The Hall of Heroes

by John Jackson Miller

  “Wait,” she said, stepping over. The corpse’s exposed head looked nothing like that of her fur-faced companion. The being had no nose at all—and a pale, scaly complexion. “He’s Breen too?”

  The hairy one looked back at her, fully expecting the question. “The Breen are not a single species—but, rather, a confederacy of several peoples with somewhat similar anatomies. I am a Fenrisal. Poor Jaan here was a Kalystarian. Our vocoder units translate our voices into a common tongue that only those wearing the helmets can understand.”

  He handed her the fish-face’s headwear. She retreated to the far side of the bridge, where, keeping the disruptor within easy reach, she put the helmet on. The smell did not offend her, but she saw nothing whatsoever. “What’s the idea?” she said, only to be startled to hear macabre squawking coming from the helmet’s public address system.

  “Just a moment,” she heard the Breen say. “I will have my armor transmit an authorization code so you may use Jaan’s helmet.”

  T’shantra waited—and within moments, the space inside the helmet came alive with light and sound. She saw the bridge around her in sharp detail, with various glowing captions in a strange language hovering near various things within her view. Including the form of her companion, who donned his own helmet.

  “Speak normally,” he said, his voice repeating clearly inside her helmet. “The systems will recognize your language and translate appropriately.”

  She did speak—and as she did, the characters in the captions before her eyes made sense. “Thot Roje,” she said, reading the inscription by the Breen’s figure. “Is that your name? Thot Roje?”

  “Roje, yes. Thot is my title.”

  “This is amazing.” She thought the helmet would be stifling, but the longer she wore it, the more the environment adjusted. “The air’s fresher inside than out.”

  “We spend a lot of time in them. It helps to be comfortable.”

  She heard a familiar sound: that of someone trying to open the sealed airlock downstairs. But inside the helmet, she heard it with such sharp clarity she felt as though she was in the same room, not a deck above. She gave a start as Roje moved toward the exit.

  “I must open the hatch,” he said. “Discard the weapon and I guarantee your safety.”

  “What good is your promise?”

  “I am head of Beta Quadrant operations for the Breen Intelligence Directorate. At least, I was yesterday.”

  “You might not be now?”

  “I go to find out.”

  • • •

  They had not made her a prisoner, but neither did T’shantra entirely feel like a guest. The quarters she had been assigned were nicely appointed and quiet, with her only visitors a number of interviewers asking about her life. She had continued to wear the helmet in their presence, and the conversations had gone easily. She had as many questions about her armored hosts as they had about her. As time went on, their reticence gave way to more candid responses.

  The helmet interface had already answered one lingering question for her: how the Breen told one another apart. It also alerted her to something when the spymaster returned to visit a few days later.

  “I see you are still Thot Roje,” she said.

  “For the moment, yes.” She could not see the Fenrisal’s expression inside his helmet, but her mind’s eye filled in the slight smile. “Was I wrong about your stay, T’shantra?”

  “No. Nobody has harmed me.”

  “And you have learned much about us, I take it.”

  “I have.” The Breen, she now knew, were the ultimate egalitarian organization. Not only did their armor put members of species with different physiognomies on the same footing, but it worked within races, as well: no one seemed to have any advantage or disadvantage over another due to birthright, physical malformation—or even basic attributes.

  Even seemingly positive attributes, she knew, could be a liability. Her beauty certainly had been. Among the Breen, she was just another being.

  Or not. “My people have liked what they have seen in you,” Roje said. “Strong aptitudes in several key categories.” He was apparently reading from something before his eyes inside his helmet. “Extremely strong scores.”

  T’shantra nodded. She knew even during their conversations they were testing her. “I know I can do things, Roje. I’m a good watcher. I learn fast. I’ve just . . . never had the chance to do anything important.”

  Roje nodded. “Let us walk.”

  He led her through the rooms that had been her world for the past week and into a long corridor. At the end, they entered an observation area looking out onto the massive hidden shipyard.

  “Same number of vessels,” she said, looking out. “But where are the people?”

  “I have spent this week winding down construction.” Roje stood off to the side, head low and arms crossed. “What else do you notice?”

  “Weaponry. Those are warships.”

  “They were to be Kinshaya Fervent-class combat vessels.”

  She blinked. “You’re building them for the Kinshaya?”

  “We were,” Roje said, shaking his head. “There should be hundreds of workers out there, T’shantra. But the Kinshaya revolution cast all of that into doubt.” He joined her beside the observation port. “I was returning here from Janalwa when your associates attacked.”

  “They’re no friends of mine.”

  “I know that now.”

  She’d had no reason to lie—though she was very good at that, if it came to it. Still, it felt good to be trusted. “You were helping the Kinshaya against the Klingons?”

  “That was the intention. The Kinshaya failed to hold H’atoria and Krios last year following the Borg Invasion, when their chances were optimal. Now that we’re allies in the Typhon Pact, our plan was to construct improved warships for them, with Breen officers aboard as . . . advisors, shall we say, to help them hold what they took next time around.”

  “Why can’t they build their own?”

  “The Kinshaya waste too much time in religious observances when they should be strengthening their military. They lack our drive. But these battlespheres aren’t ready and never will be, now that we have lost all control over the Kinshaya.”

  “Control?” She looked at him, not understanding. “Why do you need that? They told me Breen considered all creatures equal.”

  “The Breen are not the Federation, seeking others to join us. Nor are we the Borg, seeking to make others just like us. The Breen are the galaxy’s elite. A place with us must be earned.” He waved dismissively. “The Kinshaya are too mercurial, too untrustworthy. We ally with the Kinshaya through the Pact—and we channel their aggressions where it aids the Confederacy. But that is as far as it goes.”

  She nodded. An Orion pirate’s life was full of partnerships of convenience. “What will happen now?”

  “I leave shortly to report to Domo Brex, who is certain to relieve me of command. And we will destroy this facility.” He turned to her. “Soon it will not be a secret worth keeping. That’s half of why I didn’t fear to have you see this place.”

  “What’s the other half?”

  “You helped me.”

  T’shantra studied the mammoth spherical frames outside. Something occurred to her. “Wait a moment. How long would it take to finish these ships?”

  “Construction of this fleet was projected to take three to four years.”

  Three to four years! Nobody T’shantra had ever known had such patience. “If the Kinshaya weren’t going to be able to use the fleet until then, what does it matter if you’ve lost control of them now? You just have to get it back when you’re ready.”

  Roje seemed startled by the thought. “We could be building them for nothing. I would not like to lie to Domo Brex about my prospects.”

  “You’re not. You have one plan to build ships—and you make another plan, to get control back. As long as you’re honestly working on each track, there is no lie.”

&n
bsp; Roje looked back out at the darkened construction area—and then nodded. “We’ve invested much,” he said slowly. “It’s worth considering. But there’s no guarantee of success. There are many Kinshaya factions in play, more than we understand—but it’s clear Breen are no longer welcome on their worlds. It will require many agents, and I have few in this sector who are willing to sacrifice their Breen equality for as long as it would take to operate undercover.”

  “I’ve never known any equality,” she said. “I’ve had to shift allegiances every day of my life, from one owner to the next. I’m good at figuring out what’s what.” She looked back at Roje. “Could I earn a place with the Breen?”

  He appeared to study her. “Perhaps,” he said, after a long moment. “If you pass further tests, I have the power to admit you to the Confederacy. We have an orientation program for someone with the right abilities and outlook. There could be intelligence opportunities for you, in time.”

  The thought excited her. If she never saw another Orion again—or her own face in the mirror—it wouldn’t bother her at all. The fact that the Breen had been known to target her former slavers was a happy bonus. “T’shantra of the Breen,” she said, trying it out.

  Roje laughed. “You would never be allowed such a gaudy name among the Breen. Our names are short, communicating our equality and function. For an intelligence agent, a name might bespeak of a trait or talent.”

  She thought for a moment before it occurred to her. “You want me to change people’s allegiances—and my own,” she said with a smile that only she knew about. “Call me Shift.”

  ACT ONE

  THE WAY OF WARRIORS

  2386

  “The dust of exploded beliefs may make a fine sunset.”

  —Geoffrey Madan

  Three

  U.S.S. AVENTINE

  NO’VAR OUTPOST, KLINGON EMPIRE

  I hate this place, Captain Ezri Dax thought as Starship Aventine went to red alert. Every time I come here, something crazy happens.

  Another photon torpedo detonated several kilometers to starboard, its blast merely kissing the Vesta-class vessel’s shields. A subsequent flash dead ahead was closer, triggering the main viewscreen’s brightness filters and shaking the bridge crew.

  “Evasive action,” Dax ordered. The black-haired Trill captain had ordered shields raised moments after the first attack. “Back off—and keep hailing until you get someone!”

  If they could hail, that is. Weeks earlier, Aventine had gotten what all aboard had longed for: the chance to do some serious exploration, taking advantage of the quantum slipstream-capable vessel’s unmatched speed. Dax’s crew had spent many weeks exploring a stellar nursery in the Zalkon Sector, far beyond the Romulan Star Empire. It was expected and understood that Aventine’s proximity to the intense radiation sources would keep it out of contact with Starfleet Command.

  What wasn’t expected was that ionization damage to her vessel’s subspace transceivers would keep the ship incommunicado during its return through warp space. Her crew was still feverishly trying to bring the system back online. “Lieutenant, who’s out there?”

  “D’pach. Klingon battle cruiser, Vor’cha-class,” declared Lonnoc Kedair. The security chief’s green, scaly fingers quickly worked the controls on the tactical interface. “She started firing as soon as we came out of warp. Aim’s not improving. I’d say they’re warning shots.”

  “D’pach,” repeated Sam Bowers, her first officer. “Captain, we saw her on our last visit to No’Var Outpost.”

  Our last visit. Maybe that explains it, Dax thought. “We’ve got an itchy trigger finger over there—or someone with a grudge. Put some distance between us, so they’ll see we meant the outpost no harm. And hail them with everything we’ve got.”

  Aventine had a past with No’Var Outpost, and not a good one. Several months before, in what had become known as the Takedown Incident, a foreign power had used Aventine and its weapons to damage the outpost’s communications array. No one had been injured and Aventine’s crew had been faultless. Dax had routed their return here as a goodwill gesture, intending to offer her technicians’ services if any more repairs needed to be made.

  The captain had acted as the codicils to the Khitomer Accords had directed; with subspace comms down, Aventine had dropped out of warp far from the asteroid-strewn neighborhood of the space station. That hadn’t been far enough for D’pach’s captain, evidently. The battle cruiser wasn’t taking a refusal to engage as an answer.

  “They’re pursuing, sir,” Kedair said.

  So much for goodwill, Dax thought. It didn’t make sense. The Klingons were the best about threat assessment. “We’re not going to—”

  “Comms back up,” Mikaela Leishman announced from her station.

  The instant Aventine’s chief engineer finished her sentence, a broken-toothed Klingon behemoth appeared on screen. His voice boomed across the bridge: “—repeat, Starfleet vessel NCC-82602, this is Thagon, acting outpost commander. Drop your shields and surrender!”

  Bowers looked at her, astonished. “Surrender” wasn’t the greeting of a friend. But neither were photon torpedoes. Dax stood and addressed the screen. “Commander, our shields are only up because you fired on us.”

  D’pach answered with another photon torpedo, aimed wide over Aventine’s bow. It passed without detonating. “What’s your business, appearing unannounced?”

  “We’re visiting a friend and ally,” she replied. “Our subspace comm systems were down.”

  Thagon snorted. “More Starfleet incompetence. We’re on high alert, based on reports that the devils you let out were in the area.”

  “Devils? What devils?”

  “Don’t play the fool. I have half a mind to—”

  “New arrival from warp,” Kedair interrupted.

  Dax rolled her eyes, wondering if the new ship would make things better or worse. “Identify.”

  “Another Vor’cha,” the Takaran said. “Gur’rok. General Kersh’s ship.”

  That’s your boss, Dax thought as she saw Thagon’s surprised reaction on screen. She took the chance that Kersh would be reasonable and ordered a hail to Gur’rok on the open channel D’pach was on. “General Kersh, this is Captain Dax of Aventine. Your sentry has been firing on us!”

  “The Aventine. So there is no end to the plagues on our people,” said a gravelly female Klingon voice Dax had heard before. “Stand down, Thagon—now!”

  On screen, Thagon looked flustered. “General, they arrived without warning, just as they did before.”

  “I remember,” Kersh said icily. She was on duty when Aventine had made its controversial first visit to the outpost. “Follow my command, Thagon. For what little use they are, we are still allies.”

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Bowers said under his breath.

  Thagon went stone-faced—and made a hand gesture to his crew off to the side. “I do not regret defending my post,” he said. “You lost control of your ship before, Captain Dax. It could have happened again.” He vanished from the screen.

  “D’pach peeling away,” Kedair said. “It’s dropping shields.”

  “Drop ours,” Dax ordered. “Full stop.”

  Now the dark-skinned general appeared on screen. Kersh’s tone was acidic. “You must be mad, Captain, showing up this way. You are not on Thagon’s list.”

  Dax explained about Aventine’s comm system issue, and their intentions in visiting. But then her eyes narrowed. “Wait. List? What list?”

  “The list of expected visitors—of approved travelers in this region.”

  “We’re a Starfleet vessel, General. The Khitomer Accords guarantee reciprocal free transit between our peoples.” She stared at Kersh. “One doesn’t look over the shoulder of a friend.”

  Kersh wore a wry expression. “Even a friend who has disappointed us in the past?” The Klingon woman shook her head. “Thagon was within his rights to worry. There are enemies of the Empire on the loose—and
they have shown they can beam through your shields. Thagon feared your ship had been commandeered—again.”

  That nearly left Dax speechless. “Enemies? What enemies?”

  A tone sounded—and at ops, Oliana Mirren spoke. “Subspace hail from Enterprise for you, sir. Priority one.”

  Kersh let out a disgusted sigh. “I’ll let them tell you. I am tired of thinking on it.” Her frown returned. “Do not test my hospitality, Captain. I have a hunt to return to.” The general disappeared from the screen.

  Bewildered, Dax composed herself and sat back down. “Dax here, Enterprise.”

  If the sequence of events since arriving in Klingon space surprised her, the familiar Vulcan voice speaking over the comm simply added to it. “This is Commander Tuvok. What is your status, Aventine?”

  “We’re fine. Just a misunderstanding with the Klingons,” Dax said, blinking. “I’m sorry, Commander. I was told the Enterprise was hailing us, not Titan.” She shot a puzzled look at Mirren, who shrugged.

  “There is no error. As a result of the crisis, I am currently stationed aboard Enterprise. We have just heard about your arrival there from the chancellor’s office.”

  Dax’s eyes bugged. She looked at Bowers, who said, “Someone already told the chancellor?”

  Tuvok evidently heard the comment. “The occupants of No’Var Outpost sent the message when you entered their system unexpectedly. Chancellor Martok contacted Admiral Riker, who contacted us.”

  “That’s fast,” Dax said.

  “We are on high alert,” Tuvok said. “You were not on the Klingons’ list.”

  The “list” again, Dax thought. She hoped her officers weren’t watching as she gripped her chair’s armrests tightly and let go to release tension. Forcing a polite smile, she asked, “Commander, we’ve been out of communication for a few weeks. Could you please fill us in?”

  “That is my intent. But there are portions of it we should discuss privately, on a secure channel. This matter is of the utmost seriousness.”

  “I’ll bet.” Dax stood. “Stand by, Tuvok.”