The Hall of Heroes

by John Jackson Miller

  She thought turning to events outside the Empire would make her feel better. A series of reports from Rashtag, the capital city of the Kinshaya homeworld Janalwa, did the opposite. The Holy Order, in the middle of its Year of Prayer, was in upheaval. Four years earlier, secular forces had put an end to religious rule following a massacre abetted by the Episcopate’s Breen allies; the resulting backlash had cost Ykredna, the ruling Pontifex Maxima, her office.

  Chen had advised the dissidents on behalf of Starfleet, later helping them to bring their changes to fruition. It had been one of her finer moments in the service: helping to transform a society for the better. Yet for four years she had watched helplessly as the reforms had eroded, one by one.

  While no longer maintaining garrisons on Janalwa, the Breen had managed to salvage some of their influence over the Kinshaya government through their economic and military connections. The Episcopate had been in power too long, its roots were too deeply intertwined with the mechanisms of society. Yeffir, the once-jailed leader of the reform movement, had been elevated to head the church—whereupon she was trapped ruling over a combative group of entrenched Matriarchs who saw that she never got anything done and who then blamed her publicly for the inaction.

  The latest bit of news, however, took Chen’s breath away. The first free elections for the new secular government had finally occurred—scheduled in the middle of the Year of Prayer. Aged and traditionalist voters had chosen as their leader none other than Ykredna, the defrocked former pontiff, running on a platform of military strength and reinstitution of the inquisition. The race, the report said, had been close—until news of the rampaging Klingon cult tipped the balance. Klingons were the mortal enemies of the Kinshaya—and the Unsung, who had nearly harmed the Order’s envoy to the H’atorian Conference, had become a political goldmine for the onetime Pontifex Maxima.

  Still . . .

  “. . . Ykredna?” Chen said aloud as she put down the padd in disgust. “What the hell is wrong with you people?”

  “Is there a problem, Lieutenant?”

  Chen turned her chair to see someone standing quietly by the port, his hands clasped. “Commander Tuvok. I’m sorry—I didn’t hear you enter.”

  “I was coming to meditate. Houdini is a fascinating vessel, but it is cramped. There is little privacy.”

  She rose. “If you want privacy now, sir, I could—”

  “Please remain.” The Vulcan looked weary, but willing to talk. “I repeat my question: Is there a problem?”

  Chen looked back at the padd on the table. “I was catching up on the Kinshaya.”

  Tuvok nodded. “I read of the work you did with the Devotionalists to bring about reform. It was admirable.”

  “Fat lot of good it did. They’re falling back into their old ways. And the Unsung crisis has been fuel for the fire.”

  “You must not judge yourself too harshly,” Tuvok said. “There is often an arc to history, and the actions of one are not always enough to turn it. But it is a start.”

  “Sir, weren’t you one of the earlier Starfleet visitors to Kinshaya space?”

  “That is correct. Excelsior visited the original Kinshaya capital, Yongolor, many years before the Klingons devastated it.”

  “Were they just as frustrating to deal with then?”

  Tuvok raised an eyebrow. She could imagine he was puzzled by a Vulcan who had chosen to embrace emotion, rather then Surak’s teachings. “I formed no impressions of them. I remained in orbit. But I consulted with Curzon Dax, the Federation’s envoy to the Kinshaya. I also had the opportunity to study the reports of Captain Sulu and his contact specialists.”

  “I remember seeing a summary of the report. The Kinshaya were being manipulated by outsiders. Someone tried to make them think one of their deities had returned.”

  “Niamlar,” Tuvok provided. “It was reflecting on that experience that inspired me to study what Object Thirteen was doing. We now know it was the Blackstone—and it is reasonable to infer that the tricksters Excelsior encountered were using similar capabilities.”

  Chen looked outside at Houdini. “Has anyone interviewed the original operator of that ship?”

  “Ardra? There is little point. No one in her crew has broken confidence during years of imprisonment. It is a matter of honor to them.”

  Honor among con artists, Chen mused. I guess you can find it anywhere.

  “Did the people of Yongolor ever learn that they were being manipulated?”

  “It was not our place to inform them,” Tuvok said. “There was concern that the responsible party could have been a Kinshaya. If so, that would make it an internal matter, outside our purview.”

  “Wasn’t it ultimately about a robbery?”

  “Yes—and that is why Captain Sulu intervened to stop it and drive off the tricksters. His reasoning was that they were most likely from offworld.”

  “If he concluded that, why didn’t he tell the Kinshaya?”

  “Their society is built on faith. Captain Sulu judged that revealing that information might have unexpected and far-reaching ramifications. Ambassador Dax also felt that such information might not be welcome or believed coming from the Federation—especially since the illusionists departed, leaving no trace of their visit. At worst, Starfleet might have been blamed for the Niamlar con.”

  “I could see the Kinshaya doing that, sadly.”

  Tuvok studied her. “You seem distressed, Lieutenant.”

  “It’s just that I really thought our efforts would take hold. It’s frustrating to see them vanishing.”

  “May I ask if you were raised Vulcan?”

  She looked at him, a little surprised by the question. “My mother raised me. She was human. But I know of our culture.”

  “I ask because peace is intrinsic to Surak’s teachings—and when it is disturbed, it is more than a political setback. You are experiencing what has happened as a personal failure.”

  “Yeah, kind of.” Chen tended not to give her Vulcan half a lot of thought, but Tuvok had hit on something. “I feel like I’m watching them throw something priceless away.”

  “Understanding, reason, and logic lead to peace—even for the Kinshaya.”

  She chuckled. “That’s easier said than—”

  Tuvok’s combadge chirped. “Captain Picard to Commander Tuvok.”

  “Yes, Captain?”

  “Please report to the bridge. Our comet scans have detected something.”

  “Right away.” He tapped his badge. “We will have to continue this conversation another time.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  Tuvok reached the doorway and paused to look back. “Keep studying the Kinshaya, Lieutenant. If the Unsung have shown us anything, it is that trouble often grows in the gardens we neglect.”

  Twenty

  CABEUS

  The exiles spoke with Kahless long into the evenings and started again early in the mornings—and because Cabeus rotated so quickly, Valandris felt she scarcely slept at all. But she would not have slumbered even had the planet existed in permanent night. As long as Kahless had the energy to speak, she had the will to listen.

  The group surrounding the clone was always different, walking around with him both inside and some distance outside the cave opening. Valandris had been nervous about their being detected, but Kahless had told her that fear was the enemy of all Klingons—and that fear of the unseen was the worst of all. She knew he meant existential dreads, but as the hours went on, the forces hunting for the Unsung felt ever more distant.

  Inside the cave, beside Klongat, Kahless pointed to the letters marked on the hull and explained the ancient origin of each glyph. Children who had lived on the vessels thrilled to hear that each was named after a different animal of Qo’noS. Klongat, the stalker with razor claws and an even sharper temper. Krencha, a monstrous reptile that crawled about. Cob’lat, an immense furred beast with fangs. And Chu’charq, the great conqueror of lands locked in ice.

 
Each one suggested things strange and mysterious to those who had grown up in the wilds of Thane. There was a larger universe out there, created not as a gift to the Klingons, but as something for them to take. A challenge, from birth to death. Sarken, who had taken to clinging near either Worf or Valandris, bounced with excitement.

  Valandris usually saw Worf lingering on the perimeter, watching silently. He had stood by whenever his emperor tired of speaking, or needed support in a discussion; but the former rarely happened. Occasionally he shot Valandris a look of wry satisfaction. Any fears he had about Kahless’s reticence were clearly fading.

  But it had not been enough, was not enough for Kahless simply to tell his listeners about Klingon history and the ways of warriors. He also quizzed the exiles about themselves and their lives. Here, Worf participated more, clearly thinking it was something that needed to be done.

  “You call yourselves the Unsung,” Kahless said as he stood beneath the wing of Klongat. “Yet as constructed, the word makes no sense. Speak it.” Seated on the cave floor before him, his listeners did as he asked. “That is incorrect,” Kahless said. He pointed at Valandris. “You. Say it like a Klingon.”

  Valandris’s eyes widened as she searched for something to say. “I don’t know how. We were given the term by Lord Kruge.” She corrected herself: “I mean Buxtus Cross.”

  “Who was no Klingon. There are many ways to coin a new word or phrase in our tongue, but not all fit the spirit or the thought.” Kahless paced, gesticulating as he spoke. “Are you referring to a warrior the singers have forgotten? lulIjpu’ bomwI’pu’. Or perhaps a warrior whom no one has composed an opera for: ghe’naQDaj qonta’ pagh.”

  Worf, leaning against one of the landing struts, said, “The term Cross used was in their announcement: Hew HutlhwI’pu’.”

  “Ah,” Kahless said. “Those without statues. No, I would never use such a term for you.”

  “Why not?” Valandris asked.

  “Have you done anything to deserve the statues in the first place?”

  “I—” Valandris frowned. “The Empire would not think so.”

  “Nor would anyone,” Kahless said. “The sculptor certainly would not. No, that is not how I would speak your name.”

  “Indeed,” Worf said, “it is not what Klingons have been calling you.”

  Valandris rolled her eyes. “I am not sure I want to know.”

  “It is nothing obscene,” Worf replied. “They call you DachwI’pu’—the absent ones.”

  “I don’t understand,” Hemtara said. “I thought Dach meant to let your mind wander. To be an absent-minded person.”

  “That is slang,” Kahless said, “which has come about in recent generations. Kahless the Unforgettable would have chosen different words. If you mean to lose focus, use buSHa’, or perhaps qImHa’. But Dach in itself means to be absent—and in the context of Subpu’ vaSDaq Dach there should be no ambiguity.”

  Valandris repeated the words slowly. “Subpu’ vaSDaq Dach. ‘They are absent in the Hall of Heroes.’ ” Those surrounding her repeated it.

  “That is exactly the term the Empire is using to refer to you,” Worf said. “You are the DachwI’pu’.”

  The exiles tried on the name. Dublak, an older Unsung who had been among the most despondent before joining Kahless’s talks, asked, “Where is the Hall of Heroes?”

  “On Qo’noS. But that is not the only thing implicit in the term,” Kahless said. “Yes, the name means those alive have deemed you unworthy of songs and statues. But it also suggests the true stamp: that the Unforgettable has found you unworthy of Sto-Vo-Kor.”

  No one said anything for a moment. Then a high-pitched voice broke the silence. “Why should we want to go to Sto-Vo-Kor?” Sarken asked from beside Valandris. “Is it a better place?”

  Kahless smiled broadly and chuckled. “Ah, is it. It is the reward all Klingons seek, that which lies at the end of the stream traveled by the Barge of the Dead. It is a place where the hunt never ends.”

  “That sounds like where we lived,” Valandris said. She shook her head. “Kruge took us away, made us destroy it.”

  Kahless’s smile disappeared. “I do not understand. Why did you value this Kruge so much, when you had never known the real man? You are all far too young.”

  “For decades there was an old couple who taught children of Kruge, on Potok’s behalf,” Dublak said. “A warrior and his mate. They died a few years ago.” The Klingon paused. “I am told they were my grandparents.”

  Kahless’s eyes narrowed. “ ‘You are told . . . ’? You do not know?”

  “I knew, but they had no relationship with me. They taught me of Kruge. That is all.”

  Kahless’s gaze darted to Worf, who responded with a knowing look. “Dublak,” Worf asked, “were they part of the original group that was discommendated with General Potok?”

  “Yes.” Weltern, whose delivery was so near that she attended only seated sessions, spoke up. “They knew Kruge, had served under him. They would have followed him anywhere, done anything for him. Their stories about him kept us alive. They’re half the reason why we’re all here today.”

  “What is the other half?”

  Dublak looked down. “They were responsible for that too. They were Potok’s escorts when he boarded James Kirk’s Enterprise.”

  “When Potok’s freighters were stranded in the Briar Patch?” Worf asked.

  “That’s right,” Valandris said. “When they realized whose ship they were on, they did as they should have—they attacked. But rather than die in combat, they were taken prisoner. That is the story, at least.”

  Worf glanced at Kahless. “Spock’s report said that Potok’s visit to Enterprise began with a brawl. It landed him and two others in the brig.”

  Kahless looked back with concern. “Potok’s officers had just been defeated at Gamaral—and had been denied death by combat. You are telling me the Federation did the same to them?”

  “It is not Starfleet’s way,” Worf said.

  “It is the Klingon way.” Kahless looked to Dublak. “Did they express shame, indignity?”

  Dublak looked up. “They did, Kahless. Kirk even visited them while they were being held, taunting them from behind the safety of a force field.” He shook his head. “But they did not seek vengeance once they were free.”

  “Potok had ordered them not to act,” Worf said. “He was their leader.”

  “Kruge was their leader, dead or alive,” Kahless said. “You know very well, Worf, that they would have felt a responsibility to kill Kirk and anyone who protected him.”

  “Kirk was an honorable human,” Worf said. “He killed Commander Kruge in fair combat. ‘An honorable death requires no vengeance.’ ”

  “Did Dublak’s grandparents know it was honorable, Worf? Did they see the fight?”

  “No. But Spock knew—and he said in his report he told Potok.”

  “If Potok told my grandparents that, I do not think they truly believed him,” Dublak said. “All they remembered years later—all they said, after Potok was old and going blind—was that when he was handed the chance to slay Kirk in combat, he walked away. He walked away, and my grandparents followed.”

  “Down into the abyss where there is no reward.” Kahless shook his head. “I begin to understand. You would not have known what passing on such a chance would have meant to your grandparents. But they—and those exiled with them—would have.” He looked out across his group of listeners. “The people who settled on Thane may not have been condemned for any dishonorable act they committed. But they felt they had acted dishonorably and that they deserved their fate. And that tainted their every decision when it came to their offspring.” He looked across the gathering, where many heads were now bowed. “Your community was damned from the start.”

  Weltern looked plaintively at the emperor. “You see, now, why we embraced Kruge so completely. He was the only person the elders ever spoke highly of,” she said. Her face grew
pained, and she winced. Suppressing it, she continued in a higher pitch, “He gave us names. And freedom.”

  Kahless looked at her with concern. “What is the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Weltern said, rubbing her belly. “My time is near.”

  He laughed. “That is not nothing.”

  “It is for our people,” Valandris replied. “One more person born into discommendation. Dublak just said it. The only reason we knew parentage at all was for biological purposes—and to keep track of how long our lines were condemned.” She gestured to the girl beside her. “Sarken only knew her father well because Tharas defied convention to spend time with her. He is gone now.”

  Kahless put up his hand before him. “No. Your father is with you always.”

  A hush fell over the group. Kahless looked out to the darkness beyond the cave opening. “That is enough for today. Now we sleep.”

  As he retreated to his alcove, Valandris rose—and thought about her own parents. Long dead, they had eluded her as successfully as any animal she had ever hunted on Thane. Yet now, they were squarely in her mind’s eye, just as she had seen them, the one day she ever saw them together.

  She lingered for a moment, contemplating what it meant. Then she dispelled the unbidden image and joined Sarken in helping Weltern stand.

  Twenty-one

  BLACKSTONE

  JOLVA REE

  “Cheer up, Gaw,” Shift said, her Breen vocoder not altering her words. “You get to do what you do best again—and it beats every alternative.”

  The Ferengi sagged before his terminal, his station in the illusion control center now minus his light-emitting knickknack. Blackstone was under way again and as crowded as Shift had ever seen it. Gaw was surrounded once more by all his technicians—save 1110 and 1111, the Bynars captured by Starfleet. There were Breen playing watchdog everywhere, and the additional computers in the center made it difficult to walk freely.

  Which was fine, because the Breen didn’t want the truthcrafters going anywhere.