The Hall of Heroes Page 3

  “Standing by.”

  The captain headed to her ready room as Bowers moved to take her chair. “Never a dull moment, huh?”

  Dax responded with a look that made the ones she’d gotten from the Klingons seem pleasant.

  Four

  “I don’t think I heard you right, Commander.” Her fingers on her freckled right temple, Dax struggled to focus on the face on her screen. “You’re telling me that in the time we’ve been out of touch, the Federation’s relationship with the Klingon Empire has started to fall apart—and that Emperor Kahless and Worf have been killed?”

  “Presumed killed, in Commander Worf’s case,” Tuvok replied. The Vulcan’s expression did not change. “I regret being the bearer of this news, Captain Dax. I know that one of your symbiont’s past Trill hosts was married to Worf.”

  Her throat suddenly dry, Dax forced a swallow. She struggled to register Tuvok’s next words: “Aventine is now attached to the Starfleet task force searching for a Klingon terror cult known as the Unsung—along with most of the other vessels we have in Klingon space.”

  Worf. Kahless. The Unsung? Much had changed in her absence. Too much. Dax’s eyes narrowed. “Why am I not hearing this from the admiral?”

  “Admiral Riker has been called to Qo’noS to deal with the ongoing political crisis,” Tuvok said. “The admiral asked that I brief you.”

  Dax nodded. On her padd, the official order from Starfleet Command appeared. It lacked detail—but quite a bit more was to be found in the reports that had just populated her device following the reestablishment of Aventine’s subspace comm capabilities.

  “I take it there’s a cult threatening the Klingon Empire, Tuvok. But if the general public knows about it, why all the cloak-and-dagger?”

  “Because certain elements would be damaging to Klingon domestic tranquility, Chancellor Martok has asked that those facts not be shared publicly.”

  “All right. Tell me everything.”

  Tuvok laid out how Starfleet had agreed to stage a celebration on Gamaral, in Federation territory, for the Klingon nobles of the House of Kruge. Arriving aboard a squadron of Klingon birds-of-prey known as the Phantom Wing, the Unsung struck the event and killed the guests—embarrassing Starfleet, as the Enterprise was in charge of security. They had also kidnapped Worf and Emperor Kahless, the clone of the ancient founder of the Klingon Empire, who had served in recent years as figurehead emperor.

  The Unsung had retreated, with their prisoners, to the Briar Patch. To a planet, Thane, that had been their place of exile for a hundred years. “The Unsung descend from a group of discommendated officers loyal to Commander Kruge. Their birds-of-prey once belonged to him. Their strike at the nobles was an act of revenge for what they see as the wrongful shaming of their families. So, too, was their broadcast execution of Kahless.”

  Dax was sorry to hear of the emperor’s fate. The grisly images of the murder were in one of the reports that had appeared on her padd. “How do we know all this?”

  “Commander Worf told us.”

  Dax raised an eyebrow. “I thought you said he was killed.”

  Tuvok said, “When the Enterprise tracked the birds-of-prey to Thane, the Unsung escaped capture—and Worf escaped them. He told us—and this is classified—that the Unsung had been urged to violence by their new leader: an imposter posing as a hundred-forty-five-year-old Commander Kruge. A Kling-on who is most certainly dead.”

  Dax suppressed a dark laugh. “I’ll say. Captain Kirk shoved him into an ocean of lava—or that’s how I heard it.”

  “Your information is correct. The Unsung knew this, too, but the imposter convinced them otherwise. I now believe he did so using technology that . . .”

  The Vulcan paused. Ezri knew that look. Dax’s hosts had seen it many times. Someone that knew Dax before the revelation that the Trill were a joined race was remembering how every Trill had lied to their allies for generations.

  “Technology,” he began again, “that you and I became familiar with in our first meeting, long ago.”

  “Wait.” Her mind raced back. “You mean aboard Excelsior?”

  “Captain Sulu’s command. Curzon Dax visited as a diplomat, to deal with the Kinshaya on their onetime capital world of Yongolor.”

  Dax struggled to recall. “Niamlar, the Kinshaya war god. There was a prankster posing as a deity and riling them up.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you ever find out who that was?”

  “No. But I formed a theory then as to how they did it—and I believe it explains events on Thane,” Tuvok said.

  Captain Picard, Tuvok explained, had encountered a technological trickster named Ardra nearly twenty years earlier. “The support ship Ardra used to generate her illusions, Houdini, is alongside Enterprise now. We used it to detect the hoaxer who was deceiving the Unsung: a Betazoid, Buxtus Cross. We believe he may have impersonated Kruge. One of his confederates killed him—an Orion woman. She fled—as did the Blackstone, the ship that was helping him perform his illusions.”

  “She boarded Blackstone?”

  “We do not know if she transported aboard that ship or a different one. There was another unidentified vessel in the area.”

  “If the imposters were out of the way, shouldn’t that have ended the Unsung threat?”

  “Unknown. Before we reached Cross, the Unsung attacked and wiped out the Klingons stationed at Spirits’ Forge on H’atoria. Then they struck the Klingon outpost at Ghora Janto—where we believe at least half the Unsung force was destroyed.”

  “By the Klingons.”

  “A joint force of Klingons and Starfleet vessels, but also ships from the Romulan Empire and the Breen Confederacy.”

  One surprise after another, Dax thought. “Romulans and Breen—in Klingon space? Who invited them?”

  “Chancellor Martok, under pressure from Lord Korgh, the new leader of the House of Kruge.”

  Korgh, Tuvok explained, had no apparent love for the Typhon Pact powers—but he vociferously blamed Starfleet for the fate of the members of his house on Gamaral. He also accused the Federation of having given the exiles a haven in the Briar Patch a century earlier.

  “He seizes upon any chance to undermine the Federation’s special relationship,” Tuvok said. “That is why Admiral Riker is on Qo’noS, even as Titan continues its search for the remaining Unsung ships. The Khitomer Accords must be saved.”

  “The Klingons we ran into here were definitely on edge,” Dax said. “I thought it had to do with the Takedown Incident, but this is worse than I’d imagined.”

  “General Kersh is a member of the House of Kruge. We do not know if she shares Lord Korgh’s views, but she does want to see order restored—as do we. Starfleet must find the remaining ships of the Unsung squadron, the Phantom Wing, as quickly as possible. Their controller may be dead, but while they are free, a near-century of friendship is endangered.”

  “Worf, Tuvok. What happened to Worf? You said he escaped them.”

  Tuvok spoke in even tones. “I was coming to that. He felt responsible for what happened to Emperor Kahless—”

  “He would.”

  “—and Commander La Forge and Lieutenant Šmrhová considered themselves culpable for the Gamaral Massacre. They devised a plan to transport an away team aboard one of the cloaked Unsung vessels above H’atoria.”

  “And naturally Worf went.” She shook her head. “Alone?”

  “That was not the intention, but that is how it transpired. A weapon belonging to him was found in the wreckage of one of the birds-of-prey at Ghora Janto. We suspect he may have been a prisoner aboard.”

  “He wouldn’t have been taken captive again if he could’ve helped it.” She took a deep breath. “Worf performed a heroic feat to get Jadzia into Sto-Vo-Kor. He could have been trying to do the same for Kahless.” The captain bent her head, damp blue eyes closed.

  “His devotion was admirable. Captain, I grieve with you.”

  “Thank you.” She lifted her head and open
ed her eyes, saying, “What do you need from Aventine?”

  “You are to join the search for the Unsung, for as long as Starfleet vessels are permitted free movement in Klingon space.”

  “We could lose freedom to travel? It’s that bad?”

  “If Lord Korgh accomplishes his aims, yes. Starfleet must find the fugitives first. Admiral Riker believes that Aventine’s speed would be most helpful.”

  He’s felt that way before, Dax thought. She and the admiral had disagreed over his use of Aventine in the past—but clearly the stakes now were much higher.

  “I will send you the specifications we have on the Phantom Wing, along with information on sectors to be searched.”

  “Thank you, Commander. Aventine out.”

  The captain stared at the blank screen for a long moment—and then sat back in her chair. She looked at the blackness out the observation port and wondered what Worf’s final moments were like.

  I hope you died in battle, she thought. And if you didn’t, I now have a favor to return. She rose and headed back to the bridge.

  Five

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  CABEUS, KLINGON EMPIRE

  “I am Kahless, clone of the Unforgettable—and I have returned!”

  Worf stared, slack jawed, at the figure before him in the mess hall of the bird-of-prey—and wondered if he was delirious from lack of air. Moments earlier, he had been surrounded by the Klingon cultists of the Unsung as they attempted to strangle him with chains. Now the clone of Kahless stood beside him—and Worf was reliving, after a fashion, one of the most important moments of his life.

  Years earlier, the same clone—created from DNA purportedly belonging to Kahless the Unforgettable, legendary ancient ruler of the Klingon Empire—had first appeared to Worf on Boreth. Then, it had been in a blaze of supernatural effects, intended to make the clone seem like a visitor from the afterlife. Clerics at the Boreth monastery had created the clone as a ploy to unite the Empire’s quarrelsome factions. The truth had been revealed, but with Worf’s help, the clone assumed the ceremonial role of emperor, offering spiritual guidance to many.

  All that had come to an abrupt end in the Briar Patch, where Worf witnessed the clone’s execution by the Unsung. They had acted under the orders of someone claiming to be Kruge, the feared Klingon commander who had been killed a century earlier by James T. Kirk. The false Kruge was dead, so far as Worf knew. But the clone of Kahless stood beside him, very much alive.

  This time, Kahless’s arrival required no technical artistry. The emperor had burst through overhead access panels. He landed on the makeshift dais where Worf, captive of the cultists, had been standing in judgment. Clad in the Unsung’s own black sensor-foiling armor, Kahless started freeing Worf from the chains binding him. The emperor snarled at the Klingons on the deck surrounding them. “I have returned—and I will see who here is worthy!”

  Amid sounds of astonishment, Valandris, one of the Unsung’s great hunters, stared at the clone. “We—we saw you die! We killed you, back on Thane.”

  “You killed someone,” Kahless said, detaching another chain from Worf’s neck. “But it was not I.” With a strong heave, he wrested the chain from the Klingon holding the other end. Looping it around his hands as a weapon, he whipped the loose end against the platform once with a loud clang.

  Two members of the Unsung closed in from one side. Kahless lashed out, snapping the chain in their direction. Metal struck flesh. The young Klingons backed away, bruised and bleeding.

  The emperor held the chain over his head, swinging the loose end around in a circle and turning so all in the room could see the fire in his eyes. “You may try to kill me again—if you dare. But you will not imprison me. Never again.”

  “I, too, have tired of it,” Worf added, rubbing his neck. The Unsung had jailed him multiple times.

  “Worf, there is a blade at my hip,” Kahless said, edging toward the commander. “Take it.”

  Ducking the whirling chain, Worf grabbed the d’k tahg. Looking around, he realized that the Unsung were making no offensive moves. Indeed, they almost cowered—and not because of any threat from himself and Kahless.

  “It was no phantom,” declared wild-haired Harch, whom Worf knew from the ill-fated Rodak. “I stabbed you, clone. Back on Thane!”

  “As did I,” said another Klingon, “at Lord Kruge’s command.”

  “Many of us stabbed you,” whispered a very pregnant Weltern. “And you, Valandris—you marched him to his executioners.”

  Valandris seemed stupefied. “You saw it happen, Worf, just as we did. How could this be?”

  Worf didn’t know—but the question angered him. “Now you question, Valandris? You blithely accepted Kruge when he appeared to you. The ‘Fallen Lord,’ you called him. You let that pretender talk you into committing murder—into striking against your own people in the Empire. You knew Kruge had died a hundred years earlier, plunging into a sea of flames.” Worf glared at her. “You believed him. Why would you not believe Kahless?”

  “There was a body!” someone shouted.

  “Who said this?” The emperor looked around.

  “Dublak.” One of the older males in the group stepped forward. “I dragged you—I mean, I dragged the corpse to the pit to discard it. The body was real. It was yours.”

  “It only looked like mine,” Kahless said. A portable light sat at the edge of the crawlspace above them, casting rays down on the emperor. “You simple-minded fools. You have been tricked! Deceived, by a pair of illusionists.”

  Worf’s eyes widened. “Illusionists?”

  “Actors. They used technology—holography—to portray Kruge and his priestess, N’Keera. A Betazoid man and an Orion woman is what they really were. They used their fakery to make it appear that I had died.”

  A clamor rose from the dozens of Unsung warriors in the room. Valandris called out. “We are not fools! No one could make illusions that good.”

  “Yes, they could,” Worf said, thinking. “Enterprise faced someone who had those skills. Her name was Ardra.”

  “I heard them mention her,” Kahless said. “They spared me on purpose, to learn more about me and impersonate me, someday.” He smiled in the light, his teeth gleaming. “But I outwitted them and escaped into the bowels of the ship.”

  Worf studied Kahless. The clone seemed thinner than when Worf had seen him last, his beard longer and more ragged. “How long have you been between decks?”

  “Too long,” Kahless said. “I have known only darkness and noise, living in the crawlspaces and looking for a way to the weapons lockers, so I might arm myself. After the last battle you were in, I decided I had wasted enough time.” He stepped off the makeshift dais. Cracking the chain against the deck, he glared at those surrounding him. “If you would fight, strike me now!”

  Valandris extended her arms, waving her people back. “I would know more about these tricksters.”

  “You would, would you?” Kahless smiled darkly. He brought the chain to a standstill. “Find your ‘Lord Kruge’ and his priestess. Bring them to me. I would delight in showing you who they really are.”

  No one responded. Kahless looked about, confused. Worf stepped off the tabletop toward him and touched his arm. “Then . . . you do not know?”

  “What?”

  Valandris looked around at her companions before speaking gravely. “N’Keera killed Lord Kruge before all of us on Omicron Lankal. Then she beamed away.”

  The emperor frowned. “Did she take his body with her?”

  “Yes.”

  Kahless snorted. “Then he is no more dead than I am—and he was certainly never Kruge. His name is Buxtus Cross. The woman is called Shift. They had been speaking all along about abandoning you when they accomplished their aims—whatever they were.”

  Worf looked about warily. There was no appetite for combat—not when the room was still thick with wonder. Dublak scratched his head. “This makes no sense. There was a body on
Thane. It was no illusion.” He displayed his hands. “The blood covered me.”

  The emperor’s expression changed. “Oh, yes,” he said, his voice solemn as he paced near the perimeter of the platform around Worf. “There was a person they made to look like me. I heard them say who it was.” He crossed his arms in judgment and laughed. “You colossal fools. You have slain many who did not deserve death—but you unwittingly included one of your own. It was the warrior who founded your colony. You killed General Potok!”

  Six

  “Potok?” Valandris said. “That’s impossible!”

  Worf remembered the blind old man, onetime devotee of the true Commander Kruge and founder of the discommendated colony. He faced Valandris. “Yes . . . it very well could be. You were holding him prisoner in the same kennel where you were keeping Kahless. Just before I escaped I sought him out—but he had vanished.”

  “The imposters transported him away,” Kahless said. “He was made to look like me, using their tricks. I heard Cross describe how, after the fact. Then they returned him to this vessel—”

  “Where I marched him down the ramp,” Valandris said, voice nearly catching in her throat, “to his death.”

  Worf looked around. Some of the Unsung were just as shaken as she was; others, more. Dublak stared at the deck, shaking his head in silence.

  Kahless’s eyes widened in the low light. “Yes. Yes, you see it now. You killed the father of your people,” he said, “at the command of a charismatic liar who said pretty things.”

  Someone shouted, “We didn’t know it was Potok!”

  “You did when you imprisoned him in Kruge’s name,” Worf retorted. “Do you not see the shame in what you have done?”

  Valandris shook her head. “Potok made our lives miserable, Worf. He is the one who shamed us.”

  “That does not forgive what you have done!” Worf said. “The general was blind, barely in his right mind. You jailed him, hung him from a hook like a carcass.”

  Kahless laughed. “Worf, you do not give them enough respect!” He strode defiantly around the perimeter of the clearing that had formed around them. “Behold the great and powerful hunters before us! They defeated a general of a hundred fifty years. That must be worth killing five generals of thirty!”