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For my father
reH DuSIgh vavlI’
“Your father is a part of you always.”
Historian’s Note
In late 2285, Commander Kruge died pursuing his life’s mission: opposing the Federation at all costs (Star Trek III: The Search for Spock). His young protégé, Korgh, launched what would become a hundred-year quest to seize control of his mentor’s house and accomplish Kruge’s dream.
In 2385, Korgh hired an illusionist to impersonate a resurrected Kruge and trick a group of discommendated Klingons into becoming a fanatical cult: the Unsung. These violent puppets were deployed in early 2386, allowing Korgh to seize control of the House of Kruge.
Over the weeks that followed, Korgh used his trumped-up crisis to rally Klingon opposition to the Khitomer Accords, even as Starfleet engaged in an all-out search to find the Unsung and preserve the agreement. The Klingon Defense Force, seeking revenge for its slain warriors, attempted to wipe out the former exiles—unaware that the Unsung held two presumed-dead Klingons as their prisoners: Commander Worf and the clone of Kahless the Unforgettable. Taking advantage of the schism, Shift, a Breen agent, sought to use the Unsung crisis to aid the forces of the Typhon Pact.
The main events of this novel begin in April 2386, several years after the U.S.S. Enterprise-E’s 2379 confrontation with the Romulan Praetor Shinzon (Star Trek: Nemesis). The overture takes place in late 2382, after Andor’s secession from the United Federation of Planets (Star Trek: Typhon Pact—Paths of Disharmony).
Tout est perdu fors l’honneur.
“All is lost, save honor.”
—Misreported version of a line from King Francis I, 1525, later invoked by Napoleon after the Battle of Waterloo
OVERTURE
2382
One
“You should’ve seen it. I shot that Breen right in the snout!”
T’shantra winced as she heard the jubilant whoops out in Dinskaar’s hallway. The other Orions were still chattering about the battle, as short-lived as it was; such engagements were the high points of their lives. For a pirate, no day was better than one following a successful capture of a hapless vessel.
And few days were as hard on the slaves those pirates owned.
The emerald-skinned beauty had seen it many times. Once the killing and the looting were finished, the pirates always celebrated nonstop. Drunken revelers emptied the ship’s pantries and damaged its mess halls, making life miserable for galley workers. It was worse for T’shantra and the others like her: despite being Orion, she was a slave required to provide “entertainment” to such louts and brawlers. Often the weeklong post-battle binges resulted in more casualties than the engagements they were celebrating.
Dinskaar’s latest capture, a Breen shuttle ambushed while creeping alone from Kinshaya space toward neutral territory, normally would have portended another unpleasant week for T’shantra. Instead, it had gone wrong for Wogan, keeper of the weapons stores and her latest master. Insensible, Wogan lay bleeding to death on the floor of his office, his favorite jewel-encrusted dagger sticking out of his back. The yell he had made when T’shantra plunged it in had sounded like just one more celebratory cheer.
The dark-haired young woman glanced back at him with indifference as she packed her satchel. While she had never killed before, T’shantra had lived surrounded by death and found little objectionable in it. At least she had not had to suffer Wogan’s company one day more; Leotis, Dinskaar’s boss, had only traded her to him three days earlier to settle a gambling debt. Leotis had pulled that stunt twice before, winning her back each time. She would not give him another chance.
Her bag stuffed full of food pilfered from the galley and weapons liberated from Wogan’s arsenal, she turned and looked toward the door. Nobody had missed the weapons master yet. T’shantra quickly knelt and rifled through his pockets. She found several gold-pressed latinum strips, more than enough to make it worth leaving the bloody dagger right where it was. She shoveled the currency into her pouch—and after a thought, she fished inside the bag for something else. She would leave it as a gift for those who found Wogan.
T’shantra slipped out into the corridor, sealing the door behind her. No one bothered her as she made her way to the deck with the docking port. Everyone aboard was headed away from Psocath, the Breen vessel, arms full of plunder. Leotis had ransacked the ship first, as was his right, followed by his favored minions. Watching the raucous looters filing past her, she could tell her timing was right. No guards at the airlock meant little was left to steal. Looking both ways, she took a breath—and slipped into the hallway connecting Dinskaar with the Breen shuttle.
A trail of fallen Breen warriors led to the top level. Past experience had told Dinskaar’s crew there was little of worth inside the creatures’ armor. It was useful, but only to the Breen, who appeared to be more of a social construct rather than a single race. Only they were able to make sense of their gear’s complexities.
Hearing motion as she approached Psocath’s bridge, T’shantra anxiously drew her weapon-stuffed satchel closer to her. Someone was lying on the deck behind the captain’s chair, working at the furnishing with a spanner. She tensed. A green face peeked over the armrest and smiled broadly at her. “Hey, beautiful!”
T’shantra let out a breath of relief. “Hi, Tuthar.”
Bald and skinny, Tuthar worked in Dinskaar’s supply room. While his station was higher than hers—whose wasn’t?—he was lowliest among the pirates, meaning he got last pick of the loot before Leotis moved to dispose of the captured vessel by sale or scrap. Tuthar had never presumed to impose himself on her, and T’shantra found him mildly amusing. “You’re stealing a chair?”
“It’s a nice chair,” he said, standing up. He gestured to three bodies, piled in the corner. “Those Breen have to live in those suits all day. You’ve got to figure they need their lumbar support.”
“Are they all dead?” she asked.
“I wouldn’t be here if they weren’t.” He clapped his hands on the armrests and gave the chair a good tug. “My father always said people overlook the real treasures in plain sight.”
“Your father sounds like a smart man.”
“Not smart enough to be rich.”
T’shantra’s father, Fortar, had been very rich—trafficking in everything, with love for no one. He had sold her to Boss Leotis as if his daughter were just a second-rate good from his Azure Nebula warehouse. In retrospect, she should not have been surprised. Her mother had left the family—a malapropism, family—in the same way, only to die as collateral damage in a syndicate war.
She couldn’t waste time. “Here, let me help,” she said. She stepped beside the chair and helped him pull at it. With a groan, it snapped free from its moorings.
“Thanks.” Tuthar hefted the chair. “What are you doing here? I wouldn’t think Wogan would let you out of his sight.”
“I was . . . looking for him.” She turned to the command interface, now minus one chair. “Do the systems still work?”
“I think so. We just gave the shuttle a few love taps. The Breen weren’t expecting us.”
Something had happened recently in Kinshaya space, according to the bits and pieces she had been able to gather from Wogan. The Holy Order, the scripture-spouting outfit that ran the Kinshaya government, had just lost political control in some kind of coup. The Episco
pate’s Breen allies had unwittingly triggered the uprising by participating in a massacre of dissidents on Janalwa, the Kinshaya’s new capital planet. The backlash had driven one religious sect from power—and it had also sent the Breen packing in a hurry.
That included whoever was aboard the shuttle Psocath. Ordinarily, the Breen traveled the local spaceways with confidence, protected by their warships and privateer vessels. This was no ordinary time. Psocath was the second easy picking the Orions had found during the exodus.
Tuthar heaved his bulky prize toward the exit. “I guess I’ll see you later, T’shantra. Big party tonight.”
“And tomorrow. And the next day.”
Tuthar laughed. “Wogan’s a lucky man. Maybe I’ll win a dance from you one day.”
She smiled back at him primly, and he departed. She had thought to tell him to avoid the Dinskaar deck that held the arsenal. But Tuthar was no different from any other pirate on the ship. Some were monsters; others were monsters in training. It was time for her to be rid of them all.
T’shantra struggled to make sense of the controls. The Breen language was unknowable, whether spoken or written; the creatures’ obsession with opacity was infamous. In three minutes of searching, she had figured out how to seal the airlock and nothing more. She was running out of time and options. Closing off the ship would certainly draw attention; Orion forces could reboard Psocath at any moment. She rustled in her bag for a disruptor pistol—
—and then she saw him. One of the Breen warriors that had been piled in the corner was very much alive—and advancing across the bridge toward her.
“Stop!” she shouted, whipping out the weapon. She did not understand the squawks and squeaks coming from the gray-armored figure, but the Breen apparently understood her, stopping halfway across the deck and lifting his hands in the air. The Orions had at least remembered to strip the Breen bodies of weapons, even if they had been less than thorough in guaranteeing all their foes were dead.
The Breen chattered more. T’shantra didn’t know much about the Breen, but the creature seemed less fearsome than the others the Orions had faced. And more rational: a Klingon wouldn’t play dead. If that was the case, she thought, then perhaps there was a deal to be made.
“Do you understand me?” she asked. “Squawk once if you do.”
The Breen gave a low electronic snort.
“I’m not one of the people who attacked your ship. I’m trying to escape them. Do you understand?”
The Breen’s head tilted sideways a little. Then, another chirp.
She gestured to the interface. “I can get us away—but I need your help to activate the ship’s systems. You can help me—or I can shoot you.” She adjusted the disruptor. “This is on full power. It will chew through whatever you’re wearing.”
Her prisoner simply stood and watched. Was he ignoring her? Calculating? Was “he” even the right pronoun? There was no time to wonder. Hammering sounds came from beyond the hallway—and out of the corner of her eye, she could see images from the sensors. The Orion guards had noticed Psocath’s closed hatch, and were trying to get back in.
“You see?” she said, gesturing to the screen. “They’re going to get us both, unless you help.”
The pounding grew louder. She shook her head. “I’m wasting my time.”
Just as she aimed the disruptor, the Breen responded by reaching for his helmet. A hiss of air escaped as the seal opened. The naked face that looked at her was furry and golden, with a lupine muzzle and short fangs. Dark oval eyes darted between her and the screen. “I will do as you say,” he said in a rasping voice not much louder than a whisper.
T’shantra allowed the unmasked Breen to access the interface. The Breen touched the controls once before pulling back. He looked over at his dead comrades in the corner—and then at her. “This is futile. We will not escape the Orions’ tractor beam.”
“Leave that to me,” she said. She reached into her pouch and withdrew a handheld communicator. Composing herself, she pressed a key. “Leotis!” she cried out. “Leotis, it’s T’shantra. Please answer!”
“What is it?” replied an irritated Orion voice. “I’m busy. Someone’s messing around aboard the Breen ship—they’ve locked the hatch. And you shouldn’t be using Wogan’s comm unit, my dear. Unless you’re ready for me to buy you back from—”
“Leotis, Wogan is dead! Come quickly!”
The unmasked Breen studied her as she recited the lines she’d practiced. “I’m scared, Leotis. Please, hurry!” She raised an eyebrow, confident her performance would convince.
It did. “I’m sending the sentries on that deck to you. Be careful, T’shantra.”
“I will,” she said. She deactivated the comm unit and threw it away. “I just wish the bastard was going to look at Wogan himself.” She pointed to the Breen. “Hurry and start the ship. Don’t worry about the tractor beam.”
Puzzled, the Breen touched more controls. Psocath shuddered, its engines coming to life. “What was the meaning of your call?” he asked as the ship wrenched away from the docking clamps, turned, and lurched forward.
“They’re about to find Wogan. And when they try to move his body—”
Psocath shook violently, struck from behind by something metallic. The helmetless Breen grabbed at the interface with both hands, steadying himself. “I told you this wouldn’t work,” he said. “They’re shooting at us!”
“No,” T’shantra said. “Look.”
As Psocath cruised in a wide arc away from the pirate ship, the pair spied Dinskaar through one of the starboard ports. Several decks of the larger vessel were ablaze, with others venting to space.
“As I was saying,” she said as the Breen gawked, “moving Wogan triggered the grenade I tucked underneath him.”
“Just one grenade?”
“Did I mention his office was in the armory?” She looked outside with a canny smirk. “I suspect the magazine’s gone up. It won’t destroy the ship, but it’ll buy time to get somewhere.” She just hoped her stunt had taken out Leotis too.
The Breen regarded her, clearly impressed. After a moment, he asked, “The other Orions. They mistreated you?”
“You could say that. So I’m leaving.” Her grin faded. “I—uh, haven’t figured out where to go yet.”
“That I can help with,” he said as he turned back to the interface. “My people have . . . a facility near here.”
“Aren’t the Breen from the Alpha Quadrant?” T’shantra looked over his shoulder at the map display. She had seen plenty of maps in her father’s operations center as a child, and the Breen’s statement didn’t make sense to her. “I didn’t think you controlled anything around here. What kind of facility?”
The Breen said nothing. T’shantra filled in her own answer: The kind of facility no one knows about.
She grew anxious as her prisoner set the heading. “Who said I wanted to go to this place?” She fingered the disruptor trigger. “Listen, I’m not trading one prison for another. I just want to get away.”
“It is no prison, you will see.” Intelligent eyes looked back at her. “And among the Breen you will never be harmed again—one way or another.”
Two
The Breen had told the truth: their destination was no prison. Neither was it like anything T’shantra had ever seen.
The system—Jolva Ree, according to the star map—had no worlds hospitable to life. The Kinshaya ignored it, even though it was deep within their territory; there were no souls there to save. Leotis’s gang had avoided it, too, figuring its asteroids were of little use to anyone.
Anyone save the Breen. T’shantra had looked on with curiosity as her Breen prisoner directed Psocath toward a largish rock—and then in wonder, as hidden spacedoors opened to allow the vessel entry. Inside, she beheld dozens of armored Breen jetting in zero gravity around the shells of several colossal spherical vessels.
“A starship factory in an asteroid?” she asked as she looked out.
The Breen didn’t respond.
T’shantra stepped closer to the starboard port and stared outside. The Breen had more people at work than she’d ever seen, even including at the bazaar on Chelvatus III. The Orions she’d known had never built anything. They’d only taken. And what wasn’t worth taking, they abandoned or destroyed. To see so many beings laboring together toward a common goal was alien to her.
But something was odd. “Those aren’t Breen ships.” She looked back. “Are they?”
“The less you know,” the Breen replied, “the more options you will have later.”
T’shantra thought that a puzzling response. As Psocath nudged toward a firm lock between one of its undamaged ports and the docking gantry, she waved the disruptor. “You said I wouldn’t be a captive here.”
“You don’t have to be. But my people have a right to be cautious about you. Your people did attack mine—”
“I told you, they’re not my people.”
“And I believe you. But even the Kinshaya don’t know about this facility. You have come to a very secret place.”
“A secret place you must have been in a big hurry to leave, if Leotis was able to catch you.” She thought for a moment. “Or were you trying to reach it?”
The Breen looked at her. His eyes narrowed and he nodded. “Wait a moment.” He strode to the corner where several of his dead comrades lay. “You will be more comfortable if you wear a helmet where we are going.”
She stared at the headgear. “What, will I not be able to breathe?”
“That’s not the problem. All Breen are expected to wear helmets in public. And it will help with communication.”
T’shantra understood. She had never seen a Breen unmasked before that day. She watched as he knelt over one of the corpses and unlocked the snout-nosed helmet. “You may not like the smell inside this,” he said, “but it is for the best.”
The Hall of Heroes Page 1
