The historical pantomime ended, he climbed to the stage to raucous cheers. “Korgh! Korgh! Korgh!”
Korgh! Protégé and heir of Commander Kruge, the great and unfairly maligned conqueror who sought to protect the future of the Empire against the likes of his eventual murderer, the Starfleet thug Kirk.
Korgh! The savior of the House of Kruge, the dutiful caretaker who had loyally defended his mentor’s estate for fifty years without ever once seeking wealth or glory.
Korgh! A noble example for the age—and a connection to a time when the Klingon Empire was unrestrained by constricting alliances.
All these things, the master of ceremonies said—and it was no mistake that the speaker was the actor playing Kahless. The actor turned and presented his bat’leth to Lord Korgh. Grasping it with both hands, the old man thrust it over his head.
Korgh, heir of Kruge! Protector of the Empire’s honor!
Korgh reveled in the adulation for long moments, remembering every year of the hundred that had brought him to this place. Then his arms dropped, and the crowd hushed, anxious to hear the speaker who had taken the High Council by storm.
“I will not thank you for coming,” Korgh said. “For it is we who have given you a gift, showing you, on this stage, the unforgettable acts of honor which made our Empire great. There could be no better time to remember the true Kahless than in the wake of the assassination of his clone, our emperor.”
Cheers for the emperor—louder and more passionate than those he had received. Korgh hastened to continue. “You all know what happened at Ghora Janto. After all the fumbles by the chancellor’s regime and his Federation cronies, we have finally begun to avenge the emperor. My son Lorath, the great general, gave his life in destroying most of these outcasts, these Unsung. We have culled their numbers—the rest are on the run!”
Now the chants were of Lorath’s name. Korgh listened with satisfaction. “My son fought alongside many valiant warriors. He led a force attended by ships from the Romulan Star Empire, the Breen Confederacy, and, yes, Starfleet.” Catcalls and hisses greeted each name—but Korgh was quick to turn the point back on the crowd. “We did not accept aid out of weakness. Rather, they were eager to follow our lead—which is why our attack was successful.” He raised an eyebrow. “It must have been educational for Admiral Riker to see what a victory looked like!”
Korgh got the laughter he wanted, and more. If any members of the Klingon public had not previously known of William T. Riker, the old lord and his comrades had remedied the situation. In High Council sessions after the Gamaral massacre, Korgh had hammered Starfleet’s performance, making capital of every one of its shortfalls, real or manufactured. After the Unsung attack on Spirits’ Forge, where Riker was present, Korgh had brought his criticisms to a wider audience—and zeroed in on his chosen scapegoat. Riker had been convenient, but anyone would have done.
His message had gotten through. “Curse the Federation,” called one listener. “Praxis is past! Damn the Accords!” said another.
“The Federation stands with the Empire!”
Korgh scanned the crowd for the new voice. “Who speaks?”
“Alexander, son of Worf!” The gaggle parted to allow the young Klingon to be seen. He stood strong before suspicious eyes. “Starfleet vessels fought alongside your son at Ghora Janto, my lord—and our forces search for the Unsung with the Empire now. These are the acts of a loyal ally!”
Several Klingons in the crowd shouted approval; others, derision. Korgh could not have been more delighted at the speaker’s identity—and the dais with its address system gave him the advantage. “We have among us today the ambassador of the Federation, Alexander Rozhenko.” Korgh drew the name out long, knowing just how alien it would sound to his listeners. “Welcome to our event, Ambassador. I am sure this celebration is quite novel to you—as you are a visitor to our Empire.” Guffaws rose from the crowd.
“I know the Kot’baval well, Lord Korgh. My father took me to see it on Marenga IV when I was a child.”
“I see. And what are you now?”
More laughter.
“A comrade, in battle and peace!” Alexander looked around. “My father escaped the Unsung once, yet he volunteered to face them again in order to protect the Empire. He is missing, and may have given his life. Yet he—and I—would give no less for our valiant friends.”
Korgh pursed his lips and contemplated a response. He had heard through channels that Worf had vanished. “The two of you are Klingons,” he finally said, deciding on a tack. “We would expect no less from you. How, then, is this an example of Federation loyalty?”
“The Federation’s loyalty equals ours. They have been the Empire’s friends for nearly a hundred years!”
“When you have lived nearly a hundred years, young man, perhaps you will see things more clearly.” Korgh paused. “Or perhaps not. This is why I have called for the chavmajta—a record of our joint accomplishments with the Federation—to be recited before all.”
Many in the crowd voiced surprise. The ritual Korgh and his allies had demanded had not been public knowledge—but it was now. “I have challenged Admiral Riker to speak for his people in the rite. If the Federation is truly worthy of our future trust,” Korgh said, “let them demonstrate how valuable they have been in the past.”
The crowd rumbled with excited conversation. The chavmajta was the unhappier cousin of the ja’chuq, a similar ritual performed during the Rite of Succession. The difference was that it was not an application for a high office. It meant that one ally had failed another and had to justify their continued partnership. For the Federation, it was a dressing-down. For Korgh, it was another stepping-stone.
He quieted the throng. “Many of you here—and listening across the Empire—have fought alongside Starfleet officers against the Dominion, the Borg, and others. I honor your service. In fact, I believe that under scrutiny, under questioning, we would find that the heroics were all Klingon. Just as we found that the Federation lied to us, in providing a haven for a hundred years to the dishonored trash who now threaten us—the Unsung!”
The cheers rose again as Korgh retreated from center stage, drowning out the ambassador’s shouted response. Korgh looked to see his council allies grinning. And for only the second time in days, he smiled too.
“Well played, Korgh,” Qolkat said.
“Agreed,” said Grotek, the scarred loudmouth. “What next?”
“Things will take their natural course,” Korgh said. “And certain things will receive a push. Grotek, I will tell you what I need you to do . . .”
Ten
THE CHANCELLERY
QO’NOS
“Here’s one,” Riker said, studying his padd before the firelight. “General Korrd once worked with Spock to rescue Kirk beyond the Great Barrier.” He looked up at the chancellor. “That took place before the Accords, but it’s cooperation, for sure. Should we include it?”
“We have gone over this already,” Martok said, letting his frustration show. “Spock assisted the exiles who became the Unsung. It is better not to mention him.”
“Understood.” Riker didn’t accept the premise, but it was late and there was no point in pressing the matter. Sitting in a room littered with Klingon historical texts, the admiral shook his head. It was folly, trying to tell of the early days of the Federation/Klingon friendship without somehow mentioning Spock, Kirk, and the rest of Enterprise’s crew. Yet that was the needle he was being forced to thread.
The chavmajta was the Klingon equivalent of a call for a no-confidence vote: he and Martok had to put on a defense. An audience of High Council members would listen to the litany of valorous acts and judge the partnership worthy, if Riker and Martok did their jobs right. But Lord Korgh, who had skyrocketed to prominence, would be prosecuting the case against them and would no doubt leap on any mention of Kirk’s Enterprise. The same went for the Enterprise-E, which was seen as responsible for failing to stop the massacre at Gamaral. Ho
w did one spin tales of heroism without mentioning the heroes?
“I will speak of the Battle of Cardassia,” Martok said. “It would be better coming from me. But I think we should move Narendra III to the end.”
“Is there a problem including that?” Riker said. “An Enterprise was involved there too.”
“Captain Garrett gave her life honorably. If Korgh’s cronies do not like hearing the ship’s name, let them choke on it.”
Riker had grown ever more concerned during recent days over Martok’s political situation. The ascension of Korgh to the control of the House of Kruge, combined with the Unsung crisis, had put the chancellor in a bind. His rivals said the Accords were contrary to the interests of the Klingon Empire. In Riker’s experience, Martok had been direct and honest: a warrior elevated to chancellor, he was not always cognizant of the intrigues of the ambitious people around him. Riker’s official mission was to preserve the Khitomer Accords, not to protect a valued personal ally. But he felt loyalty was important—and no one doubted what a Chancellor Korgh might do if given power.
The admiral could not let it come to that. They had decided to stage their preparatory meetings at Martok’s private office at his residence, just behind the Great Hall in the First City. The chancellor had an official workspace in the hall, but pointed out there would be fewer difficulties if they met in private.
However, one expected visitor belatedly arrived, accompanied by one of Martok’s aides. Riker set down his padd and looked back at the doorway, astonished. “Ambassador, are you all right?”
“I am fine.” Alexander Rozhenko walked inside, favoring one leg. His face was bruised, and his diplomatic uniform was torn and dirtied. “The wounds will heal. But I am angrier than I have ever been.”
Martok and Riker stood as he approached. “Who did this?” Martok said, boiling. “Who attacked you?”
“It was not so much an attack as a riot. I was at the Kot’baval Festival—the one Qolkat staged on the square.”
“A riot!” Martok grabbed his aide by the arm. “Why is this the first I have heard of a riot?”
The burly aide looked shaken. “You told us you wanted to hear nothing about Qolkat’s celebration, my lord.”
“Get out!”
The aide retreated. Lord Korgh was getting under Martok’s skin. Riker cleared a space amongst the books for Alexander to sit. “How did it happen?”
The ambassador described the event, which had turned into a rally against the Federation, as well as his confrontation of Korgh. “One of the other speakers took the stage after Korgh left—Grotek.”
“Bah!” Martok growled. “Now it becomes clear. Grotek is a walking sonic grenade.”
Alexander rubbed the side of his jaw. “He started railing against Azetbur.” The daughter of Gorkon, the square was named for her. “He said it was wrong for her to agree to the Accords—and wrong that the Empire ever made her chancellor.”
Riker’s eyes widened. He looked to Martok. “That’s bold.”
Martok waved it off. “The more reactionary councilors have held that grudge forever. They say a male would never have sought peace.”
“Really?” Riker replied. “Have they met any Klingon women?”
Martok laughed. “It is an old belief that dies hard. Qolkat’s father fought me, hammer and tong, when Kurak, daughter of Haleka, sought to lead the House of Palkar.” He snorted. “Would that I had only given Kruge’s house to General Kersh, as she had asked, Korgh would not vex me today.”
I wouldn’t be so sure, Riker thought. “Then what, Ambassador?”
“Grotek started in about the Unsung, and discommendation,” Alexander said. “He blamed you and chancellors past, my lord, for not simply putting dishonored citizens to death. He railed about the Federation, and how Spock had given aid to Potok’s people. He said that my father should not have recovered his name. He suggested that because of that, I feel sympathy for the Unsung.” Alexander paused, gritting his teeth. “Then he suggested my father had given them Kahless—and that he had run away to join them!”
“Oh,” Riker said. He was hoping there hadn’t been a diplomatic incident—but clearly matters were past that. “Who threw the first punch?”
“I tried to head for the stage, but someone in the crowd blocked my way. My supporters—veterans, I think—pushed back.” Alexander rubbed his forehead. “I’m not sure who struck first. Once it started it got very confusing.”
Martok was beside himself with anger. “You are my honored guest on Qo’noS! Any attack on you is an attack on me!”
“I don’t think they cared,” Riker said. “This is why you had us stop work on the Federation Consulate—the protesters outside have made proceeding . . . difficult.”
“Morath’s blood!” Martok declared. “I will not be pushed by this old man and his mob. Korgh’s allies are little better than the nobles who ran the House of Kruge before him.”
“Ne’er-do-wells?” Riker asked.
“Some never do anything. Others, like Grotek, only do the wrong thing. Korgh had been manipulating such people for years as gin’tak. It has taken him only weeks to become their champion.”
After a pause, Riker looked again at Alexander. “Why did you go to the Kot’baval? You knew what it would be like.”
Alexander sat silently for a moment. He looked up once at Martok before speaking. “This assignment is an honor. But these weeks . . . have been a trial.”
Martok chortled. “The Klingon Empire concurs.”
“The emperor was slain. My father has gone missing—twice—and I have been able to do nothing.” Alexander shook his head. “But Father took me to a Kot’baval. I thought that going, and hearing the words of Kahless, would revive me.”
Riker nodded. “Did they?”
Alexander looked up. “I was reminded of his tenet, ‘Leave nothing until tomorrow.’ ”
“He also said we should seek adversity and face it directly,” Martok said. He curled his fingers into a fist. “I have had enough. We will show Korgh we have no fear—and we will start with this: he may have demanded the chavmajta, but he is not able to dictate where the event takes place.”
Riker looked at Alexander—and then back to the chancellor. “You don’t mean—?”
“We will stage the event at the Federation Consulate. Your expanded, completed consulate—which will be finished by Klingons in honor of our fellow warriors in the Federation. And those Klingons will march proudly into the facility—not transported—accompanied daily by an honor guard. If anyone would assault them, they had better like the sight of their own blood.”
The ambassador smiled. “It would certainly send a message,” he said. “A High Council meeting on Federation soil. Chancellor Martok, we would be honored.”
“A way to convey our mutual trust,” Martok said.
Realizing what the idea entailed, Riker was hesitant. “I’ll need to bring in a team to put together an event that size.”
“You have such a team on Titan,” Martok said, “which is already in our space. The team that saved the fortress at Spirits’ Forge. It is right that they should have the honor.”
And it would further tweak Korgh, Riker thought, who has been casting Spirits’ Forge as a failure for both the Federation and the Empire. Riker agreed. “I can have Lieutenant Xaatix organize a team and take a runabout here. I want to keep Titan in the search.”
“Fetch them yourself,” Martok said, his expression wry. “I know you have been restless to be a part of the hunt.”
Startled, Riker gestured to the padds and documents. “Chancellor, this is my place. Here, preparing for the chavmajta.”
“The decision to stage the event in your consulate buys us time,” Martok said. “You can study on Titan. It would show you have no fear of the ritual.”
“Go, Admiral,” Alexander urged. “I can coordinate with the chancellor. I will enjoy preparing the consulate for our honored guests. It is something important to do.”
/> Riker scratched his beard. “It would be good to be up there,” he said, nodding. “Should we capture or stop the Unsung, would there still be a chavmajta?”
“Yes,” Martok said. “But it would surely be a capstone for our argument.” He smiled toothily.
“You’ve sold me,” Riker said. At that, he picked up his padd. “But as long as I’m here, there’s more to do. If you’re willing to lend a hand, Ambassador, we could use a section on the Borg Invasion.”
Eleven
CABEUS
Sarken knelt and picked up a pebble off the smooth floor. “Are all caves this big, Worf?”
“A few,” he said. His words did not echo; the chamber was that large. When Cabeus had been closer to its star and more volcanically active, the lava tube had been the source of an enormous outflow, creating the fanlike golden shield that spread beyond the cavern’s opening. Inside was more than enough room for four birds-of-prey to park—and for children who had been cooped up aboard ship to run.
Not young Sarken, who lingered by Worf’s side. She had protected him while he was on Rodak, and he had saved her life when the ship was destroyed. The orphan seemed fascinated by the golden world around her.
“Where does the fire come from?” she asked, pointing to the pillars of flame venting upward, providing light and heat to the space.
“Gas from beneath the surface.” On the flight here, he had seen the smoke venting through natural fissures above the landform—a common sight on Cabeus. No one would suspect the cave hid the squadron, unless they took a very detailed scan.
No guards watched him. There wouldn’t have been any point. The birds-of-prey were all dead, their systems offline while the Unsung’s engineers struggled with the dilithium recrystallization procedure. Their comm systems were of no use to him, and he and Kahless could not commandeer a bird-of-prey alone. Nor was there any place to run.
While no one was watching him, he was hardly alone—not with most of the population of the squadron in the cavern. He marveled at the contrasts before him. As children dashed about, exultant at having room to roam, the adults were far from happy.
The Hall of Heroes Page 6
