The Hall of Heroes

by John Jackson Miller

  “But it’s what you want, isn’t it? If we decloak, we’re found by the next ship that passes over this canyon. Or perhaps you would have us call for help?”

  He said nothing.

  “It will not happen that way,” she said. “These people will do something worse. You saw how they felt before Kahless appeared. Now, knowing what he has told us, I cannot predict how they will act.” She looked at him urgently. “If we do nothing, the children on these ships starve—or worse.”

  Worf considered her words. It was true that there was no telling what the other Unsung would do. He needed to keep them from resuming their rampage. Without hope here, the situation could quickly deteriorate.

  “I think there may be something aboard that can help,” Worf said. “Come with me.”

  Eight

  BREEN WARSHIP SUSTAX

  DEPARTING CABEUS SYSTEM

  It’s a hell of time to be having a conference when a Klingon battle cruiser is looming less than a kilometer away, Shift thought. But Roje was confident of the encryption of the comm in his private office.

  Shift had done most of the speaking. Any nervousness at addressing Domo Pran had melted away as she provided a concise yet spirited description of her activities in Cross’s employ. Now Pran knew everything she had done. She had described Blackstone and its technical magic first. Its crew sat in Sustax’s brig, still deciding if they would cooperate. Onscreen, Pran sat silently, unmoved by her enthusiasm. Roje had calmly gestured for her to move on.

  The Unsung were a juicier topic. Shift had been there at the very beginning, when Cross had first tricked the discommendated Klingon exiles of Thane into thinking he was Lord Kruge back from the dead. She detailed how Cross had transformed them into a fighting force. She spoke of how Cross manipulated the Unsung into attacking Gamaral and H’atoria. Then, finally Ghora Janto, where he sent his thralls, no longer needed, to their presumed destruction.

  That piqued Pran’s interest. “Four Unsung vessels are unaccounted for, Chot Shift. Where are they?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “Cross had a detection algorithm aboard Blackstone that allowed him to find the Phantom Wing vessels when cloaked; it’s how we traveled with them without their knowing it. He was about to give the secret of the algorithm to Starfleet when I killed him.” She paused, suddenly doubtful. “I was afraid the Federation might capture them and take the credit.”

  “Your instincts were correct. Every day the Unsung are at large, the alliance between the Khitomer signatories suffers. If anyone should catch them, it should be the Confederacy.” Pran paused. “You have the algorithm. Why do you not have the Unsung?”

  Roje interjected, “It no longer works, Domo. The algorithm on Cross’s padd and in the Blackstone’s systems lost its ability to detect the Phantom Wing ships at almost the exact moment they were fleeing the battle at Ghora Janto. Whatever system was permitting the tracking has been shut down.”

  “Inconvenient. You have no idea as to where they would hide?”

  “Almost too many, Domo,” Shift said. “I had provided the Unsung with the locations of more than a dozen bolt-holes in and around Klingon space—locations my Orion slavers used to frequent. Cabeus, where we paused to repair Blackstone—they knew of as well.” It momentarily amused Shift to think that the Unsung might have been cloaked and hiding in the same system where the Breen had fixed the cloaked Blackstone, with neither party the wiser. But that was unlikely.

  “We cannot go looking for them now,” Roje said. “And that is not our mission.”

  “Agreed,” Pran said. “They have done their damage to the Klingon Empire’s relationship with the Federation. We need not worry about them.” With that peremptory dismissal, the domo demanded that Shift move on to the last, and most shocking, section of her report.

  She did so with zeal, knowing how explosive what she had learned was. By the time she was finished, Thot Roje sat back in amazement. And he had already heard it.

  “Korgh hired Cross and his truthcrafters. He supplied the Phantom Wing birds-of-prey. He chose the targets—and when he was done, he ordered his pawns’ destruction. And he would have destroyed Blackstone and her crew had Sustax not arrived to destroy his minions.” She snapped her fingers. “There is yet more. While Korgh is now the leader of the House of Kruge, he is not Kruge’s heir. He had the truthcrafters fake the vid of his adoption ceremony.”

  “Astounding!” Roje was excited. “Think of what we have here, Domo.”

  “Blackmail?” Pran seemed reserved.

  “At a minimum. We could have control of a leading member of an important Klingon house,” the spymaster said. “We could know all that went on in the High Council. The House of Kruge compound on Ketorix produces many of the Klingon Defense Force’s most advanced warships. Korgh could channel all that technology to us.”

  “You are mistaken,” Pran said, “if you think this Klingon would agree to that.”

  “We could reveal his complicity in the creation of the Unsung,” Roje said. “If that were to get out, Korgh would be destroyed.”

  “He would be of no value to us destroyed,” Pran said, “and he would know that. Your weapon is one you cannot use.”

  Roje froze. Shift noticed his body language—and cautiously nodded. “I admit I am also concerned by something, Domo. Korgh is fiendishly clever for a Klingon—he must have Romulan blood, somewhere—there are just too many angles for him to consider. He might not be able to keep everything hidden much longer.” She frowned. “The Korgh card must be played quickly, if it is to be played at all.”

  “Card? I do not understand the expression.”

  Shift shrank a little. “An Earth game I learned from Cross. If we wish to take advantage of what we know about Korgh, we might only get one chance.”

  Pran growled in frustration. “All this effort, Thot Roje—and I am not sure what you have. A ship that produces phantasms and a Klingon fraudster, both of dubious value. Why didn’t you seize the treasure ship, the Ark of G’boj, when you had the chance? Latinum would have been useful to our other operations.”

  “There were Starfleet officers aboard,” Roje said. “Had we remained on the scene, we might well have found ourselves outmatched.” The armored Fenrisal shifted in his chair. “Domo, because of this operation, we are on the verge of a major realignment of powers. Korgh wants to sever the Empire from the Federation, perhaps even realign it with the Typhon Pact—”

  “Have you heard his speeches, Thot Roje? He and his supporters would insist the Empire be first among any allies. This search for the Unsung has been a model for it: a Klingon operation with all the outsiders following their lead.” Pran shook his head. “No, this could go very wrong.”

  Roje’s voice rose in agitation. “Domo, it must be better than what we have now.”

  “You should have your visor checked, Roje, because you speak as one blind. The Romulans already treat the Confederacy as junior partners. The last thing we need is another ally lording over us. We must ever be the puppet masters—as you intended back in your plot on Garadius IV or with your accursed Jolva Ree operation. I can’t believe you’ve talked me into keeping that going. Yet another Thot Roje waste of time and resources!”

  “I knew you would bring that up,” Roje said. Jolva Ree, with its stillborn Breen fleet project, remained a sore point between him and the domo. “I also know you sent Chot Dayn there to report on me. If you want me to resign, Domo, you may—”

  Shift raised her gloved hand before Roje. “Wait.” She looked at Pran on screen. “Comrades, I have an idea . . .”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  CABEUS

  “—to recrystallize dilithium crystals while still in the warp chamber, use the following procedure—”

  Worf had guessed correctly. The tutorial padd he had found on Rodak existed in large numbers aboard Chu’charq, as well as the other three surviving birds-of-prey. Each contained the same files, explaining how to do various duties aboard
a bird-of-prey—many of them involving advances—like recrystallizing dilithium—that had developed in the hundred years since the Phantom Wing’s construction.

  The same flinty-voiced person narrated many of the files.

  “Do you recognize this woman’s voice?” Worf asked as those in main engineering listened to the recording.

  “Yes,” Valandris said. She looked at the padd with interest. “There was an old Klingon. She came to visit us on Thane, always beaming down to the hut of Lord Kruge—or whoever he was. She never told me her name, but she was the smartest person I have ever met. She delivered us to where the Phantom Wing was hidden—and then trained us in the ships’ functions.”

  “If she was with the tricksters, she may not have been Klingon,” Worf said. “She might even have been Cross or Shift in disguise.”

  “No, I saw the three of them together. But you are right. She could have been another pretender.”

  “I think there were only two,” Kahless said, arms crossed as he rubbed his back against the column he was leaning on. The clone had stripped off the jacket from the sensor-muting uniform he had been wearing for days, an act that had given him great relief. “Cross never spoke of a third actor. But she could have been one of the people aboard his ship.”

  Valandris shook her head. “I doubt that.” She asked Worf, “You said the ship had to stay close to us for the illusions to work, right?”

  “If it was like what I saw in Ardra’s case, yes.”

  “This woman accompanied me on several training flights that Kruge and N’Keera weren’t on. She went with us to the Hunters’ homeworld, beyond the Bajoran wormhole—that’s where she stole the technology behind our transporter systems.”

  Worf’s eyes narrowed. “You said she was old?”

  “Yes. Maybe even as old as Potok.” Valandris reflected for a moment. “Actually, I was with her when I first came to this place. Cabeus was a stopover—she had us practice landing in a cave near here. So she must have known about it.”

  Hemtara, who had been studying ahead on her own padd, looked up. “I think we may need that cave. The protocol she describes will work, but we will need to shut down everything on the birds-of-prey—including life support and the cloaking devices.”

  Valandris frowned. “We would have to do it on one ship at a time—and just transfer everyone off.”

  “There is risk,” the engineering expert said. “From what the other ships have told us, their dilithium crystals are equally decayed. If any one should lose their cloaks, the next passing ship could target us.”

  “This cave,” Worf said. “Is it possible to fly there?”

  Valandris called up to the bridge for a surface map. “The thrusters should get us to the cave,” Hemtara said. “But I wouldn’t wait to move.”

  Standing at the back of the gaggle, Harch spoke out. “More hiding?”

  Valandris’s head snapped back. “Yes, Harch. The ships are dying. What do you suggest?”

  “Why do you take suggestions?” Kahless said, a snarl in his voice. “Do you not lead this rabble?”

  She glared at him, impatient. While not exactly prisoners, Worf and Kahless had never been left alone. Valandris clearly thought his comment unwelcome. “There are no leaders among the Unsung. There was only Kruge. And before that, only General Potok.”

  “A fine thing. Nothing to aspire to.” Kahless put on a jacket someone had handed him. “Die arguing if you wish—but I need food. I have been living in the ship’s hull on runoff water from compressor coils and the few scraps I hid while I was hostage.”

  Several in the room departed for their own ships, intending to rendezvous at the shelter. Valandris left, but not before speaking with a few Unsung. They remained in engineering, making sure Kahless and Worf did nothing to escape or sabotage the vessel.

  That wasn’t Worf’s intent. Rather, he took advantage of the first quiet moment since Kahless’s arrival to clasp arms with the clone in a heartfelt greeting. “I am glad to see you, Emperor.”

  “And you, Worf, son of Mogh. I heard Cross say you had escaped the Unsung on Thane.” He studied the taller Klingon. “Why are you here?”

  “I intended to—” Worf said, before he stopped. “I came back,” he finally said. He decided it was better to leave it at that.

  Kahless nodded, seemingly understanding. Then he grinned. “You see? Still, no meal. I expect better treatment from my assassins.”

  Worf smiled back. “You have lost weight, Emperor.”

  “I do not recommend the diet.” He clapped his hand on Worf’s shoulder. “Come, let us see what swill there is to be found.”

  Nine

  FIRST CITY

  QO’NOS

  Kahless the Unforgettable lifted his bat’leth high into the air for all to see. Then, in a swift motion, he brought it down against the weapon held by the tyrant Molor. The villain struggled to remain standing—but Kahless’s might was too great. Molor dropped to one knee and cried out for mercy.

  Those watching the fight called out, jeering at Molor and chanting Kahless’s name. There were hundreds in the audience, perhaps more than a thousand, all gathered on the spacious grounds of Azetbur Square. Constructed following the Borg Invasion of 2381, the column-lined plaza provided the First City with a large meeting ground, perfectly suited for a Kot’baval Festival. While the actors reenacted the ancient Kahless’s triumph on the main dais, fire dancers entertained on other stages—and all around, Klingons ate and drank.

  Lord Korgh stood just behind the main stage and smiled for the first time since the deaths of his son and grandson, days earlier. Staging the fete had been a stroke of genius. Chancellor Martok would never have permitted a political rally of any kind on public space, and certainly not an event criticizing the Empire’s Federation allies. But Kot’baval, usually observed on the anniversary of Molor’s defeat, could be celebrated whenever the people’s spirit needed boosting. Martok could not possibly object to an event designed to remind Klingons about honor’s meaning—especially not when the scurrilous Unsung had spread terror.

  In fact, Korgh had secretly created the Unsung for the express purpose of shaking confidence in Martok and the Empire’s alliance with the Federation. That their trumped-up threat had made the gathering possible was an irony that delighted the old Klingon. The fact that he didn’t have to pay for the event was even better.

  “A great turnout,” said a Klingon dressed in a rich robe.

  “Your people did amazing work, Lord Qolkat.”

  “I spared no expense, Lord Korgh.” The ruddy-skinned Qolkat stroked his finely coiffed beard. “Our High Council colleagues could do no less to honor your son and grandson. I am glad it pleases you.”

  As long as you all keep trying to curry favor with me, Korgh thought, I will be happy.

  The allies Korgh had made in his brief time on the High Council were a gallery of the thwarted. Nimoe, Grotek, Satevech: all feared to challenge Martok directly, but would happily hide behind the robe of Korgh, their new and popular front man. They stood behind him now, ready to ascend to the dais with him so that they might be seen with the man of the hour. The new lord was the perfect vessel for their aspirations, a tragic newcomer able to rail against Martok’s policies without fear that the chancellor would challenge him to combat. There was no honor in fighting a Klingon of a hundred and twenty. Martok would never make that mistake.

  Qolkat, with his vast wealth, had been Korgh’s most important new ally. His father, Qolka, had long been an influential critic of the alliance with the Federation. While serving as gin’tak for the House of Kruge, Korgh had quietly cultivated the family’s friendship through business dealings. Qolka died defending the capital during the Borg Invasion, after which Qolkat had assumed his father’s title. But he lacked his father’s gravitas and political skills, and had been little more than a thorn in Martok’s side until Korgh joined the High Council.

  Qolkat’s support had allowed Korgh to sublet a good portion
of his political machinations. Qolkat had put his family’s name and fortune behind the Kot’baval Festival here on Qo’noS—and into similar events happening simultaneously across the Empire. Attendees there would hear the simulcast of Korgh’s remarks in Azetbur Square, greatly amplifying his message.

  “I wonder if the Unsung will strike at this event,” Qolkat said. “I would welcome the chance to break their necks.”

  “So would I,” Korgh replied. Qolkat, of course, had no idea of Korgh’s role in the Unsung’s creation. None but Korgh knew that the puppets’ strings had recently been cut. The cultists’ job done, Korgh had sprung a trap to destroy his cat’s-paws and the evidence of his treachery. The wretches had slipped free, killing his son General Lorath in the process. One-third of the Unsung’s forces were still at large aboard four birds-of-prey. Korgh had no idea where to find them. Now he was just as interested in their destruction as everyone else in the Empire.

  No, more.

  And he had no clue what had become of the collaborators of the illusionist Buxtus Cross. According to reports from Starfleet, Cross had been betrayed and killed by his Orion companion, Shift. She was missing, as was Cross’s technical crew and their ship, Blackstone. Korgh was certain they had a role in the death of Bredak, his grandson, but there was nothing he could do about it.

  He had House of Kruge investigators openly searching for both the Unsung and the killers of Bredak; there was no need for secrecy. No one would doubt he had a right. But while the Empire was already scouring the stars for the Unsung, he had a particular interest in making sure the illusionist’s crew was wiped out. Shift knew who he was and what role he had played in turning the discommendated exiles of Thane into the Unsung. She had to be eliminated.

  For now, Korgh could only wait—and continue his crusade, which grew ever more popular. After his son’s and grandson’s deaths, he could have surrendered to despair and suicide, or he could redouble his efforts against Martok and the Accords. He had chosen the latter—and it had given him a reason to go on.