving on the third floor, two more moving on the fifth—and rapidly approaching Worf’s position—and another two on the seventh. Probably roving patrols trying to find myself and the guard. Three more Klingons were stationary on the eighth floor, two on the west side of the floor, the third on the east.

  Rov’s voice sounded on the comm. “Torvak, report.” A pause, then: “Torvak, report!”

  A moment later, two more Klingons “appeared” moving toward the emergency ladder access on the top floor. It seems Rov and another of his people will be getting Torvak’s report in person.

  The only other life-form Worf read was that of a human, inside one of the guest bedrooms on the sixth floor. Assuming that was the missing guard, he or she was in no immediate danger, leaving Worf to go after the two most valuable members of Klahb, who were about to be in the same place: Rov, the ringleader, and Torvak, the one who had disabled the security system.

  He put the tricorder back in his pocket and unhooked his arm from the rung. Just as he got into position to continue his upward climb, the doors to the fifth-floor turbolift bay on the wall perpendicular to him started to part. Worf muttered a curse as he fumbled for his Ferengi phaser.

  Two beams from Breen disruptors shot out from between the doors as they opened. One harmlessly hit the center of the shaft. The other was off-center, and struck a glancing blow on Worf’s left elbow. The entire arm went numb and fell to his side, his fingers hanging loose, and the phaser tumbling out of his grip and falling down the shaft, making a clattering noise as it went.

  This, Worf thought, is not good.

  The doors opened three-quarters of the way to reveal two Klingons in stewards’ outfits.

  Using his legs and right arm to propel him, Worf leapt from his perch on the turboshaft ladder right at the pair of them. He had no particular plan in mind; it was a desperation move, borne of the hope that they weren’t expecting quite this kind of frontal assault.

  Even as Worf flew through the air toward them, one of them shouted, “It’s hi—” with the final consonant cut off by the impact of an ambassadorial chest with his face. Worf and both Klingons tumbled to the floor.

  There was no art to Worf’s attack, nor in the melee that followed. Worf simply flailed with his one good arm and both legs in an attempt to do damage to his opponents. One of them managed to punch Worf in the gut, but neither of them were able to do much beyond that. At one point, one of them dropped his disruptor. As he bent to pick it up, Worf kicked him in the face, which sent him stumbling backward.

  A second later, that Klingon’s screams echoed into the walls, and faded as he fell down the turboshaft he’d fallen into after Worf’s kick.

  His companion scrambled to his feet and stood at the open doorway. “Pek! Pek! You petaQ, you killed him! I’ll—”

  Whatever it was he was going to do was left unsaid, as a shot from the disruptor the late Pek had dropped caught him square in the chest, and he fell to the floor, dead.

  Worf, still lying on the floor, but now holding Pek’s weapon, let out a long breath. He got to his feet, using the disruptor’s stock to balance himself in lieu of his now-useless left arm. Once upright, he holstered the disruptor into his belt, then reached down and grabbed the other disruptor. Even if I can’t fire both at once, better to have a backup, he thought, angered at the loss of the Ferengi phaser. Few things disheartened a warrior more than losing a good weapon, and the phaser had proven an excellent one.

  “Vark, I’m on my way back.” That was Rov again. Tucking the disruptor under his left shoulder, Worf awkwardly reached into his left pocket with his right hand to pull out the tricorder. “Dohk, Gimor, report.”

  “Nothing on three. We’re moving up to four.”

  Worf examined the readings, and saw that the human remained in place, one Klingon was now climbing the emergency stairway back up to the tenth floor—presum-ably Rov. Four Klingons were now on the eighth floor, leading Worf to assume that B’Eko had been left behind to protect Torvak. A wise precaution.

  “Krant, Mukk?”

  Worf moved quickly, kicking the Klingon’s body so it too fell down the shaft. If Rov was getting reports, the lack of reply on this floor would lead someone to investigate. Finding no bodies would delay action more than finding a single one, and give Worf more time.

  “Nothing on seven yet.”

  “Larq, Pek?”

  Silence greeted Rov’s request. With both disruptors holstered in his belt, Worf awkwardly climbed over to the ladder with one arm. At once, he realized he couldn’t close the door behind him, as he needed his only good arm to hang on to the ladder.

  “Larq, Pek, report!”

  Unfortunately, Worf had to use the shaft—the Klahb people were using the emergency stairs, and now he especially needed to minimize confrontations that weren’t on his own terms.

  “Dohk, Gimor, move up to five, find out what’s happened to Larq and Pek.”

  “They probably shot each other,” either Dohk or Gimor said, and the other laughed.

  “Do it!” Rov yelled at a volume that threatened to puncture Worf’s eardrum.

  “We’re on our way.”