The Hall of Heroes

by John Jackson Miller

  “You’d think in criminal law he’s gone into some rough neighborhoods,” Bowers said. “I’ll get back to the bridge and set course, Captain.”

  “We’ll get everyone situated and give you the word,” Leishman said to Dax. She turned to the visitors. “Good luck, Commanders. I hope we didn’t get a decimal point wrong.”

  PHANTOM WING VESSEL CHU’CHARQ

  EN ROUTE TO KETORIX PRIME

  The Phantom Wing was in warp space again, headed for its original objective. Worf could not forget the surprised expression on his captain’s face when Valandris had cut the transmission. The commander had not objected to her move when he had the chance; Captain Picard would be within his rights to consider Worf’s failure an insubordinate act.

  Yet Worf knew that Kahless and Valandris were correct. So often over the previous weeks, the exiles had taken him places against his will. This trip to Ketorix, he supported fully. The Unsung returning to face those they had wronged was one thing. For them to want to intercede against the Kinshaya was unexpected—and purely, absolutely Klingon. They had to be allowed to see it through.

  The squadron raced, under cloak, across the Empire that the Unsung had so recently stalked with malevolent intent. Kahless was in the mess hall, speaking to the nearly four-dozen children who were aboard Chu’charq. They had never displayed any anxiety before the Unsung’s other battles, and now they reveled in the clone’s fantastic tales of ancient heroism. The exiles had only ever heard cautionary tales from their elders. Before a storyteller of Kahless’s talent, young and old alike were transfixed.

  Not that Chu’charq’s nineteen adults were all in the audience. A few were, of course; most of the others were at their stations. Worf had seen one listener depart early. He found her far forward in the darkened ready room, her legs crossed as she sat on the deck looking out the port at the streaming stars going past.

  Whether she saw his reflection in the port or heard his footsteps, Worf did not know—but she spoke without turning her head. “Are all these stars part of the Empire, Worf?”

  “Here, yes,” he said as he stepped farther into the room. “Not all have worlds. But Klingons count them as part of their dominion, their birthright.”

  “I had no birthright,” she said, still spellbound. “We had nebulae in the sky over Thane, and stars. But nobody told us they could belong to us.” He took a seat nearby, and she looked back at him. “I lived in a crater on a small world, Worf—secluded and far from anywhere. Those who ruled my people did their best to strip us of all pride, to make us feel small.”

  Worf simply listened.

  “Yet even before the fake Kruge arrived,” she said, “my friends and I tried to make something ours. Through the hunt, we lived a larger life. I was Valandris, before I had a name. And if I could have hunted stars for my own, I would have.”

  “You knew you were a Klingon,” Worf said softly. “No matter what they did to you. No matter what your ancestors did. You did not need Kruge to tell you this—nor me, nor even Kahless.” He looked keenly at her in the starlight. “You have a birthright, Valandris. You all did.”

  She turned away, shaking her head. “It all seems so big. Hearing your Picard talk of empires and pacts—I’m not sure any of us are ready for your world.” She chuckled. “Presuming anyone lets us in.”

  “And presuming we live through tomorrow. It will sort itself out.”

  Brought back to immediate concerns, Valandris stood and turned. “We have a problem,” she said, pacing the room. “I received a hail. The child—Harch and Weltern’s son—has taken ill.”

  Worf raised an eyebrow. “What is wrong?”

  “Infantile tharkak’ra,” she said. “It is not life threatening, but it requires full-time care, and we cannot spare either Harch or Weltern from Krencha.”

  “I could transport over so that one of them could care for the child,” Worf said.

  “You could, but you would be better aboard Cob’lat,” she said. She took a seat across from him. “They are still having technical problems that require more than a year’s experience and a tutorial on a padd.”

  “I can do this.”

  “I have suggested to Weltern that they beam the boy aboard Chu’charq at our next stop,” Valandris said. “Sarken and her friends can care for him better than his parents can.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “I would like Kahless aboard Klongat.”

  Worf frowned. “He does not have experience operating one of these vessels.” Though he has seen plenty of the inside of one, Worf thought.

  “Klongat’s crew is the youngest. Beroc and Bardoc, the brothers . . . they know what they are doing, but it would be better to have his leadership.”

  “I cannot see Kahless denying you. You are a true leader, Valandris.”

  “I am mildly amused that you think so, especially given the number of times I have tried to kill you.” She allowed a smile. “What kind of person was your mate?”

  “Alexander’s mother was highly intelligent—much better with diplomacy than I have ever been. He takes that side of his character from her, I think.” He looked toward the port as he recalled Jadzia. “There was another. She was a great warrior, and wise. They are both dead.”

  “You will not take another mate?”

  “I feel my life is full,” he said, looking back at her, “for now.”

  “I know exactly what you mean.” She rose and headed for the door. “Get some sleep, Worf, son of Mogh. For soon we fight.”

  Forty-one

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

  EN ROUTE TO NARENDRA III

  Picard’s and Crusher’s duty shifts usually coincided; scheduling was one of the perks of command. But Ardra’s arrival had put Picard out of synch with his wife. Therefore, their quarters were empty when he returned for a couple of hours’ rest before the battle that awaited the Enterprise at Narendra III. When he woke, Picard found she had left a message asking him to join her in sickbay.

  “I don’t have much time,” Picard said, somewhat refreshed as he entered her office. “Narendra III looms.”

  “I know,” Crusher said. “I think you’ll find this worth your time.” She led him out to her lab, where several screens displayed information above a table that included various sealed petri dishes. The first several were marked CABEUS.

  “If you are going to say that you found that Commander Worf was on Cabeus,” he teased her, “I can tell you . . .”

  She smiled. “Yes, we even heard that down here in sickbay. This is about something else.” She handed him a petri dish filled with powder.

  “What am I looking at?” he asked.

  “I studied the deposits of illium-629,” Crusher said. “Klingon birds-of-prey have four crystals mounted outside the warp core, which are held in place by control arms. When they begin to decrystallize, as must have happened, the illium collects in the basin of an external plug cap, safely outside the reactor.”

  He examined the dish. “That’s what the Unsung dumped in the cave.”

  “Yes—but not just that. I found microscopic remnants of keratin in the illium. It came from Klingon fingernails. I suspect the plug cap must have been emptied by someone before, who manually scraped the inside to clean it.” She brought up an image of a DNA chain on one screen. “Fingernail cells aren’t the best quality for sequencing, but they’re tough, and they last.”

  “These seem to have done so,” Picard said as he read. “This sample appears to be at least five years old.”

  “From the previous cleaning, I suppose. The same person seems to have been maintaining all the ships—we found traces in all four deposits.”

  “Five years,” Picard mused. “I don’t think it could have come from any of the Unsung. That’s before they had the ships. And they seemed fearful of the byproduct. I doubt they would have scraped the caps with their bare hands.”

  “Here’s what else is special.” Crusher handed him another dish.

  He didn�
��t need any help with this one. “Hair.”

  “This is from the Mount Qel’pec debris on Gamaral.”

  “The hangar where the Phantom Wing was built?” Enterprise’s engineers had located the remnants of construction equipment, but little else. “Are you telling me this follicle survived a hundred years?” Picard knew from his archaeology training that mummies had been found with hair, but that was under conditions where specific preservative steps had been taken.

  “Microbes tend to like keratin less,” Crusher said, “and in the collapsed hangar, there was no exposure to soil—only stone. We found this sandwiched between two slabs with no exposure to the air.” She changed the display on a second screen. It depicted a broken helical chain of DNA. “Klingon hair tends to be made of stern stuff.”

  Like the rest of them, Picard thought. “It’s only a fragment.”

  “But enough to confirm a 99.99 percent match with the Cabeus sample. The Klingon woman—I was able to determine that much—who left this hair in the hangar a century ago was aboard the Phantom Wing ships again five years ago.” Crusher raised her finger. “And that’s not all.” A touch of the interface brought up an identical DNA sequence on the third screen—as well as the image of an elderly Klingon female. One Picard had seen before.

  “Heghtar! Ardra and Shift’s companion from Thionoga.”

  “Emil Yorta provided the prison’s dossiers.”

  Picard’s eyes narrowed. “I’m assuming Heghtar isn’t her name. Do the Klingons have any information on her?”

  “The Empire has a very small biometric database. Starfleet has some data on recent Klingon travelers; none appear to be related. But I haven’t even gotten to the best part yet.”

  She led him into the hallway outside the isolation ward—where through the window, Picard could see gowned technicians examining a padd. “The Unsung’s,” he said. “The one with the woman’s voice.”

  “That’s right. Fingerprints on the device and the voiceprint match what was in Thionoga’s records. Whoever Heghtar is, she is the missing link between when the Phantom Wing was built and getting them to the exiles on Thane.”

  Picard smiled as he considered the connections. “And she is also the connection with Shift and the illusionists.”

  “We have evidence leading to this woman. Means and opportunity. We just need motive. And her, of course.”

  The captain assumed she wasn’t with the Unsung now; Worf would have said if she was. But it was more to go on than they’d had before. He was delighted, enough so that for the moment the weight of the impending battle lifted.

  He stepped closer to Beverly and whispered, “Narendra nears. I have a Klingon planet to save.”

  “Jean-Luc, you say the sweetest things.”

  Not bothering to check on who was around, Picard kissed his wife. Then he chuckled and looked at her. “Beverly, are you telling me that we’ve chased these birds-of-prey and that damn illusion ship all across the Klingon Empire—and that you may have figured it all out with a hair, a fingernail, and a padd?”

  Smiling gently, Crusher adjusted his uniform. “Good luck against the Kinshaya. I know you’ll keep us safe. You always do.”

  KINSHAYA BATTLESPHERE FERVENT-ONE

  OVER KETORIX PRIME

  “—if you are Klingon, take to the skies in whatever you have. Freighters. Scout ships. Anything with an engine and weapons. Rise to the challenge, and defend our valiant house in this, our greatest hour . . .”

  “They are an hour away from being exterminated,” one of Thot Roje’s Breen companions said as the message concluded.

  The image of Korgh, standing defiantly before his offensive Kruge statue and calling his people to action, had set off no end of furious stomping and wailing from the Kinshaya in the command pits. Roje saw it for what it was: a sign of weakness, a plea for help. Anyone could make a hopeless defense sound heroic—but in the end, it would still be hopeless.

  Roje looked ahead to see the battle raging outside. Some Klingons had apparently already followed the orders of their corrupt excuse for a lord: a ragtag wave of construction vehicles, personnel shuttles, and cargo haulers were in orbit, firing their pathetic weapons. The disruptor fire either missed the black orbs altogether or glanced harmlessly off their shields.

  “Wipe them out,” Bishop Labarya declared, sparing Roje a flowery festival of descriptors for a change. Fervent-One’s gunners did as commanded, wreaking fiery carnage against the volunteer flotilla.

  “Fervent-Five has located a power plant outside the perimeter of the defensive shield,” Roje’s lieutenant said.

  “Even Klingons are not stupid enough to power a shield with an unprotected source,” Roje said.

  “No, but now that the area has crossed the terminator into night, sensor readings suggest it is likely on the same grid. If it can be destroyed, there will be a momentary drop in power output in the industrial compound as the system compensates.”

  “We will concentrate our fire on the shield at that moment.” Roje nodded with satisfaction. He was not a military leader in the sense the Klingons had them; his command was limited to intelligence and special operations. But the Battle of Ketorix Prime was just a part of one of the largest intelligence operations in recent Breen history, and Roje thought that his generalship had been above military standards.

  He turned to the bishop. “Alert your shock troops. They transport to the surface on my command. Leave nothing alive.”

  Forty-two

  HOUDINI

  EN ROUTE TO JANALWA

  Tuvok’s career had taken him into security and counterespionage, but his interest in science, his original specialty aboard Excelsior, had never waned. Assisting La Forge with the complicated computations required to help Houdini keep in Aventine’s slipstream without shearing apart had been stimulating. As a prototype, Aventine was able to perform many different missions while simultaneously exploring scientific questions. It reminded Tuvok of his experiences helping to design the Delta Flyer while aboard Voyager.

  Slipstream travel was faster than standard warp and looked different; following along in Aventine’s wake made the starship appear to be flying directly into a blazing sun. He and his fellow Starfleet officers had focused on the readings on their screens, making sure Houdini didn’t get out of line.

  Tuvok passed into the illusion control center, where Ardra sat in a broad-backed chair, appearing to hold court for Doctor Aggadak, T’Ryssa Chen, some of Enterprise’s engineers, and a bemused Lonnoc Kedair. The chair, he knew, had come from her quarters above. However, he did not know where she had gotten her new rose-colored gown. Tuvok thought she looked like a character from a playing card. Her hair was bound up high, forming a natural crown.

  She noticed him. “I have a bone to pick with you, Commander. My ship is in considerable disarray.”

  “It has been in storage for many years,” Tuvok said, “kept by Doctor Aggadak.”

  “She has done well,” Ardra said, nodding to the Nausicaan. “It’s you Starfleet people who’ve been living aboard for the past few days. You straighten things that should be crooked, and disturb things that should be straight.”

  “We required a working starship. It could not be left as a shrine.”

  Ardra waved her hand dismissively. “I knew you wouldn’t understand. Jilaan always said, ‘Never let anyone backstage.’ ”

  “What can you tell us about Jilaan?” Tuvok asked. “Your circle is named for her. Why does she merit such reverence?”

  Ardra looked up as she spoke. “She was the epitome of class. She was Napean—they’re empathic, you know. She took pride in making the people she fooled feel good about it.”

  “She intended to rob the Kinshaya,” Kedair said. “I’ve read the report. That’s class?”

  “Tosh.” Ardra’s nose pinched as she regarded the Takaran security chief. “She was taking part in a fair transaction. The Episcopate was running a business, living off the labors of their people, selling spiritua
l experiences for a tithe. Jilaan and the crew of the Zamloch gave them an experience like they’d never had before.”

  “One they never asked for,” Tuvok countered.

  “Oh, my Vulcan friend, I don’t doubt that they profited from it.” Ardra smirked. “Their kind always finds a way.”

  Consulting her padd, Chen nodded. “According to the records from the time, donations to the Episcopate spiked fivefold following the visit of ‘Niamlar.’ Pontifex Urawak used the possibility that Niamlar might return as a way to drum up contributions.”

  “You see?” Ardra said. “Everyone was happy.”

  “Not the people who gave the money,” Kedair said.

  “Nonsense. If it wasn’t Niamlar there would have been another reason.”

  Tuvok got to the question he had wanted to ask. “You said Jilaan was Napean. Cross was Betazoid. You are not human, yet the names of your ships recall entertainers from Earth’s history. What is the connection?”

  “To honor the first Illusionist Magnus, who started the Circle long before Jilaan.” Ardra looked at Chen, explaining, “Humans had a time when your imaginations were beyond your technical means. You compensated by developing technologies to create illusions—almost to the exclusion of advancing science! It was a suitable analogy for what we do. Some of our earliest practitioners were Xyrillians, but we all use the human motifs.”

  Tuvok nodded, quietly satisfied that she had given him a hint to the origin of the technology. Xyrillian holo-chambers predated the Federation’s. He wanted to learn more, but the mission came first. “We have successfully entered slipstream, Doctor Aggadak. Are you prepared to generate Ardra’s illusion?”

  “It’ll be a pleasure.” Aggadak’s gruff persona had melted in the presence of the captain of her favorite relic starship. “Ardra told me it would require extra data processing, so I had Lieutenant Leishman tuck new data cores into one of the offices.” She respectfully told Ardra, “We didn’t move anything.”

  “I’m not concerned. Houdini’s a much newer vessel than Blackstone if that’s what we’re facing. What you’ve installed should be enough.” Ardra smiled primly and hopped from her chair. “That’s that.”