“The pictures.” Shift ran her fingers across the page, which seemed to glow with her touch. “The drawings here of Jilaan’s feat are very stylistic, made to look like a fairy tale.”
“That’s what they do in the Annals,” Gaw said. “But there’s also the ribbon.”
“What’s that?”
“The bookmark.” Gaw gestured between the pages. “Take it in your hand.”
Shift took hold of the length of shimmering ribbon. One end was attached to the volume’s binding.
“Say, ‘Show me.’ ”
“Show me.” Seemingly responding to her command, it came loose from the volume. She ran the ribbon back and forth over her hands. “That’s odd.”
“Those are microfilaments in the bookmark, encoded with data,” Gaw said. “The books of the Annals—they’re not just histories. They’re truly spell books. If you board Blackstone or Houdini or Minerva or any of the truthcrafter ships and run the ribbons through the scanner, the imaging chamber will show you the characters the practitioner played.”
“What, holos of them?”
“More than that. The full characters Jilaan inhabited. All the modeling work—it’s all there. That’s why it’s such an honor to get your feat into the Annals. It’s more than just bragging rights. You’re contributing to a library of stock characters that all the practitioners of the Circle can draw upon.”
“Wait. I thought you said you never shared your tricks . . . how you did things.”
“With outsiders, no. But among colleagues, well, it’s an addition to the art. And besides, most people aren’t likely to ever use the same trick again. But if I’m helping my practitioner put together an act and I need a fat Gorn that walks with a limp, I’d much rather snag a character that Ardra’s people designed a quarter century ago.”
Shift closed the book and showed him the cover. “What about this? Could you help me do this?”
Gaw read the title—and his eyes narrowed. “Are you serious?”
“I may be.”
“You’re crazy. You’re looking at generating a very large illusion—huge. Much bigger than Blackstone can handle.”
“But the characters are already on the ribbon, right? You wouldn’t have to do any of the programming work.”
“Yeah, but the projection demands are immense. Jilaan could do it because Zamloch was enormous. Blackstone would need computer cores with another fifty thousand gigaquads to feed the emitter. I don’t know where we’d get that—or where we’d put it.”
“We’ll figure it out,” Shift said, placing the ribbon in a utility pouch. “Don’t go anywhere,” she said as she put her helmet back on.
“Is that a joke?”
Shift answered with a squawk, took the book, and hurried for the exit. As Gaw watched her go, he wondered what she had gotten him into, and why anyone would bother caring about something that had happened to the Kinshaya ninety-three years ago.
Thirteen
U.S.S. ENTERPRISE
ATOGRA SYSTEM, KLINGON SPACE
It was enough to make one dizzy, thought Jean-Luc Picard. There were approximately five hundred sixty thousand major comets orbiting the brown dwarf named Atogra, and over the last two days, the Enterprise had visited every one of them.
Actually, he knew that was an exaggeration—because he could hear the running count. “Nearing close approach to Cometary Body Atogra-878,” announced Lieutenant T’Ryssa Chen from flight control.
“Scanning,” came the response from the science station.
Picard scarcely gave the luminous object on-screen a look. It had been a marathon session for flight control, wearing down multiple shifts; Chen had taken over for Lieutenant Faur, who had been fighting exhaustion.
“No trace of visitation on the surface,” Science Officer Dina Elfiki said. “No signals from cloaked vessels.”
“Log Cometary Body Atogra-887,” Picard said. Realizing his mistake, he blanched. “Correction. Eight-seven-eight.” He looked up with a weary grin. “My apologies.”
The moment brought a welcome chuckle to the bridge crew, which proceeded to record its observations of a comet nobody had ever bothered to look at before, and which no one was ever likely to examine again. Least of all the Klingon Empire, which possessed the star. The Enterprise had not even been able to get basic charts of the planetless system; they were using the Federation Astronomical Survey’s name for it.
The only thing about the place that had ever been of interest was that at some point in the recent past, a very peculiar starship had activated its cloaking device in the system. Distant Klingon surveillance satellites had captured fleeting signals from the illusion-generating starship Blackstone’s imperfect cloak not once but twice over an eighteen-hour period, both episodes suggesting the ship had lingered near Atogra for some time.
And that made Atogra significant, or so Picard hoped. Across the Empire, other ships were hunting for the better-cloaked ships of the Unsung, who were suspected of having four operational birds-of-prey; Christine Vale’s Titan was leading several vessels in the Starfleet portion of the effort. Aventine had joined the search, having been recalled. Yet more explorations denied, Picard thought.
Enterprise’s quarry was different. First detected by his chief engineer, Commander Geordi La Forge, Blackstone had initially been sought as a potential clue to the location of the Unsung; however, Blackstone had apparently parted ways with the Klingon cult. But finding the ship, he hoped, would shed light on the Kruge plot, if not point the way to the remaining Phantom Wing ships.
The most aggravating part was that Picard had two members of Blackstone’s crew in his brig: a pair of Bynars named 1110 and 1111. Since their capture by Commander Tuvok and Lieutenant Šmrhová during an incident at Cragg’s Cloud, they had refused to respond to a single question. That was consistent with the behavior of Ardra, the technological illusionist Picard had tangled with nineteen years earlier; neither she nor her engineers had ever talked about their schemes or capabilities.
But that hadn’t stopped Picard’s crew from using something of Ardra’s in the search. “Give me a view of Houdini,” he said to his ops officer.
Houdini appeared on the main viewscreen, its two big nacelles forming a triangle with a large, third spire stabbing forward above the hull. Originally piloted by Ardra’s accomplices, Houdini had been pulled from storage by La Forge and Tuvok in the hopes that it would have its own means of detecting Blackstone, its twin in function.
“Hail Commander La Forge,” Picard said. “Let’s see if he’s got anything we’re not able to detect.”
“Aye, Captain.”
“Enterprise, this is Houdini,” La Forge said over the comm a few moments later. “No change in emissions detected by the ship’s sensors.” He paused. “At least, we think. It’d sure help if our Bynar friends could teach us a few things about the controls.”
Picard nodded. Perhaps they hadn’t found the right pressure point yet. “How is she handling, Geordi?”
“Like she’s been sitting in dry dock for nearly twenty years. Have any further signals been detected outside the system?”
“None, I’m afraid. The trail ends here. Which is why I’m hopeful Blackstone is holed up in or around one of these bodies.” Picard knew he was wishing out loud.
“Another possibility is they realized we tracked them to Cragg’s Cloud—and fixed their cloaking device once and for all.”
Picard took a deep breath. “Stay positive. Enterprise out.”
“Beginning approach to Cometary Body Atogra-879,” Chen said. The view of Houdini onscreen was replaced by another oblong comet. This one wasn’t in a state of eruption. “Three minutes until rendezvous.”
Hearing the doors opening behind him, Picard looked back to see Joanna Faur exiting the lift. “Permission to resume my station, sir. I’m feeling better.”
He glanced at Chen. “You’re relieved, Lieutenant. Thank you for pitching in.”
Chen rose, seemingly rel
uctantly. As Faur took the station, Chen headed up the steps to the captain’s platform, beyond which lay the turbolifts—only to pause and look back at the comet for several long moments.
Picard noticed her. “What can I do for you, Lieutenant?”
Distracted from her gaze, she withdrew. “Nothing, sir. Good hunting.”
The captain suppressed a sigh as he heard the doors close behind her. His crew’s zeal for redemption following the Gamaral massacre had propelled them a long way. But the inconclusive end to the Battle of Ghora Janto—plus the seemingly conclusive proof of Worf’s death aboard one of the birds-of-prey—had taken the wind out of everyone, himself included. Ennui had replaced eagerness. He was out of ideas.
“Nearing Cometary Body Atogra-879,” Faur announced.
“By all means, let’s have a look,” he said. He wondered if comets understood sarcasm.
Fourteen
CABEUS
Kahless put down the knife and flipped over the mud-colored material he had been working on. He lifted it with both hands and looked at it in the light from the ignited gas vent nearby. Thick and rugged—the hide of some beast the exiles had skinned on Thane. It would serve, he determined: a breastplate to wear over the vest he had already carved. He set it down on the flat-surfaced boulder he was using for a cutting board and went to work shaping a belt.
The clone had worn the same sensor-baffling uniform for days inside Chu’charq’s crawlspaces, but he had little desire to change back into his tattered robes. They stunk of the sewer pits of Thane. Nor had he any inclination to wear the clothing of his captors: he had already stooped to using their gear once and would not do so again.
He had learned to make his own clothes while living alone on Cygnet IV. While the new wardrobe might not fit perfectly, just looking at it made him feel refreshed. It also gave him something to do.
All around him in the great cavern, the Unsung went about their business—if their business was moping or quarreling like children. That is how Kahless saw them, regardless of the fact that many had drawn breath for more years than he had. He could not hear what they were arguing about, and neither did he care. All he knew was that his friend Worf had advised waiting—and while it was not Klingon to delay action, the stoutest heart could not force a dilithium crystal to repair itself any faster.
Ahead of him, two males in their twenties came to blows over their disagreement. One was named Nelkor; Worf had earlier described defeating the brash Klingon when he served as a guard on Thane. Kahless barely looked up as the two charged at each other, each shouting epithets as he sought to bowl his opponent over. Locked together, the pair tripped and slammed to the rocky floor, where they wrestled as they rolled. Onlookers hooted as the combatants tumbled in the direction of the boulder Kahless was using for a worktable.
“You are doing it wrong,” Kahless grumbled.
His words were barely audible over the din—yet Nelkor heard and looked in his direction. That gave his pinned opponent the opening to break free, and the struggle was renewed. Kahless watched with only the vaguest interest as Valandris approached the fight.
“What was this about?” she demanded of the young Unsung after the fighting ceased.
“They cannot agree whether it is better to kill themselves by knife or hammer,” Kahless said, before going back to work on his belt.
“I would have won,” Nelkor said. On his hands and knees, he pointed in Kahless’s direction. “The clone said something a minute ago. He distracted me.”
“I said you were doing it wrong,” Kahless said, carving at the material. “You seek to make a point—but you do not attack as though you intend to prove yourself right. This is play.” He gestured off to the side. “Go join the children, if you must do this.”
“I do care,” Nelkor said, flustered. “We were arguing about whether we should attack the Empire or go back to Thane.”
“I say you do not care. Your opponent does not bleed and neither do you. Your blades remain sheathed.” Kahless nodded to a cluster of rocks near the site of the scuffle. “You even had those stones in easy reach—yet neither of you went for them. The matter between you has not the slightest value to either one of you.”
Both scrappers looked at him, bewildered. “This is my friend,” Nelkor said. “I would not hurt him.”
“You bring shame to the concept of battle,” Kahless said. He put down the belt and looked up. “It is one thing to fight over nothing while drunk. We celebrate high spirits. Our honored dead battle one another for sport in Sto-Vo-Kor. But combat is a gift to the Klingons. Sober people do not waste it on insignificant disputes.”
Valandris glared at him. “What happens to our people is not insignificant.”
“So you say.” Kahless returned to his labors.
Valandris continued to stare at him for a moment, before turning to address the pair. “Go back to your ships and see if they need your help in engineering.”
Nelkor sneered. “You do not rule us. What makes you think you can order us around?”
“Because I make sure my opponents bleed,” Valandris replied. The young Klingons looked at her for a moment and then retreated to their separate ships.
Valandris lingered, watching Kahless. He was aware of her presence. “What now?”
“I am watching you work.” She gestured to the garments. “I thought you were an emperor, not a common laborer.”
“Who made the clothing your people wore, before the false Kruge gave you modern gear?”
“We made it. Out of necessity.”
Kahless laughed and made another cut. “butlh ghajbogh nuv’e’ yIHo’.”
Admire the person with dirt under his fingernails. The expression appeared to amuse her—but it was how he said it that prompted her next response. She repeated his maxim and said, “Your Klingon is . . . different from ours.”
“Your accent is strange to me. Mine is the proper form.”
“General Potok only wanted us to learn as much as we needed to communicate,” she said. “The rest of our vocabulary we took from the exiles who came to join us.”
Kahless glanced up from his work. “I do not understand this Potok. He told you of Kruge in loving terms—and he taught you in the use of starships so your descendants could leave one day, once their honor returned. Yet he would not give your children the customs they needed to live again as Klingons?”
“He was more open about that—once. But as the years passed and survival on Thane became difficult, he grew colder.” She looked down. “He forbade the teaching of many things. He thought language was a gift we did not deserve.”
Kahless scowled. As he understood it, Potok’s response to his people’s discommendation had in some ways been honorable. But in other ways, the man had clearly failed. It was possible to take things too far. “Wretched business,” he finally said.
Another fight broke out across the cave floor. Valandris looked back on it and sighed. “I must go.” She turned back to Kahless—and, after a moment, added, “Perhaps we will speak about language again.”
She started to walk away. She was several meters away when he called out. “Songs,” he said.
She turned. “What?”
“Songs,” he repeated, not looking up from his cutting. “That is where Klingons learn to speak as the ancients did. Where you will hear tlhIngan Hol as it should be spoken.”
Valandris’s head tilted. “We have no songs.”
He glanced up. “I am not going anywhere.”
She looked at him for a long moment—and then departed to quell her outbreak. As Kahless ripped through another section of hide, he started to sing to himself.
Fifteen
HOUSE OF KRUGE INDUSTRIAL COMPOUND
KETORIX PRIME
“Welcome, my sons,” Korgh said as he stood by the open door to the house residence. “You look good to an old father’s eyes.”
In fact, Tengor and Tragg looked about as they always did to him: disappointing. The lamen
ted Lorath had been an imperfect vessel for Korgh’s ambitions, but he had been the firstborn. By the time Tengor and Tragg were added to the family, Korgh was so deep into playing his role as Galdor, gin’tak of the House of Kruge, that he had little time to spend shaping their characters.
Not that it would have helped. Middle son Tengor loped in as he usually did, all arms and legs, saying not a word. He was so solemn some thought him mute, seldom opening his mouth except to fill his bottomless pit of a stomach. When he was younger, that, combined with his great stature, suggested the makings of a stoic general. But where height among Klingons usually coincided with great physical strength, Tengor had bad knuckles and all the coordination of a blind bok-rat. Few had been willing to fight alongside him.
And when he did open his hair-shrouded mouth, it was hardly worth the wait: “Have you eaten yet?”
“In time, Tengor. Patience.” Korgh turned to his youngest son, who needed no prompting to deliver a proper embrace. “How fares Tragg?”
“Well, Father.” A smile permanently affixed to his face, Tragg looked down the long hall in amazement. “I have not visited the palace since you were gin’tak. Reminds me of when I was a boy!”
Which was about fifteen minutes ago, Korgh thought as he detached himself from his shorter son. At thirty, Tragg was amiable but dim, always trying to earn approval by working toward the advancement of others, but never accomplishing anything on his own. In the company of friends, he had too often found himself talked into abandoning his and his family’s best interests.
Korgh had reluctantly forced himself to realize that his younger sons would not come to much. Both had entered the Defense Force, like their elder brother, but neither Tragg nor Tengor had made their marks. In the last decade, when Korgh had more control over the house’s assets, he had seen them both appointed to leadership roles in factories. Tragg got on well enough with the weaponsmiths he supervised, but Tengor’s lack of interest in his work had proved a problem again and again, requiring repeated repostings. Before Korgh took control of the House of Kruge, he had worried he was about to run out of places to send Tengor to.
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