“You have never known fear,” he said.
“Yes, I have.” She looked at him. “But we killed it.” She put her hand forward, and they clasped forearms. “Thank you, Worf.”
“Qapla’, Valandris.”
With that, she pivoted and started back toward Chu’charq. He called after her. “I will visit.”
She stopped on the ramp and looked over her shoulder at him. “Bring that son of yours,” she said. “Him, I would like to know better.” The young woman grinned at Worf before turning and continuing on her way.
Dumbfounded, Worf stared at her—and only then did he realize Admiral Riker and the three captains were watching him. Worf said, “She . . . is interested in my son.”
“Makes you feel old, doesn’t it?” Riker said, barely suppressing a smirk.
“It’s all right, Worf,” Dax said. “It happens to everyone. Several times, for some of us.”
“You know,” Vale added cautiously, “he is an ambassador.”
Flustered, Worf looked to Picard, who generously said nothing. But the captain was smiling.
• • •
Riker invited the captains back to the consulate for a farewell breakfast. There, he shared the news he’d received from C-in-C Admiral Akaar. Shift had not been located, but the Breen’s involvement in the Rebuke had set back the Confederacy’s relations with the Typhon Pact, and its prospects in the Beta Quadrant had been dealt a serious blow.
Chen had just returned from Janalwa; hopes were high that the Kinshaya’s behavior might be moderated. An asteroid orbiting Jolva Ree in Holy Order space had exploded for no reason. Starfleet Intelligence suspected it was a consequence of the Breen pulling out of the region. “We may even finally get the free-flight corridor we’ve been after all this time once this is over,” Riker said. There would certainly be fewer contrary voices.
Vale said her good-byes to the other captains and looked to the admiral. “I’ll get our ride ready,” she said. “We’ll await your signal about the sentencing. Maybe we’ll all see you tonight at Beale Street,” she said, referring to one of Titan’s two officer’s clubs.
“Maybe Rue Bourbon this time,” he replied, naming the other. “I think we’re all in a jazzier mood.”
She departed—and Picard offered his farewell next. The captain had already scheduled a private dinner aboard Enterprise for that evening to thank La Forge and Šmrhorvá for their tireless efforts against the Unsung; now, the admiral supplied some good news to take to them. “The JAG has signed off on your idea for Ardra.”
“I know your endorsement helped,” Picard said.
“Before the past few days, I wouldn’t have thought my word would count for anything.”
“You underrate yourself,” Picard said. He shook Riker’s hand. “I’ll see you . . . someplace else, I suppose.”
“Until then,” Riker said, smiling. Picard turned and exited, leaving Dax alone with the admiral.
“I guess I’m off too,” the Trill said, starting for the door. “Last to leave, first to get there: that’s Aventine.”
“Captain,” Riker said, “thanks again for the save. I know things with us were rough after Takedown. I’m glad we can get past that.”
“I’ve had whole lives that didn’t go as planned, Admiral. Trills are big on second chances—and tenth, and twentieth.” She smiled. “Looks like there’s someone else to see you,” Dax said as she headed off.
Tuvok appeared in the doorway. “Am I disturbing you, Admiral?”
“No, we just wrapped up.”
Tuvok entered, holding a small pouch in one hand. “With Korgh’s sentence being carried out today, I have concluded my work with the Klingon investigators—recovering the items Starfleet would like to examine.”
“Thank you, Commander.”
“There was one particular item I thought you should have,” Tuvok said, offering the little bag. “It is no longer needed.”
Riker opened the pouch and withdrew a small packet. “Playing cards?”
“They are the ones Buxtus Cross owned,” Tuvok said. “The ones that Commander Worf used to signal you from Thane.”
Riker read the inscription on the pack. “ ‘A Century of Progress.’ The 1933 Chicago World’s Fair?”
“Correct,” Tuvok said. “A gathering looking toward the future, staged in the middle of an economic depression.”
“Hope amidst failure,” Riker said, gently opening the pack and withdrawing the cards.
“Given that these led to your identification of the Unsung’s homeworld, I speculated that you would like to have them.”
“Thanks.” Riker gave the cards a riffle. He chuckled. “The ace of clubs is dirty.”
“It fell into the mud when Worf fought to save Kahless,” Tuvok said. “I further thought you would find them appealing given your interest in the era. Les Paul, Hal Kemp, and Johnny Mercer apparently performed at the exposition. Were you aware of this?”
Riker smiled broadly. “The Paul Whiteman Orchestra opened the show. Whiteman called himself the ‘king of jazz’—though purists didn’t think that was what he was playing. People have been searching for recordings from the expo forever.”
“I regret that I cannot provide those.”
“As mementos go, these will do.” He put the cards carefully back into the package. “Thank you, Tuvok. We won’t be playing poker with these.”
“I expected not. As you observed, one of the cards is now marked.”
As Riker laughed, Tuvok turned to go. Riker called out, “Hang around for a few hours, Commander. I don’t have a gift like this to give you, but there’s something that you might like to be a part of . . .”
Sixty
THE LINNAVHAVA
BREEN CONFEDERACY
“Your journey back must have been arduous, Chot Dayn. Enter. Sit.”
The Breen did as advised. The trip from Jolva Ree had indeed been long and difficult. The path had ended here in the Linnavhava, residence of Domo Pran.
There was no higher place in the Breen Confederacy. And there was no more nervous place for a visitor to be than in the domo’s office, across from his desk. Pran sat motionless for long moments before speaking. “I am told, Dayn, that thanks to your efforts the asteroid was completely destroyed.”
“Yes, Domo. A colossal waste, but it had to be done. If the Kinshaya’s allegiance is in doubt, I judged that we could not allow such a facility to fall into their possession.”
“The right move.” Pran shook his head. “It is a shame what happened to Roje, but the battlesphere scheme should have been abandoned with the Kinshaya revolt years ago.”
“I grant that it was an attempt to salvage something—”
“Come, Dayn, you need not pretend. You were the most skeptical of Roje—and of his protégé. If you had not been present, I am sure more resources might have been lost.” The domo stood and paced. “Chot Shift is dead?”
“Yes. She knew she was condemned, and refused to waste any more of our resources in her punishment. So she stayed and died aboard Jolva Ree.” A pause. “A patriotic choice.”
“Cowardice.” Domo Pran reached the far wall and looked back. “I have decided to reorganize the intelligence organization to eliminate Roje’s position.” He approached the desk. “In exchange, I will be adding a new thot to the ranks of the logistical division. You are to have that promotion.”
The domo’s guest straightened. “I am honored, Domo. I will make you proud of my performance.”
“See that you do.”
• • •
Later, after the meeting concluded—an hour filled with plans and financial projections—the new thot transported out of the domo’s office. In private, back aboard ship, the Breen officer disrobed—and the Orion woman looked at herself in the mirror and considered her names.
T’shantra. Shift. Vella. N’Keera. And now Dayn, her latest identity—and the one taken in the greatest hurry.
After the real Chot Dayn had pron
ounced her condemned in the facility at Jolva Ree, he had turned his back on her. She pulled the hidden disruptor that Thot Roje had always kept concealed in his desk and stunned him. It had always been a joke between her and her Fenrisal friend; it had been the pistol she had held on him when they had met. He had kept it as a souvenir of their friendship, tucked away in a drawer Dayn had never bothered to search.
She had then stripped her victim—whereupon she realized she had guessed wrong. Under his armor, Chot Dayn was not an Amoniri, as she had suspected—but, in fact, a Silwaan. This was unalloyed good news, because the specialized interior of Amoniri armor would have made it impossible for her to wear. Silwaan were enough like Orions that she had been able to strip off the dead Dayn’s armor and take it for herself.
Then, dressed as Dayn and with his identity chip active, she had beamed back to the waiting shuttle for the flight home.
She could have fled at any point. But she was a Breen. Shift still believed in their philosophy. It was the cleverness of her opponents that had outsmarted her, and the weakness of the Breen’s Kinshaya allies that had failed Roje. That, and the fact that Dayn was always there to undermine him. She could still serve the Confederacy.
Just as someone else.
T’shantra the slave girl was dead—and now, so too was Shift the Breen secret agent. The promotion would make “Thot Dayn” one of the top logisticians in the government—a position, historically, that had been a launching point for even bigger things. Three domos, that she knew of, had come from their ranks, and there was little wonder why. Their work was difficult in the extreme, managing the accounting and disposition of assets for a sprawling union of star systems.
Thot Dayn put her helmet back on and considered that she did not know the first thing about being a logistician—just as she had not known anything about being an illusionist or a spy.
But she would figure it out.
THE GREAT HALL
QO’NOS
Kahless the Unforgettable had preached “death before chains.” In front of the High Council, the order had been reversed: Korgh wore the chains, and he assumed he would momentarily be put to death.
Life had its cruel jokes.
Except for the accursed Worf, Korgh had been spared the sight of more Starfleet personnel sullying the sacred floor of the Great Hall. He did not know why the commander was present. To gloat, probably, at Korgh’s downfall. Worf had missed the trial. Whatever indignity came today, the officer would not miss it.
Korgh had come to realize that he hated Worf over all others—even the pusillanimous Martok, still currying favor with the Federation overlords who kept him in power. Worf was the personification of the Accords. Future generations would inherit a weakling Empire subservient to the Federation, if Worf was the sort of Klingon they respected. Kruge had died to prevent that fate—and soon, Korgh was sure, he would too. Even at a hundred twenty, he was too dangerous to keep alive.
He saw his sons present, with their wives, Lorath’s pregnant widow, and Korgh’s six granddaughters. They were brought in to unnerve him, he was sure; to tempt him into confession, or perhaps hysterics, as he argued against death. He would not give his tormentors that benefit. Neither would his sons fall to their knees, begging for mercy for him. He had not been allowed to talk with them since his conviction, but he was sure they hated his enemies now as much as he did. Tragg and Tengor did not make eye contact. Good boys, he thought, to spare their opponents any sign of emotion. Martok and Worf had made a fatal error. Future generations would avenge him and accomplish his dreams.
A gong sounded. Martok, in full ceremonial robes, entered with his aides; he did not sit. Rather, he joined the circle of council members surrounding Korgh.
“This is a dark day,” Martok said. “One of our own has committed the most heinous acts. His judgment now falls to us. It begins with the remedy of an error.” He called out to the rear of the hall. “General Kersh, come forward!”
Korgh winced as the woman approached and passed into the circle. The old man had considered this might be coming, but thought it too daring for Martok. Evidently not.
“Kersh, daughter of Dakh,” Martok said, “granddaughter of J’borr, you were before and are now the heir to the House of Kruge. This council celebrates your efforts to defend your house’s holdings at H’atoria and Pheben. You are leader of the house.”
“I thank you,” Kersh said, bowing her head slightly. She looked to the others. “My house will make you proud. This I swear.” She did not look at Korgh at all.
“Take your place, Lady Kersh.” Martok watched as the new council member found a place in the circle. Korgh looked away.
“We come to the end,” Martok said. “Korgh was spared discommendation along with Kruge’s officers a hundred years ago—but with his later acts he has shown he deserves it. It is a fate worse than death. If it has fallen before on those who have not deserved it, we can know that it lands in the right place now.”
Guards stepped forward, removed his chains, and withdrew. It was not what Korgh was expecting. They will keep me alive?
It was insulting. As if he cared now for their pretty traditions—as if he had ever cared. Martok would pay for his lapse in judgment.
“This judgment falls on you and yours for seven generations,” Martok said, gesturing to Tragg, Tengor, and their families as he paced around Korgh. “Your honor is hereby—”
“Hold,” came a voice from behind the circle.
Martok looked back. “Who speaks?”
“Worf, son of Mogh.”
Martok acknowledged him. “Let the son of Mogh speak.”
Worf entered the circle. “Hear me, Council. Once, you did not—because of actions falsely attributed to my father. That has been rectified. But I seek here to address an injustice about to be done. There is no evidence that Tragg and Tengor had any knowledge of Korgh’s actions. Nor did their families, which you would condemn along with them.”
The circle opened so Worf could address the sons and their families. “Do you disavow Korgh and his acts?”
Korgh saw Tragg and Tengor looking straight at him—and in that moment, the father did not recognize his sons. “We disavow him,” they said in unison.
Korgh shook with astonishment. “What are you saying?”
The wives and granddaughters joined the two sons. “We disavow him.”
Korgh’s face went white.
“You heard them,” Worf said to the High Council. “They reject what he did. Discommendation should fall only on Lord Korgh.”
The concept set the council abuzz. “I . . . do not know if we have such discretion,” Martok said.
“This Council has whatever power it wants,” Worf said. He stared down each of them as he walked the floor. “What value are rules, if they create as much injustice as they seek to punish? And what use is a council that hides behind traditions, in order to deny responsibility? That council would be weak and without honor.” He stopped and faced Martok. “I know that you would never be chancellor of such a body.”
Martok’s eyes narrowed. He surveyed the council members—and then his eyes fell on the sons and granddaughters of Korgh, their heads bowed in obeisance even as the old man looked up in defiance.
After a moment, he came to a decision. “This council supports the recommendation of Worf, son of Mogh. Perhaps we will revisit this practice in the future. But the shame here began with Korgh’s actions. Let it fall entirely upon him.”
It was decided. The chancellor approached Korgh and loomed over the old man. “Korgh, son of Torav: Do you know the words you must speak?”
Korgh knew them very well: tlhIH ghIj jIHyoj. The first half of the rite of discommendation: “I fear your judgment.” But he did not fear any Klingon’s judgment, and he would not say the words.
“I dispute your right to stand over me,” he said. “I would have been the son of Kruge. And your chair should have been mine!”
“biHnuch!” Martok cried.
<
br /> Coward!
The horrid word, mystical in its awfulness, rang out in the hall—and as if moved by magic, first Martok and then the other members of the council crossed their arms and turned their backs on Korgh. So did Worf, who moved with the reluctance of one who had suffered it before.
So, too, did his own family. Korgh saw them turn as one. “My sons . . . ?”
With not a face to be seen, Korgh somehow found the energy to move. He made his way out of the hall.
Sixty-one
Korgh did not notice the ground beneath his feet until he was on the steps outside the Great Hall. The punishment spared him a hundred years earlier had finally come—and everything was lost.
It had taken him a century of scheming to reach the heights he had in the last month. At a hundred and twenty, he surely did not have a century more—and this time, he was truly alone. No Odrok. No supporters.
Not even his sons. They were dead to him, now, following their betrayal. But he was dead to countless others. Ahead of him as he descended foot by trudging foot, a host of Klingons turned their backs upon him. Warriors, strangers, even peasants who had come to the First City to witness the great events of the past few days. They all scorned him.
The sight of so many unworthy people denying him caused his heart to stir. He was Korgh—and he still had his mind. That, and hatred, deep and abiding. It was now all he had—but it had been all he had ever needed.
Yes, he thought, Martok has made a grave mistake indeed. Korgh would go into the world, under yet another name, and find new allies, new weapons. And with them, he would bring all of his enemies low.
It would start now. He walked into the street past the turned faces—
—and saw eyes. Human and Vulcan. Admiral Riker, the haughty fool, with Commander Tuvok beside him, holding a phaser. Behind them were several more armed Starfleet security officers.
“What do you want?” Korgh turned away, refusing to give Riker the opportunity to gloat. But the security officers blocked his path.
The Hall of Heroes Page 31
