Hell's Heart by John Jackson Miller

honor escort detail, awaiting their next assignment elsewhere on the same deck, had responded to the noise and were in the corridor, firing through the now-open door at the armored figures. Struck by three phaser blasts at once, the female intruder tripped backward.
    Her partner returned fire—and found someone in the hall, as evidenced by the horrific bellow from outside. But the shots from outside only intensified, and the female intruder touched a control on her wrist. White halos appeared, whisking the two away as fast as they had arrived.
    The entire episode had taken less than fifteen seconds. Chen fell to her knees, unsure why the intruder had not fired on her but thankful nonetheless. She looked over to find Moran on the deck: unhurt, but clearly startled. Transporter rooms didn’t see a lot of action. As the security officers rushed in, Chen slapped her combadge. “Bridge, this is transporter room six. We’ve just been boarded!”
    Konya responded. “We know. Other teams have hit every personnel transporter room—they’re now going after the emergency ones. There are battles everywhere.”
    Chen did a double take—and Moran, mesmerized by the smoking wreckage around her, said what they both were thinking. “That’s—that’s sixteen rooms!”
    I guess they brought friends, Chen thought. She remembered Worf’s call—and stood. “Konya, did someone else beam up Worf and Kahless?”
    â€œNegative. Shields are up. We’re working on a way to—”
    A barrage shook Enterprise, drowning out the rest — but Chen had heard enough. “Find us a room that’s still intact,” Chen said, heading for the door. “Even if it’s in the middle of one of those battles!”

Twelve
    T HE C IRCLE OF T RIUMPH
    G AMARAL
    I mmediately after Worf had bolted toward Kahless, Picard quickly sent Å mrhová the code word initiating the panic scramble: A LAMO . That would lead to the deactivation of the transport inhibitors, he knew, allowing evacuations—but he had more immediate concerns. Wobbly old Kiv’ota still stood on his platform of honor, petrified by the gunfire around him.
    Without thinking twice, Picard scaled the few steps from the gallery to the pedestal. “My lord, get down!” the captain said, reaching out for the Klingon. Picard grabbed hold of a piece of robe and yanked.
    It was just in time: a blast that would have incinerated Kiv’ota seared the hem of his garment instead. But it put the old man’s body into motion, and Kiv’ota tumbled backward off the dais, landing hard at the foot of the stone steps. Picard rushed to drag him fully behind the platform as more shots blazed past.
    Looking to either side, he saw the other attackers; they had taken similar positions in the nooks between the thirteen observation galleries. The Kruge family members’ mutual disdain for one another had led to this: a single, continuous seating area wouldn’t have offered the snipers the same crannies. As it was, the ceaseless disruptor fire meant Picard couldn’t look past the platform to see what had become of Worf and Kahless.
    There was only one thing to do: exit the gallery down the steps that led from the arena and out into Gamaral’s night. But Picard found Kiv’ota unconscious from the fall. With orange fire blazing overhead, Picard saw no other choice. He slippedhis arms around the Klingon’s chest and heaved, dragging him backward toward the rock stairs. It wouldn’t be easy—or comfortable for Kiv’ota—but at least the old man’s head wouldn’t strike the steps on the way down.
    Where the devil is that security team? Picard wondered as he dragged the dead weight. But he never stopped pulling.
    â€¢Â Â Â â€¢Â Â Â â€¢
    It seemed to Worf that the whole universe outside Kahless’s waiting area had descended into madness. He had hailed