Chu’charq’s respectful flight past it reminded her of the future that was at hand. Valandris stepped out into the hallway, where one of the guards glanced at her. Worf and Kahless had guaranteed the Unsung’s honorable behavior; both had been imprisoned repeatedly on the vessel and had no intention of inflicting that experience on anyone they trusted. Yet their keepers were ever present, and she understood why. The Unsung had killed too many.
The strange thing, however, was that the masked Klingons seemed strangely conflicted over whether to look directly at their charges. It had taken her a while to remember that they were still dishonorable nonentities, no matter what they had done. How did one watch what one would not deign to look at? It was how the discommendated had metastasized into a threat in the first place—not just on Thane, but throughout the Empire. Valandris still felt something about the practice had to change.
Feeling the vessel land, she made her way to the lowest deck. There, in the cargo hold, she could hear Worf and Kahless halfway down the open landing ramp, conferring for a long time with people she could not see. When they re-ascended, two visitors followed them.
One, a Klingon a few years younger than she was, threw himself into a happy embrace with Worf. The young man then looked to her—and in that instant, she saw his father in his cranial ridges. “I am Alexander,” he said, “Federation ambassador to Qo’noS.”
The discommendated child, redeemed. “I greet you, Alexander, son of Worf. I am Valandris.”
The human guest stepped up, saying, “I spoke with you on H’atoria, didn’t I?” Admiral Riker searched her eyes for a glimmer of recognition. “You were wearing a face mask then.”
“Yes, and the ambassador should take one,” she said. “I fear we have transported a disease from Thane.”
“The ship is under quarantine here until our authorities can study the problem,” Worf said. “It also gives the Empire time to decide what to do with you.”
“Have no fear,” Kahless said. “I have just sent word to Chancellor Martok that I will not leave your company until your case is heard.”
“Emperor, your people would celebrate your arrival,” Alexander said, taking a mask. “You would deny them that?”
“My people have denied the exiles aboard this ship to the detriment of all,” Kahless said. “The Unsung have said they will stand behind their acts. I will stand with them.”
Riker appeared impressed by Kahless’s commitment. “Emperor, you must have had an interesting time getting to know them.”
“ ‘A week can hold a century for one who seizes life,’ ” Valandris said.
Kahless laughed. “That saying is one of mine. A good one.”
Riker smiled. “Well, the ambassador and I have a century to fit into my chavmajta presentation tomorrow. The past few days have given us some great deeds to close with. We’d better get back to it.”
Worf reported to his admiral. “I understand Titan brought you here, sir. I am ready to return to service,” he said. “Is there a way for me to get to Enterprise?”
The corner of Riker’s mouth crinkled upward. “I think you’ve earned some time off, Commander. Enjoy the city. Eat some gagh.” He turned and started down the ramp, before pausing to look back. “You might come by the consulate later. We have a little something we’re cooking up that you may be interested in.”
BREEN SHIPYARD
JOLVA REE
Shift had watched them work all day, and while she could not understand what Chot Dayn and his three colleagues were saying, she knew what they were up to. They were planting bombs.
The secret construction facility inside the asteroid orbiting Jolva Ree had generated a mighty force of Kinshaya battlespheres—but those were gone. A few had made it back to Janalwa, but most had suffered various fates in Klingon space. The Klingons, Starfleet, and the Unsung had destroyed several. Breen officers rejecting the Kinshaya stand-down order had in some cases faced violent mutinies, resulting in both sides abandoning ship. Other Breen had self-destructed their battlespheres rather than risk capture by the Klingons.
The result was that the shipyard at Jolva Ree was a barren womb. Its children were gone. All had come to nothing. It had all been a waste—and Chot Dayn despised waste above all things.
He had refused to provide Shift with a new helmet; he no longer considered her Breen. None were available aboard the station, for the entire population had either been part of the ill-fated Rebuke or had fled following news of the reversal. Dayn had taken it upon himself to see that the station was destroyed, lest the Confederacy be compromised further by its discovery.
The anger expressed by the other Typhon Pact partners was enough for the domo to deal with, and the Breen would certainly never use Jolva Ree again. They were no longer welcome in the territory of the Holy Order of the Kinshaya. Chot Dayn had heard the “special relationship” was done, and there was some question as to whether the Kinshaya would remain in the Typhon Pact. It appeared that the Devotionalists would put Yeffir back in charge. The one-time Breen ally, Ykredna, had fled, her hardliner supporters decimated in battle and her reputation in ruins.
Shift knew what that felt like. She sat, locked in what had been Thot Roje’s private office, watching the progress outside the window that overlooked the shipyard. The Orion preferred to look out there. Everything around the office reminded her of her dead friend, the first person to accept her as an intelligent being. Dayn had already destroyed the computer in the room, and his companions had done likewise across the station. Should anything survive the asteroid’s destruction, a data search would yield nothing.
She doubted anything would survive—especially after hearing Dayn speak upon his return. “We have used all the remaining antimatter mines,” he said, setting his filter so she could understand his voice. “Finally, there is a case where Thot Roje’s overaggressive inventory practices have actually helped.”
She did not laugh at his excuse for a joke. “Your companions are back aboard the shuttle?”
“Outside the asteroid, awaiting my command to transport me out. I wanted to give you a choice, though you do not deserve it. You may return to the Confederacy as our prisoner to stand trial for the wasteful disaster you have wrought.”
She stared at him. “The other option?”
“Remain here and die in the explosion. It might ultimately be less painful for you—and I consider it the better choice for efficiency’s sake. Our order will be saved the expense of your punishment.” He turned and faced the window so that he could see the empty station. “But looking at it in the context of all that you have squandered, it is a marginal expense either way. Frankly, Shift, you are nothing.”
It was the one thing never to say to her. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at his armored back.
Fifty-four
FEDERATION CONSULATE
QO’NOS
Korgh hated to admit it, but the Federation understood how to make Klingons feel welcome.
It would have been very easy for the designers of the assembly room of the expanded consulate to create something that would have seemed patronizing. Duplicating the main room of the Great Hall in miniature, for example, would have been easy—but also offensive. Setting up a Federation conference area with a bowl of gagh on each table likewise would have seemed heavy-handed.
But the consulate’s auditorium had been designed to be inclusive. It sat beneath a high arching roof, with a window wall of transparent aluminum at the short end behind the rostrum through which the majestic Hall of Heroes could be seen. There were no soft human chairs for the audience. Instead, the spectator area extended back in a semicircle from the stage on a series of nested steps of differing elevations, giving listeners the option of sitting should a speech drone on too long.
The rest was austere and reverent. The banners of the Federation and the Klingon Empire flanked the stage, with braziers behind. When meetings were in session and fires were lit, the names of honored dead from cooperative Klingon
/Federation efforts could be seen inscribed on the soaring arcs of the ceiling. Somehow, the designers had crafted the names so some glowed more, and then others. The inattentive listener could sit all day reading names of heroes lost.
Much of the work was credited to Lieutenant Xaatix, Starfleet’s protocol expert. Korgh remembered the reports from Spirits’ Forge, where the Ovirian had thwarted one of his plans. That would not happen this time. He had seen Odrok go to work in the consulate with her kit; he had seen her exit without it. According to the indicator on the device she had left for him, the bomb was live and just beneath the floor panels of the rostrum. Its detonation should kill not only the speakers, but a fair number of those High Council members in the room who did not support him—a number that he feared was growing, as more came to light about how the House of Kruge failed to defend itself. He would kill them, and they would deserve it.
Standing with Qolkat as the other High Council members entered, Korgh studied the individuals on stage. There was Riker with his lap dog Alexander; both were conferring with Martok. Scanning the platform, he saw that several of Martok’s cronies were up there. Melk, Tanor, Klag: the usual suspects. But it was the Starfleet contingent that interested him. Picard, he recognized—but there were more.
He asked Qolkat.
“The Federation has sent several Starfleet vessels here today to drum up support,” Qolkat said. “Titan—her Captain Christine Vale is there. Enterprise, obviously. Aventine, I believe: that is Captain Ezri Dax.”
Korgh frowned. He had not heard of Aventine fighting any battles against the Kinshaya.
He heard a cheer erupt from those around him. Craning his neck, he saw Worf entering. His role in the defense of Ketorix was known, and parts of his story about the Unsung had gotten out. As yet, Worf was the only person to emerge from the quarantined Chu’charq, where efforts to eliminate the tharkak’ra virus were apparently close to success. Many tried to speak with him as Worf made his way down through the hall.
“They will surely put him on stage,” Korgh said. “Mascot for the Accords.”
But Worf stopped near the dais only long enough to pay his respects. He then retreated to a position in the middle of the audience, pausing only once to make eye contact with Korgh. The look was a strange one, Korgh thought: more watchful than friendly or hostile. It was over in a second.
“The chancellor has agreed to give the Unsung a trial,” Qolkat said. “You should expect to see Worf there too.”
Korgh shook his head. As soon as he was chancellor, he would quash that idea and have the Unsung immediately put to death. It was not that he feared they knew anything that could implicate him. Rather, they would be his patsies for the bombing of the consulate, a way to redirect any suspicions following his convenient exit from the auditorium. The Federation had given the exiles haven; its Starfleet had let them attack and escape repeatedly. He would accuse the Federation of plotting to decapitate the Klingon regime, its plan all along, by allowing the assassins it had cultivated—and which Worf had brought to Qo’noS—into its facility.
As his second act he would void the Khitomer Accords. War with the Federation would come when he was ready, and when he had chosen which allies he desired. Commander Kruge would approve of the end, if not all of the means.
Looking back to the stage, he noticed a new arrival on stage chatting with Riker. “Why is General Kersh here? I did not tell her to come.”
“She answers not to you, but the Defense Force,” Qolkat said. “And they answer to Martok.”
Korgh steamed—but in the next second, he was delighted to realize that yet another rival would go down. He smiled. Even this quickly concocted plan, conceived in desperation, had the touch of genius.
A gong sounded. “Qapla’,” Qolkat whispered.
Korgh made his way down to the stage to say his piece. Ascending the steps to the platform, he gave only a glance to his opponents, gathered together on either side of the stage.
“As you know,” he said before the podium, “I called this chavmajta to demand that the Federation justify its continued alliance with the Empire. Many of you also know that my own house suffered an invasion from one of our most loathed enemies. An invasion successfully repelled!”
Cheers rose from the councilors. It was time to make the turn. He gripped the sides of the podium, and his tone grew grave. “You may have heard that Starfleet contributed to the defense of my family’s territory. To this, I can only say what my adoptive father always told me, ‘Never trust the Federation.’ They have been negotiating for a free-flight corridor, so that trash like the Breen and the Kinshaya could traverse our space unaccompanied. We now see what they would do if they had that power.” He clapped the surface before him in time with his words. “The Federation would add and add and add to its members, constraining our growth in every direction—until, having strangled the fighting will of our people, they would invite us to join their group, wiping out what it is to be Klingon.”
He raised his hands. “No. We have trusted them before—and paid for it with our dearest blood. And I ask you to join me in refusing to listen to their lies!”
Korgh stormed off the rostrum and made his way up the jagged path leading between the listeners and the exit. He caught sight of Worf, glowering at him as he went. Purposefully, he did not look to see who was following—and in the cacophony of raised voices, he could not tell whether there were cheers for him. But he could sense he was being followed, and reaching the banquet area outside, he looked back to see that a dozen councilors had joined him.
Korgh then saw Martok move to the podium. The chancellor began speaking, starting to tell of the fruits of the Accords. “You have heard the words of an angry old dullard,” he said. “In response, let me tell you of the sacrifice an Enterprise captain made at Narendra III years ago—and how another was prepared to do so again this very week!”
That was the cue. Korgh turned in the doorway and passed between his allies. Now in the lead, he continued walking forward between the tables, trying not to appear conscious of the thing that was coming. Hearing the explosion behind him was almost a relief. He made a show of stumbling forward, as if surprised by the noise. And he joined his supporters, whose alarm was genuine as they did not know what was planned, in hurrying to the entrance of the assembly area. He looked in expectantly . . .
. . . and saw that only the front portion of the stage had been blown open. Smoke poured from beneath the platform—while atop, the Federation and Klingon personnel scrambled about. Martok knelt beside the opening, puzzled, and drew forth the shattered remnants of a device, its transceiver still attached.
The bomb was a dud!
In the crowd, Worf made his way to the aisle, tapping his combadge and commanding the Federation guards. “Seal the facility,” Worf yelled. “Locate the personnel records of those who worked on the stage. Check the sensors to see where the signal came from. Find who did this!”
Korgh quickly turned, eyes wide. As Federation guards hurried into the room to respond, he looked about for Qolkat or one of his other supporters. They had scattered, perhaps fearful their departure would be connected with the blast. They had only known about the walkout, after all; following a successful assassination, he would have given them cover by blaming the Unsung. But now he had more than them to be concerned about. He turned and hurried away before the doors could be closed.
Korgh’s mind raced. He had seen part of the bomb casing, intact. It had to have some trace of Odrok on it somewhere; she was too rushed to be careful. And then there was the detonation transmission. The thing would be found out.
Outside, he hurried into a secluded alleyway. He would have to go where he had intended to go afterward all along, and do the thing he had always intended to do.
Fifty-five
FIRST CITY
QO’NOS
Korgh still had access to Qolkat’s personal transporter, whose site-to-site settings he had preprogrammed to take him to only one p
lace. He used it—and emerged from behind Odrok’s building, pausing only to toss the now-useless defeat switch onto the street. He ground it to tiny pieces beneath his heel, near the glass from several of her broken bottles.
The lord felt pain in every step as he hurried too fast up the stairs. The door was not open this time, but he forced it. In the bedroom, he found Odrok in exactly the condition he expected: collapsed across her bed, drunk. More bottles told the tale: apparently she was not out of liquor after all. She had botched the operation, one final time.
His fury rose. He wanted to strangle her—but caution, as ever, prevailed. He remembered what he had planned. He would take care of her—and then the materials she had hidden in the storage area.
“Odrok, Odrok,” he said to her motionless form. He let out an exasperated sigh. “After we were successful, I was going to bring you the best bottle of bloodwine money could buy—not this swill you’ve been drinking.” From the folds of his robe, he located a hypospray. “We would have shared it—a toast to our future.”
Breathing fast, he sat the woman upright on the bed. “Then I was going to give you something else,” he said. Using one hand to steady her, he brought the hypospray between them. “Severance for one hundred years. Too bad. Too bad for us both.” He moved the device closer to her neck—
—and saw her eyes open wide. Wide, full of fury, as her frail hands grabbed his wrists. She squeezed, forcing him to drop the hypospray—and kept squeezing, snapping his bones and causing him to yell in shock and agony. Then she smashed her bony forehead against his, stunning him.
She stood, still holding his hands and shaking the heavier Klingon like a child’s doll. Nose bleeding, head pounding, Korgh looked at Odrok in panic. She was acting with the strength of someone a third her age and twice her size. “You liar!” she yelled. “You traitor!”
The Hall of Heroes Page 28
