The Hall of Heroes Page 7

  Some quarreled. He recognized Harch, deep in intense argument with several companions as they stood around one of the fiery plumes. He could not hear what they were talking about, but they kept looking back at the birds-of-prey—and occasionally at him. Several other small gatherings were similarly occupied.

  Yet most of the exiles were morose. Some silently went through the motions of setting up camp; others milled about, staring into the flames or at the walls. As with the belligerent groups, Worf knew the reason was the same: the truth that he and Kahless had brought to them.

  And in a far alcove, Kahless stood unmolested, sharpening his dagger on a boulder. He had shown no interest in the other Klingons since the two of them exited Chu’charq, and the Unsung had seemed reluctant to approach him. The clone seemed to be an object of some superstition after his miraculous appearance and he had not minded the solitude it provided in the least. The emperor had found little good to say about the Unsung.

  “Did your friend really live in the hull of the ship?” Sarken asked.

  “He did.”

  “I used to think those places were scary, but not anymore. Not after you went with me into the guts of Rodak.”

  “It is how we learn not to fear, Sarken. When you are older, you will brave new places alone.”

  “I guess. Still, I’m glad you were there.”

  Off to the side, Worf heard footfalls on Chu’charq’s loading ramp. Valandris emerged from the dark opening.

  “It is under way,” she reported. “They do not know how much time it will take.”

  Sarken looked back at the ship and scrunched her nose in distaste. “All the lights are out in there?”

  “They are,” Valandris said. “Do not go back in, if it frightens you.”

  “I’m not worried. I can go with Worf.”

  Several running children dashed through their midst, catching Sarken’s attention. She followed them, joining their game of hiding around the landing gear assemblies. Valandris looked up at Worf and smirked. “At least one of us has not tried to kill you.”

  Worf said nothing. But when she started walking away, he joined her.

  “I have taken a count,” Valandris said. “Of the three hundred or so people we began with, only a hundred twenty-three remain—and only because we stopped fighting at Ghora Janto to transport survivors. There are forty-six children, as we would have considered them on Thane.”

  “You do not have a Rite of Ascension?”

  “No. No rights conferred to adulthood because no one had rights. The only determining factor was the ability to produce offspring—hardly a privilege when those children would be born discommendated.” Valandris frowned. “A hundred eighty of our kin died at Spirits’ Forge and Ghora Janto—including fifty children.”

  Worf blanched. So many. Fully half the future of a people that barely had a future to begin with.

  “That has left enough adults to operate all four ships,” Valandris continued. “Which is convenient—as there are four camps regarding what to do next.”

  Worf’s interest was piqued. “Tell me.”

  “There are many who are bereft beyond reason. True believers in Lord Kruge who feel lost—and those who feel guilt over what we have done. One group, I fear, would destroy themselves. Dublak, whom you met, is one. Weltern represents another group, which would look for another place of exile.”

  “Either choice is cowardly.”

  “Then you will like the next group.” She pointed to the Klingons quarreling by the fire. “Harch’s mind, you know. He served with Zokar, looked up to him. He would throw the last of us against our enemies—go out in a final battle.”

  “What enemies?” Worf asked. “Without the fake Kruge to lead you, whom does he think to oppose?”

  “That is what they argue about. But I know what the answer will be: Everyone but us. Our people have lived generations as dirt. Before we die, Harch would have us muddy those who are unsoiled.”

  Worf shook his head. “Madness.” Then he looked keenly at her. “And the fourth group, Valandris?”

  “Right now,” she said with reluctance, “it is just me.”

  “And what will you do?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “But I am beginning to favor surrender.”

  Worf raised an eyebrow. “To Klingon justice?”

  “I dispute that it exists.” She shook her head. “No, it is about making the best, final end for those who survive. That is why I have decided to take all the children aboard Chu’charq for safekeeping. I would not have them die in a mass suicide or a foolish act.”

  Her statement surprised Worf. He looked out to the rest. “The others would agree to let you take them?”

  “Our children are raised communally—I would not expect parents to object. And if any challenged me, I would fight them.” Valandris’s eyes locked intently on his. “I read enough of the original Kahless to know that he looked down on acting simply for survival. He said that honor made Klingons more than beasts. Perhaps I am a dumb beast, for I have no honor. But I would rather the children survive in your world than be massacred—or be forced to live in a hole, as Weltern would have it.”

  Worf was impressed. “There is more honor to that choice than you may think. It is the best path—and can be for all.” He looked to the disparate gatherings. “How can you bring others to your way?”

  “I can’t,” she said. “You already know we have no leaders.”

  “I think you do.”

  “Going in different directions. No. We had Potok, and then Kruge. We need a unifier. We need you.”

  It was something they had discussed before, in a different context. “I am not the best choice.”

  “Why not? You’ve filled my ears with how your traditional Klingon ways are best—with opinions about what we should be doing. Are we too soiled, too corrupt to be worthy?”

  “That’s not it. I met a group of Klingons once who had been detached from their heritage, and I was able to teach them. But continuing to ask for a leader from outside keeps your people from becoming whole. They first much choose to seek a better way on their own, as you have.”

  “But I didn’t do it all on my own. I told you I had help from the words of Kahless. What you told me—and what was in his book.”

  “You mentioned that. Where did you read the qeS’a’?”

  “In Spirits’ Forge.” Her brow furrowed. “Zokar burned that book. Kruge, or whoever he was, had us destroy and delete the other versions on board.”

  “Not every one,” Worf said. He gestured to the emperor. “A complete record of the word of the Unforgettable stands before you.”

  Valandris cast a jaded eye toward the clone, who was using his freshly sharpened blade to cut into a bolt of leatherlike material he had found aboard Chu’charq. “I forgot. He was created to speak Kahless’s wisdom.” She snorted with derision. “He is nothing but words.”

  “He is himself. An individual, a warrior in his own right. He knows much.”

  Staring across the space at Kahless, she chuckled. “I can’t see trading one false dead leader for another.”

  “The emperor is not false. You know who and what he is. There is no deception in him, beyond what it took to escape Cross. He lives,” Worf said, pausing. “But I do not know what he would think about helping you.”

  “No one asked him,” she replied tartly. “And I am not surprised. He feels the word of Kahless is too good for us.”

  “That is not what I meant.” Worf watched the emperor, singing as he worked at the material. “For his entire existence, others have forced leadership on him. I certainly urged him to become emperor. His frustration with that role drove him to retire—only to find that without it, he lacked direction and confidence. Before you kidnapped him on Gamaral, he was at a crossroads.” He considered for a moment. “At the time, I would have said Kahless would have been unlikely to counsel you—especially given what you have put him through. But now I am no longer sure.”
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br />   Tentatively, Valandris asked, “If any of us were interested in learning from him, would you ask him? On our behalf.”

  “He would not respect an indirect plea. You have spat upon our heritage. If you would have it now, it must be you to make the appeal—and accept his judgment.” Worf let out a deep breath. “If he does choose to counsel you, I will help as best I can.”

  Valandris studied him—and nodded.

  She turned on her heel, ready to head back into Chu’charq, when Worf added, “There is one more thing.”

  She looked back at him. “Be quick about it.”

  “I understood that you do not have a mate.”

  Valandris looked puzzled. Then she laughed loudly. “Son of Mogh, you pick a fine time to ask. I am too busy to consider it.”

  Worf scowled. “That is not why I asked. Your cousin Tharas—he was father to the girl Sarken, correct?”

  This question startled her too. “That’s right. Her mother was killed on a hunt we were on. I have seen the girl from time to time.”

  Worf nodded. “I understand the way your people raise children. But blood is strong. It means something to a Klingon.”

  “Even a discommendated one?”

  “Yes.” Worf looked again at the running children. “Whether or not Kahless becomes your guide, you should become hers.”

  Valandris exhaled and shook her head. “I never had time for children. Unless things change, I’ll be watching over all forty-six.”

  Twelve

  BREEN WARSHIP SUSTAX

  DEEP SPACE

  “Listen, friend, I appreciate the whole inscrutable-warrior thing,” the Ferengi prisoner said to the Breen jailer. “I really do. It works for you. It’s a good look, effective. But if you’d just speak words I can understand, you could do away with the electric prod. I assure you, I am eminently reasonable.”

  The Breen responded by giving Gaw another shock from his weapon. The Ferengi squealed from the touch of the wand and bolted backward with a spryness he hadn’t known since hitting middle age. Gaw sought a far corner of the cell, featureless except for a meter-high cube that passed for a bed. “I told you, cut that out!”

  Gaw was the chief of Blackstone’s truthcrafters, the technicians who had generated illusions for Buxtus Cross. As the ever-changing public face of the group, Cross was by tradition considered the band’s leader—but his sudden and mysterious death had pressed Gaw into the role. The hiding place he had selected for the battle-damaged Blackstone, the tail of a comet in the Atogra system, had not protected them from discovery by the Breen. He had been imprisoned ever since and permitted no contact with any of his companions. Were they even on the same ship?

  Neither had he seen the person he held responsible for Blackstone’s capture. A friend, he had thought; a friend turned traitor. Worst of all, they had taken his prized pince-nez. The parade of indignities seemed endless.

  The door to the chamber opened, and another Breen entered. The Breen warriors all were the same size and shape; Gaw had not found a way to tell them apart. Not that it mattered. They had all been hostile to him, only speaking words he understood when they wanted answers he could not give. One wall, he was sure, was transparent on the other side; Gaw imagined he was being watched constantly.

  The two Breen began conversing in electronic gibberish. “Oh, great. A conference,” Gaw said. The Breen with the prod departed, leaving behind the new arrival. “Okay, so it’s a shift change.”

  The remaining Breen looked at him suddenly and voiced something like a garbled chortle. Removing the helmet, the Breen stood revealed as Shift, the Orion woman who had worked with Gaw’s team before betraying the truthcrafters to the Confederacy.

  Gaw knew he should hate her but he had always been fond of Shift, and anyone with a face was a relief. Especially hers. “Welcome to my little palace,” he said. “I’d offer you a chair, but these people aren’t big on amenities.”

  Shift smiled gently. “Sorry I haven’t been down before. I’ve been busy.”

  “I’ll bet. I imagine it’s hell for you guys deciding what identical suit to wear each day.”

  “They tell me you haven’t been very cooperative.”

  “We never are,” Gaw said, pacing the chamber. “Sweetie, you were with us long enough to know. Truthcrafters never tell. It’s our way. If we told people how our tricks worked, we wouldn’t be good for much.”

  Shift nodded. “You won’t be good for much if the Breen kill you.”

  Gaw gulped. “Is that likely?”

  She shrugged. “I am not in charge. They could kill you. They could interrogate you in ways that you wouldn’t recover from. Or . . .”

  “Or?”

  “Or they could break all of you up and send you into service as Breen warriors. On the front lines, wherever the Confederacy is fighting.”

  “Joy.” The Ferengi nervously kicked at the deck. “This is how the Breen negotiate? Choose bad-bad or worse-bad?”

  “The Breen don’t negotiate, Gaw. They want to know how to operate the systems aboard Blackstone, but Cross never told me his passphrase. We can’t even get the imaging chamber open without breaking it.”

  “It would take you forever to figure it out, if you even could.”

  “And that’s why they can’t offer you your freedom. Whatever happens, the Breen will require your assistance to use the ship.”

  “Use it for what?”

  “That’s not important. What matters is the Breen Confederacy needs your help. They’d be happy if you gave your help willingly—but if not, we’ll find a way to get it.”

  “We’ll find—?” The Ferengi stared at her for a moment before shaking his head. “I just don’t get any of this. Why are you with the Breen?”

  “Because I believe in them. In what they stand for.”

  Gaw waved his hands. “Who can tell what they stand for? With that whole snork-squawk-gawk they do, I can’t tell whether these guys want me to eat my dinner or sing an opera.” He looked out through the doorway at the guards. “If they are guys, that is. Those suits hide everything.” He looked back at her. “It’s a damn shame, in your case.”

  “That’s one reason I believe in them,” Shift said. “Cross was only interested in me because of what I looked like—just like every other person in my life.” She gestured to her armor. “Be honest, Gaw. Would Buxtus have taken me on if I were wearing this?”

  “No. But he knew you were smart, Shifty.” Gaw’s expression softened. “You were different from his other apprentices. You, he thought, could become a practitioner. ‘Maybe another Jilaan,’ I heard him say. He thought you were that good—a natural.”

  Shift took that in. “And what did you think?”

  “I thought you were better than he was—and he was the best I’ve ever worked with.” At the thought, Gaw’s brow furrowed. “What happened to Buxtus?”

  Shift looked startled. The question wasn’t one she was expecting. “What do you think happened?”

  “Our sensors saw his life signs end on Ark of G’boj—but we didn’t know how it happened.”

  “Ah.” She thought for a moment—and then put her helmet back on and called out into the hall. Another Breen entered, delivering a rectangular object wrapped in a protective opaque covering. The newcomer placed it on the large cube in the center of the room and departed. Shift removed her helmet again. “I’m not supposed to show my face in front of the others while on duty.”

  “Their loss,” Gaw said. “Or maybe not. What do the rest of them look like?”

  She ignored him, gingerly sliding the large object out from its wrapping. Inside was a hefty book with an ornately detailed cover. Gaw recognized it immediately. “That’s from Cross’s room. That’s a copy of the Annals.”

  “The official record of the feats of the Circle of Jilaan, as presented at the secret association’s convocations.”

  Gaw rolled his eyes and groaned. “You didn’t tell the Breen about the society, did you?”


  “No, they crossed Klingon lines and destroyed a bird-of-prey just to get to meet you,” Shift said. “They’re very interested, Gaw. Try to keep up.”

  Gaw crossed his arms and gave the book a sidelong glance as she opened the massive cover. The gilded type caught the harsh light of the cell, glistening as her fingers turned the gossamer-thin pages.

  “There’s a particular story here I’m interested in,” she said. “One of Jilaan’s big ventures, from nearly a century ago.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “She’s very interesting—I can see why she was Illusionist Magnus for so long.” Shift reached a particular page, marked by a multicolored ribbon. “I’ve read the account thoroughly—but I was looking for some better images of the character she portrayed.”

  “Is that right.”

  Shift studied him. “You know, if you cooperated, I could see that the Breen freed you—after you helped us. Everyone on your team.” She raised an eyebrow. “Including Cross.”

  Gaw’s mouth dropped open. “What?”

  “I don’t know what your sensors picked up, but he’s alive—and in our custody.”

  “You’re lying!”

  “The Starfleet officers on Ark of G’boj stunned him—but he hit his head when he fell. Sustax beamed us both off at the same time. He’s in a pretty bad shape, but he should pull through.” She locked eyes with Gaw. “Help us, and they’ll help him—and you can all go when we’re done.”

  Gaw looked at her—and then at the open doorway, outside which he could see Breen milling about. “If he’s here, let me see him.”

  “No. That would be a waste of time. I could show him to you, but then you’d say he was a hologram we’d created. We may not be as good as you truthcrafters, but we at least have that technology.” She returned her attention to the book. “You have my offer; that should be enough.”

  He stared. “I thought you said Breen didn’t make deals.”

  “I was an Orion—old habits die hard. Do we have a bargain?”

  Gaw thought. Telling tales outside the Circle broke the organization’s cardinal rule. But he and Cross had first helped each other escape capture by the Federation nineteen years earlier, and in the years since they had gotten each other out of countless scrapes. If Shift’s offer was real and it was a one-time thing, Gaw considered that it might be worth it. He cleared his throat. “What was your question again?”