She released his hands and grabbed the sides of his skull, starting to apply crushing pressure. His head turned, Korgh’s eyes bulged—and then he saw it. The hidden door behind Odrok’s mirror opened. It was the room where she kept her tools of espionage. Admiral Riker emerged from that place of darkness. He hurried inside and grabbed the old woman’s hands. “Stop! You want him alive.” He struggled to save Korgh. “Stop, Martok!”
Odrok froze, her angry eyes fixed on Korgh’s panicked ones—and a second later, a flash of light replaced the old woman with the Klingon chancellor. Martok growled loudly and cast Korgh to the floor.
Dazed, bewildered, Korgh looked up to see the real Odrok enter the room from the hiding space. Riker asked her, “Odrok, do you confirm that Lord Korgh hired you to assassinate the chancellor?”
“Yes,” she said, almost hissing the word as she looked at him. “It is just as I said when I called you, Riker. He did this—and much more.”
Korgh looked back at her, not comprehending. “You, Odrok? You arranged this?”
“Yes, Korgh. Me, Odrok.” She pointed to the chancellor. “Martok was using the same tools your hired killers used in creating the Unsung.”
Wincing at the pain in his wrists, Korgh got to his knees and shook his head. He didn’t know how much the others knew—and while that was the case, he decided he wasn’t going to admit to anything. “Tools? What tools? I don’t know what you mean.”
Riker growled in disgust. “Stop spinning, Korgh.”
His eyes narrowing, Korgh thought it might help to seem cooperative. “Wait. Are you referring to the illusion-generation vessel I read about in the report?” He pretended to think. “Yes . . . the Blackstone. I was informed that no longer functioned.”
“That information was correct.” Jean-Luc Picard entered the bedroom—as well as the Trill captain Korgh had seen earlier. “Sorry we’re late,” he said to the others. “There was only so much space in the closet, so we transported to the street.”
“And Worf?” Martok asked.
“He is on stage now, explaining what happened.” Picard looked down at Korgh. “As I was saying—it was not the Blackstone that cast the image of Odrok, but the Houdini, thanks to Captain Dax.”
Dax bowed. “The folks in orbit have been pretty busy. They modeled Odrok so Martok could impersonate her. The Martok you saw on stage was a very unusual person named Ardra, whom I would like to get off my ship as soon as possible.”
Picard flashed Dax a grin before his expression turned serious. “The bomb was an illusion generated by our friends aboard the Houdini, with the assistance of the Blackstone truthcrafter crew. They were eager to help out and reduce their possible sentences.”
“We have not even begun to consider yours,” Martok said. He glared menacingly down at Korgh. “I despise deception. But Riker said I should do this to find where deception truly hid. And now I know.”
Weary, spent, Korgh looked back at Odrok. “This is madness,” he said. “A fantasy. Why would you believe her? Her—”
“A drunk?” Odrok asked. Her face filled with revulsion. “Tell him.”
“You were excellent at covering your tracks, keeping at arm’s length from your transactions,” Picard said. “But there were three Federation starships with very good crews involved. They found a shadow walking through all the events connected with the Unsung: the Phantom Wing’s creation, its dilithium maintenance, training of its pilots, and even the theft of the Hunters’ transporter technology. When we learned that Ardra and Shift had a Klingon cellmate on Thionoga, the shadow took form.” Picard looked to the woman. “She operated under many names—but she had to be the connecting element between the truthcrafters and the Unsung.”
“When Odrok contacted us,” Riker said, “we knew immediately who we had. We also knew we had to act fast. Aventine was coming with Houdini as evidence in the Unsung’s trial. I just asked Captain Dax to get here a little sooner.”
“Such a tale, such a production.” His acid tongue recovered, Korgh asked, “And why, pray tell, Picard, are you here?”
The captain looked keenly at him, barely hiding his scorn. “You took advantage of my trust—and my crew’s hospitality. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.”
A Vulcan appeared in the doorway behind the two captains. “Excuse me, sirs. Houdini reports that its sensors have recorded all events in this room since Lord Korgh entered. This part of the evidentiary chain is intact.”
“Lord Korgh, I’d like you to meet Commander Tuvok,” Riker said. “He’s our shadow. He’s been after the truth the whole time.”
Korgh struggled to stand up. “I am sure it is satisfying to you all to prattle on. This is nothing but nonsense, created by the Federation to frame an enemy of their favored chancellor. If those filthy Unsung can have their day, I will certainly have mine.”
Martok grabbed Korgh roughly by the shoulder and lifted him up. “You will get your day. But I would not count on having many more past that.”
Fifty-six
THE COURT OF QO’NOS
FIRST CITY
The judge looked down on Worf from his station high above in the shadows of the tribunal box. “This court appreciates your experience, Worf, son of Mogh. There can be no better advocate for the accused than one who witnessed so much.”
Worf felt the same way, which was why he had agreed to advocate for the Unsung. “Thank you, Your Honor.”
The Unsung’s trial necessarily had to precede any action against Lord Korgh, and political necessity required that the old Klingon be judged as quickly as possible. A delay in sharing the astounding story of Korgh’s dishonor with the public only served to undermine the Empire. It meant there was no time to brief an advocate on everything Worf knew. He had to act. Years earlier he had failed in pleading for the lives of other Klingons—the renegade Captain Korris and his companions. This time, Worf had to find a way to succeed.
The commander did not know if the coliseum-style court surrounding him was the same one where, decades before, an ancestor of Worf’s had infamously defended James Kirk and Leonard McCoy. The First City had suffered massive damage during the Borg Invasion, and many new places had been built. The court certainly felt like a place from out of the past, with its multiple tiers of viewing boxes hewn from rock, rising nearly out of sight.
Harsh light streamed down on Worf—but not on the accused. They stood in darkness, unworthy of being seen. “Speak now to the status of the defendants,” the judge said.
“I contend,” Worf said, ignoring the echo, “that the heirs to the House of Kruge did not nobly fight at Gamaral a century ago, and that Chancellor Kesh erred in acceding to their demands to discommendate Kruge’s officers. I have submitted my findings in that matter.”
“We have them,” said one of the other judges in the box. “A contemptible tale. General Kersh, do you contest these charges?”
Kersh emerged from the shadows. As granddaughter of J’borr, she had been the natural choice for prosecutor. Worf knew she would have an interest in defending the reputation of her blood. “The only story I know is the one my family told,” she said. “They were long regarded as heroes. I would not see them condemned now on speculation.”
Worf turned to face her. “I interviewed all the nobles of the House of Kruge before reaching Gamaral. Not one could accurately describe the battle or the location.”
“A hundred years had passed!” she said. “Surely—”
The judge interrupted, “No battle of such importance could be forgotten. We have spoken with the chancellor’s historians and deem Worf’s contention correct. The victory was not theirs. They should not have taken the officers’ honor as their spoils.”
Worf pressed his advantage. “The Unsung’s conduct in defending the House of Kruge’s family compound expunges any stain that might have fallen on the discommendated officers for failing to protect his house from the thieves within the family.”
The word thieves brought mumbles from
the crowd and an acid look from Kersh. It did not seem to distress the judges. “With this, too, we agree,” one said. “We expunge the discommendation from those warriors and their descendants. Let the name of General Potok again be spoken.”
The audience rumbled, but the justice was not finished. “One condemnation is lifted; another remains to be adjudicated. The defendants must stand for the crimes they have committed. They may yet be discommendated for their own actions.”
Worf glanced at the figures behind him in silhouette. “Must they still stand in darkness? Are they not Klingon?”
“Well spoken,” said the judge on the right. “Let the accused be seen!”
Light poured down on the prisoners’ dock, a waist-high circular enclosure—greatly expanded, for this session, to hold the thirteen surviving adults of the Unsung. Worf saw Valandris, with Hemtara and Raneer from her bridge crew; Bardoc of the twins; Nelkor, the foolish youth; and several others, all of whose personal stories of courage under fire at Ketorix he had learned in preparation for the trial. The children, not accused, were led from designated boxes at ground level to stand quietly behind their elders; Doctor Crusher and a team of Klingon medics had identified and eliminated the tharkak’ra virus in the children and on Chu’charq.
Those watching roared to see them, these strange Klingons who had rocked the Empire with their deeds. Several of the Unsung looked up and about like trapped animals—but Valandris stood firm, staring directly up at the judge’s box.
“I am Valandris,” she declared loudly and slowly, pronouncing her words with the accent Kahless had taught them all. “I am Klingon, as are those of my blood here. We stand before you and claim the acts of Gamaral, H’atoria, and Ghora Janto. These and more, against the Orions.”
“The Orions are of no consequence to us,” the middle judge said. “Speak of the others.”
Explaining, Valandris told of the manner in which the exiles had been cut off from Klingon culture. She detailed the arrival of the false Kruge—a tale that Martok had allowed to be told, after Korgh’s arrest—and how he had won their allegiance. The story was long, and the judges interrupted several times with questions. But Worf knew she had left nothing out and that her tale, passionately told, was effective.
“If Kruge indeed did live,” Worf said when she was finished, “then General Potok and his officers would have owed him allegiance. The response of the officers’ descendants to the arrival of the ‘Fallen Lord’ was Klingon.”
“But they were not Kruge’s officers,” Kersh declared, pointing at the defendants. “They were under no obligation to commit dishonorable acts.”
“We had no notion of what honor was,” Valandris replied. “Until Worf and Kahless showed us.”
Worf let that sink in with the justices before bringing up something he had learned from Ardra’s attorney. “You have already heard they were never taught the Klingon way,” he said. “I submit that, as impersonated by the criminal Buxtus Cross, the false Kruge had such influence that he was able to supplant their judgment with his. The legal term in the Federation is ‘diminished capacity.’ ”
“No meaning in our society,” Kersh said.
Before Worf could rebut the general, Valandris spoke. “He did enthrall those of us who had known nothing but despair.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. “But as time went on, some of us realized what we were doing was wrong.” She looked down. “I did.”
Valandris had rendered useless one of Worf’s lines of defense. He was searching for what to say next when an unusual sound rang out through the arena: a baby’s cry. The spotlight moved—and all saw Kahless entering the floor.
Having stayed out of sight on Chu’charq, the emperor had not been seen publicly since his appearance on the broadcast from the Ketorix compound. When the audience saw him walking in—with a Klingon infant in his hands!—pandemonium erupted. Thirty seconds of cheering and applause, during which the judge never gaveled them to order.
“I am sorry for my delay in appearing,” Kahless declared. “I was getting advice from my new young friend here on the best way to sharpen a bat’leth.”
Roaring laughter was the response. Kersh, knowing herself overmatched, receded to the shadows.
“A joke, but only just,” Kahless said. “The children of Thane are wonderful hunters. It is a world you must all visit—though I would suggest staying out of sewage pits.”
Worf felt enervated by his arrival. “Tell them of the child, Emperor.”
“He is the son of Harch and Weltern, two warriors of the Unsung who died protecting Ketorix. Their ship in flames, they boarded a battlesphere and took the bridge, forcing the Kinshaya to destroy their own vessel.” Kahless walked with the gurgling child to the dock where the other Unsung stood. “Like the rest of his people, this child was given no name at birth. He waits to see if you find his parents’ acts honorable.”
“G’now juk Hol pajhard,” Kersh said, reemerging. “A son will share in the honors or shame of his father. It is our way.”
“Perhaps,” Kahless said. “But it strikes me he is quite small to be concerned with these matters.” He handed the child to Raneer and then climbed over the railing to join the accused—an act that startled the whole crowd.
A stunned judge said, “You are not accused, Kahless.”
“I stand with them.”
“I had heard you would take this path,” Kersh said. “This is not necessary—though it is a noble act on your part. These people tried to kill you.”
“They in fact killed another Klingon, a general whose name may only now be spoken,” Kahless said. “On their world, their law applies, not ours. And for my imprisonment, I forgive them.”
“And I,” Worf said.
“But the other crimes remain,” Kersh said. “Gamaral, H’atoria. These must be answered for.”
“Indeed,” Kahless said, over the baby’s mewling. “But my experience with them—and their willingness to accept blame, and to fight for Ketorix, has led me to suggest a different punishment to the chancellor and court.”
Worf looked at Kahless, puzzled. They had not discussed it.
“We came here to stand for what we have done,” Valandris said. “We will accept what comes.”
The middle judge pounded his gavel against the counter. “Sentence will be pronounced—that suggested by the emperor. The children of the exile community, being not in guilt, are to be raised on H’atoria. There, they will join settler families and be raised as Klingon.”
The audience buzzed with approval.
The judge moved on. “You thirteen will be relocated to that planet as well,” he said. “You are sentenced to duty at Spirits’ Forge, where you will take the place of the Sentries you slew and impersonated. There, you will stand guard—and continue to learn from Kahless what honor means, for as long as he sees fit to keep you there.”
Worf spun around to look at the emperor. “You are going with them?”
“I am,” Kahless said, his voice rising as he spoke. “Let the fortress become a place of pilgrimage for all who seek to understand honor—or who have stepped off its path and seek to find it. Then will it truly be a forge for spirits.”
“The sentence is humbly accepted,” Valandris said—but her voice could hardly be heard over the cheers. Worf saw that even Kersh was touched—and he could not help but smile. Kahless had found his calling—and the exiles were no longer Unsung. They were Klingon, and would have songs.
The judge called for attention. “There is just one more important matter undone,” he said. “There is a child who needs a name.”
Holding the infant now, Valandris chuckled. “This is something we had already discussed amongst ourselves,” she said as the commander of the group. “To honor the Klingon who not only came back from discommendation, but who led others from it, we present to you all Worf, son of Harch.”
There was no quieting the crowd after that.
Fifty-seven
THE GREAT HA
LL
FIRST CITY
Lord Korgh was a member of the High Council, making his prosecution more complicated. There had been a hearing in the courtroom vacated by the Unsung, a much more somber affair in which the allegations and evidence were made public. As a high official facing grave charges, Korgh had demanded the whole High Council sit for the meqba’, or hearing of evidence, in the Great Hall, away from a general audience.
While both of his sons were present, Korgh had asked neither to stand as his second, or cha’DIch. Tengor he considered beyond useless, and Tragg was still in pain from his injuries. Korgh was surprised that he could find no one among his council allies to defend him; the cowards feared being connected with his assassination attempt. Qolkat was already being scrutinized. Korgh had finally determined to go on alone, knowing he had always been his own best advocate.
He had listened impatiently for long hours as one Starfleet witness after another presented evidence at Martok’s request. Korgh had heard the Klingon investigators and what they had found in the data systems in his ruined Ketorix compound. He had been forced to endure their elaborate reconstruction of his actions since the Battle of Gamaral a hundred years earlier, and his funneling of resources toward what they called “the Unsung project.” Korgh had attempted to refute their presentations at every turn. To obfuscate, to confuse, to belittle: anything that would muddy the picture.
Then had come the witnesses associated with the Blackstone and its deceptions. The Ferengi truthcrafter, Gaw, had never interacted with Korgh, yet he knew about everything the exiles had been bidden to do. The good news for Korgh was that Gaw was timid and craven in the way of his people, and he came off poorly. His suggestion that the High Council members “should really look into buying some chairs” was, Korgh was certain, a new low for utterances in the Great Hall.
But as outlandish as the technician and the practices he described may have seemed to the council, Gaw’s allegation that Lord Korgh had sent Ark of G’boj as payoff had been damaging. Worse was his suggestion that the Breen spy, Shift, had blackmailed Korgh into sending away his house’s defenders. Korgh had been forced to dance verbally around that.
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