The Hall of Heroes

by John Jackson Miller

  The problem was that with Bredak’s death, the generation following consisted of six daughters fathered by Tengor—whose success in finding a mate Korgh considered a miracle worthy of story and song—and the late Lorath. None were old enough for responsibility, and in any event it would be difficult to campaign for their advancement when he had used General Kersh’s gender to thwart her control of the house.

  But Korgh would see the long row of offices filled by members of his line—and it had to start with the blood that remained. Knowing he had no chance of his words reaching Tengor’s brain before dinner, he had escorted them back to the dining hall, where he had a simple meal of gagh ready and writhing.

  It was over bloodwine at the end that Tragg remarked on the emptiness of the suites. “You should have slaves to feed you, Father, and to keep the place.”

  “I lived in this home for nearly fifty years as no better than a slave,” Korgh replied, “minding the affairs of absent lords. I would not be tended to by outsiders who could whisper and scheme.” Which was exactly what I did, he did not add. “Before that, I lived by my wits. I learned to feed myself. That is all any Klingon needs.”

  “Maybe not for Tengor,” Tragg joked, watching the lanky senior brother lick the inside of an empty bowl.

  Korgh shook his head and got to business. “You are here because I want to share with you that which I never had the chance to tell Lorath.”

  That got even Tengor’s attention.

  “In the past month, I have been setting the affairs of the House of Kruge aright. I think it has been done.”

  “Because of your hard work for years,” Tragg said. “You made the lords listen to you.”

  “Yes,” Korgh said, waving his hand in indifference. “The more important thing is that in my short time on the High Council, I have found that the Empire is in disarray—far more so than the house was, when I first went to work here.”

  Tengor nodded. “Damned Unsung.”

  “The discommendated wretches were just the final crack in the dam—an unsteady one built by Martok and those like him who placed too much faith in outsiders. It has burst, and we have seen the flood.”

  Tragg and Tengor nodded. Korgh was not about to give his whole stump speech to his own blood, but it was important that they understood where he was taking the family. “You have met some of the allies I have developed on Qo’noS. They feel as I do—as we do. It is our intention to make a move.”

  Tragg’s eyes widened—and despite the fact that the whole floor of the structure was empty except for them, he spoke in a whisper. “You intend to challenge Martok?”

  “Challenge him—and defeat him.” Korgh pushed aside his cup and clasped his hands on the table. “This is how it will proceed. I have asked for the chavmajta, and Martok has called for it to take place in the Federation Consulate in the First City. This was an attempt at a tactical delay. Let him have it. Unrest only grows while the renegades are at large.”

  “Agreed,” Tengor said. Korgh was glad they were following so far.

  “The chavmajta will commence, and I will make my charge against the Khitomer Accords. Riker and Martok will rise to defend them. But before Martok speaks—”

  Korgh rose from the table suddenly, causing the feet of his chair to squeak noisily against the floor. “—we will all rise,” he continued, “our brother councilors walking from the room, led by me. It will be seen across the Empire as it happens. We will go to the streets to rally the people. And when Martok emerges from the consulate, it will be to resign.”

  Tragg and Tengor stared at him. Then Tengor reached across the table for a jug that had something left in it and drank. Tragg gawked at Korgh. “You are sure he will step down? He will not seek battle?”

  “In private, he might challenge another. But an old man—one now thought a hero—is another matter, especially when I will be carrying through on a principled objection. He cannot defend the failings of Starfleet and the Federation. He will fall on his sword—or someone else’s.”

  Korgh began to pace around the long table. “I tell you this because there is a strong chance my allies will support me for chancellor. I am seen as a compromise by the hotheads—someone not expected to live long enough to bar their own accession. For the sake of stability, I must show everyone that the House of Kruge deserves not just to have leadership, but to keep it.”

  He reached the midpoint of the table between his sons and slapped his hands on the surface. “That is why I am immediately placing the two of you back into military service,” Korgh said. “We must have their support.”

  Tengor gawked—and Tragg was wide-eyed, dazzled. “The Defense Force?” Tragg asked.

  “Tengor,” Korgh addressed his elder son, “you will immediately enter with the title of commander, the same as the great Kruge. The battle cruiser Lorath will be yours.” He had just renamed one of the family’s home guard ships in Ketorix’s dry dock.

  Tengor blinked. “I do not want to return to the Defense Force, Father. I did not do well there.”

  “You only suffered because you thought you stood in the shadows of your brother,” Korgh said. He walked over and put his hand on Tengor’s shoulder. “Then you were the son of a loyal retainer. Now you are the elder son of the lord of the House of Kruge. You will command respect. No, demand it. Kill any warrior who does not obey you.”

  “That is the problem,” Tengor said, shifting uncomfortably. “I have aged. Four children and a factory job. It has been too long since I have had to fight for my place.”

  “In your position now there will be even more who will take up your fights for you. Do not hide behind them. Act like a Klingon!”

  Tengor straightened, or tried to. “Yes, Father.”

  Korgh turned to face his youngest. “You, Tragg, are hereby appointed head of the planetary guard here on Ketorix,” Korgh said. The better to keep an eye on you, he thought. “This makes you a general. The rank comes with the duty.”

  Tragg was flabbergasted. “I was nowhere near that rank when I left service!”

  “You are the son of the lord of the house. Ketorix is the seat of the house’s holdings. This is only right.” He pointed at Tragg. “It is your right. Claim it.”

  Tragg stood and pumped his fist against his chest and saluted. “I will do my best, Father.”

  It took several seconds for it to dawn on Tengor that he should stand as well. Korgh looked on him with a wan smile and dismissed them. He left to find another bottle of bloodwine—this one for himself. One could only build so much with wet sand.

  Sixteen

  U.S.S. TITAN

  NEAR THETA THORIDOR

  “Four suspect birds-of-prey, rising from the surface,” reported Ranul Keru, standing in for the absent Tuvok at tactical. “That matches the number of Phantom Wing ships remaining, Captain.”

  “Stay sharp,” Christine Vale said from the center seat. “We might have finally caught a break. You see them, Dax?”

  “We’ve got a read on them, Titan,” Ezri Dax said from Aventine, hundreds of kilometers off Titan’s bow. “They won’t get past.”

  “This could be it,” Admiral Riker responded from his position standing at the rear of the bridge. “Martok’s people just confirmed no Klingon craft are currently supposed to be here.”

  Vale’s heart raced. Titan had chased the Unsung for so long, both before and after Ghora Janto. Her crew deserved to bag them, but being in the moment felt otherworldly—like a gift had come from above. And with Riker returned from Qo’noS and observing on the bridge, it couldn’t have come at a better time.

  For her, for him—for the Federation.

  “No aspect change on the contacts,” Melora Pazlar, science officer, reported. “Definitely birds-of-prey. We’ve got some leaky cloaks over there.”

  “If it’s who we think it is, they’ve definitely been through a lot,” Vale said.

  Starfleet had been chasing the appropriately named Phantom Wing across the farthest reache
s of the Klingon Empire. With the House of Kruge’s home guard defending the already-searched frontier territory, Titan’s attention had turned to a lead developed by Chief Petty Officer Dennisar. Looking into the pattern the Unsung had followed of hitting pirate strongholds in and near Klingon territory for resupply, Dennisar had found a goldmine of information in Tuthar, a prisoner transferred from Enterprise at Ghora Janto. The two men, both Orions, stood on the bridge to the captain’s right. Chief Dennisar was minding his prisoner; Tuthar was so nervous about being an informant that she was afraid he might soil himself. But as much as he feared his own people, he feared going to a Klingon prison more.

  “That settlement they came from,” Vale asked Tuthar. “You’re sure it’s a pirates’ nest?”

  “Um—yeah,” he said, fidgeting. With the blood drained from his face, Tuthar’s skin was pale olive. “Theta Thoridor’s a safe house. The Empire never bothers us out here.”

  “They’re not backing off,” Keru said. Titan had been at red alert with shields up since the first detected signal. “Orders?”

  Vale resisted the urge to glance back at Riker. As sector commodore, it could be his show if he wanted—but he had let her make the play. “Photon torpedoes, full spread to their port. Aventine, can you do the same to their starboard?”

  “Affirmative,” Dax said. “Box them in.”

  “Torpedoes away,” Keru announced. Vale watched as they lanced out from Titan, accompanied by a flanking spread from Aventine. The warheads detonated, forming an emanating ring of destructive force bubbling outward—and inward, where energy coruscated over unseen spacecrafts’ shields.

  I count four, Vale thought. “Attention, unidentified vessels. Decloak immediately and drop your shields! I repeat—”

  “What right have you?” an enraged Klingon voice screamed over the comm. An instant later, four birds-of-prey shimmered into view—all still crackling with energy from the warning shots. “We are Klingons—in Klingon territory!”

  “You are not authorized to be in this system,” Vale said in her sternest voice. “This is the Starship Titan, with the joint task force seeking the Unsung. I repeat, drop your shields!”

  “Not authorized? By you?” A visual from aboard the lead bird-of-prey appeared on the main viewscreen. A hairy eye-patch-wearing male sat on a bridge that had seen better days, even before Titan’s and Aventine’s love taps. “We are no discommendated scum. You have no right to fire on us.”

  “Your chancellor says we do.”

  At ops, Lieutenant Ethan Kyzak whispered, “Captain, we have a priority one message. Starfleet Command. Admiral’s eyes only.”

  Vale’s eyes went wide. She looked over at Riker, who was similarly surprised. “That’s fast even for the complaint department,” he said.

  “Take it in my ready room, Admiral,” Vale said, and watched him leave. Several times before during their search of Klingon space, locals—particularly those conscious of the recent strains in the relationship between the Federation and the Empire—had wasted no time in making their displeasure known, including protesting to the chancellor. But this was ridiculous.

  “Identify yourself and stand down,” Vale said.

  “You stand down!” One-Eye replied. “I refuse to recognize your authority. This alliance is finished, haven’t you heard? Lord Korgh will make things right, as they should have been!” He clenched his fist. “Leave, before we fire on you!”

  Tuthar, who had been breathing heavily since before they opened fire, let out a squeak that sounded like the start of a statement. “Yes?” Vale asked.

  Tuthar pointed to a figure in the background behind the Klingon captain. “That guy. I know him,” he said unevenly. “He’s a trafficker—sells Klingon hardware to the Orions down on the surface.”

  One-Eye heard Tuthar’s voice and scowled. “You have a filthy rodent on your bridge, Titan. Perhaps I should help you with extermination.” As Tuthar cringed, the Klingon turned to command his cohorts. “Ready weapons!”

  “Proximity alert,” Keru declared. “Arrival from warp. Klingon battle cruiser.”

  Now what? Vale wondered. But it soon became clear from One-Eye’s alarmed reaction that the visitor wasn’t expected—or welcome.

  “Birds-of-prey beginning to move,” Keru said.

  A new voice came over the comm—an audio transmission from the battle cruiser. “This is Captain Klag of Gorkon. Attention, birds-of-prey: attempt to cloak or flee and we will blow you out of the stars!”

  The new arrival’s words nearly drove the Klingon on screen into a panic. “We are Klingon tradespeople, Gorkon. This Starfleet trash was harassing us—”

  “You will watch who you call trash,” Klag said, “you in decrepit vessels you should not have. Surrender or die!”

  The bird-of-prey cut its communications link with Titan, and One-Eye disappeared from the screen. Klag remained on audio. “Give them a moment, Titan. They cannot operate their controls while they are shaking with fear.”

  “Birds-of-prey are dropping shields,” Keru said. “They are powering down. Gorkon is beaming forces aboard their ships.”

  Vale leaned back in her chair and took a deep breath. Not the Unsung, after all. Some of the life seemed to go out of the bridge, she thought—literally in the case of the relieved Tuthar, who would have hit the deck had Dennisar not held him up.

  The approaching Gorkon appeared on screen just in time for Riker to emerge from the ready room. “Did I miss anything?”

  “Is that Admiral Riker I hear?”

  “Klag?” Riker, stunned to hear a familiar voice, smiled. “How is the son of M’Raq?”

  The Klingon he had served with during his exchange program experience aboard I.K.S. Pagh appeared on screen with a toothy grin. “My old sparring partner,” Klag said. “Martok sent me this way. What have you found?”

  Riker looked to Vale for the answer. “We think they’re here to sell to the Orions below.”

  Klag winced. “It is time we ridded the frontiers of these places—and the dishonorable Klingon curs who sell to them. Perhaps this Unsung business will set that in motion. We were returning from escorting a Breen ship to the border when we took Martok’s hail.”

  “Breen? On the search?”

  “Wandering around lost, as near as I could tell. Over at Cabeus, the middle of nowhere.” Klag shook his head. “They are unfit as searchers, much less allies.”

  Riker nodded. “It is good to see a friend, Captain.”

  “Always. Though passion may have strained, it must not break our bonds of brotherhood. Gorkon out.” The transmission ended.

  Riker did a double-take and looked at Vale. “Did a Klingon captain just quote Abraham Lincoln to me?”

  Vale chuckled. “I don’t know.” Then she remembered the message Riker had taken. “Anything you’d like to share?” she asked cautiously.

  “Yes,” the admiral said, remembering. “Is Aventine still on?”

  “Right here,” Dax said. “Admiral, do you want us to help Gorkon mop up? I know you’ll want to investigate below, in case the Unsung did visit here.”

  “We’ll handle that. There’s a special assignment from Command—and we’ll need Aventine’s speed.” He shook his head, incredulous as he reflected. “I’m not sure I can even begin to explain what it is . . .”

  Seventeen

  CABEUS

  Kahless had at last completed his tailoring. Worf had to admit that it was work well done: unicolor warrior’s garb, perfectly functional if not a perfect fit. The emperor had chosen to make that alcove with the flat boulder his home. Worf had billeted himself outside the rock, between Kahless and everyone else. Doubt and discord continued to roil the Unsung; while no one had made a menacing move toward either of them since that terrible moment in Chu’charq’s mess hall, Worf accepted the possibility that minds could change.

  He and Kahless were taking a late evening meal together, recalling the incidents that had brought them back together. Worf had a ba
ttle to tell of, in his escape from Thane; Kahless recounted his outsmarting of the tricksters.

  And then there was an uncomfortable matter for Klingons—an experience that, to Worf’s surprise, they had both shared.

  “What was the ailment you say you had, Worf?”

  “Tharkak’ra,” Worf said. “It is an exile sickness. I caught it aboard Rodak.” He frowned. “I am ashamed as a Klingon to say it laid me low.”

  Kahless punched his hand with his fist. “I think I had it, inside the hull. For two days I lay on a heat manifold, sweating and near death.” His eyes went wide with realization. “I thought it was from lack of bloodwine. If I had known it was a simple sickness that had felled me, I would have cut my own weak throat.”

  “It strikes all Klingon adults who spend time on Thane,” Worf said. “Perhaps it is better to consider it a rite of passage.”

  “Hmph.” Kahless looked away for a moment, and then his face grew serious. “You know, Worf, with the exception of what that fiend gave me, I have not had a drop of wine since Gamaral.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Thirsty.” Kahless laughed. “I do not miss it. Drink should be used to celebrate battles. Sitting out there on Cygnet IV all those years, I drank barrels I did not deserve.”

  Worf did not think it wise to comment, but inwardly he was glad to hear the confession. Kahless changed the subject, asking him about a suicide from that afternoon.

  Much of the unrest in the cave had come from arguments started or finished by Harch, who continued to seek an aggressive end to the story of the Unsung. Following his mentor Zokar’s death, it seemed he had lived for little else. But someone else, apparently, had even less to live for. A fortyish member of the Unsung who had ventured farther back into the cave system had thrown himself into one of the fiery vents.