The Hall of Heroes

by John Jackson Miller

  “It is only one,” Korgh said, focusing on the birds-of-prey, which were moving on to their next victim. “Who are these warriors? Has Tengor returned?”

  “I do not know, Father.” Tragg held his communicator, which had grown increasingly useless over the past hour. “There is conflicting information coming from all around. Someone said they are the Unsung!”

  Korgh couldn’t believe his ears. The heat of battle generated much misinformation. The fools were out in force tonight. But Kinshaya blood had at last been shed. “I have to return to the atrium,” Korgh said. “I must send another broadcast to rally the people now that help has come!”

  KINSHAYA BATTLESPHERE FERVENT-ONE

  ABOVE KETORIX

  “We have done it! We have done it!”

  Roje looked to the bishop with annoyance. The two battlespheres in orbit had combined fire to destroy one of the remaining two birds-of-prey still in space. Krencha, the Klingons had called it in their transmissions. The destruction of the Klingon vessel had prompted a celebration by Labarya and her companions, who chanted and swayed as if the battle were over.

  “Focus,” Roje implored. There was still a bird-of-prey out there—by far, the most effective one of the four. Chu’charq. And down in Ketorix’s skies, Fervent-Three had just been destroyed, with Fervent-Five now under reported attack. This was no time for revelry.

  “Something is wrong with Fervent-Six,” Roje’s lieutenant said.

  The other battlesphere in orbit was no longer firing—and the remaining bird-of-prey was avoiding it.

  It dawned on Roje why.

  “Fervent-Six, this is Thot Roje,” he called out over the comm. “Fervent-Six, have you been boarded?”

  There was no response from the other ship at first—and then, sounds of chaos and tumult.

  “That’s disruptor fire,” Labarya said, the gaiety clearly over. “And those are Kinshaya screams!” She looked at Roje in panic. “How could they be boarded? Their shields are up!”

  “The Phantom Wing vessels can beam through shields,” Roje said, arms feeling limp. “Everybody knows that.” But he had forgotten. Yes, Krencha had been destroyed. But clearly, first, its crew had beamed onto Fervent-Six. And they were now killing everyone they could find on the bridge.

  Perhaps the competence problem wasn’t limited to his crew, Roje thought. Perhaps he wasn’t a great general after all.

  More wails came across the comm, even as Chu’charq renewed its attacks on Fervent-One with greater force. Labarya was frantic. “The Klingon cancer has infected the other vessel,” the bishop said. “You must fire on it!”

  “We will not,” Roje replied. He was flabbergasted. Yes, many of the troops aboard had been beamed down already, but there were still other personnel to consider. “Our people are on it. Your people are on it!”

  “What of it? We would not give the demons the pleasure of making an abattoir of one of our holy vessels. It was Niamlar who in ancient times said to kill the wounded, for they are lacking in devotion!”

  “Your ‘holy vessel’ was sitting in my shipyard for four years waiting for you,” Roje said. “And I am not going to fire on it because your war god tells me—”

  Roje was not going to fire—but in one of the nearby command pits running Fervent-One’s disruptor banks, the Kinshaya at the controls listened to their bishop rather than their Breen ally. Over the panicked squawks of the Breen, the flagship unloaded on its companion vessel. With the shields of the battlesphere already damaged, their blasts cut through and dealt Fervent-Six a mortal blow.

  The Breen spymaster stood gawking at the carnage on the display. “What did you just do?” he screamed at the Kinshaya.

  Before the bishop could answer for them, a figure appeared on the main viewscreen—the same Klingon woman who had hailed him. Only now her eyes were fixed and wide with anger and shock. “My blood was on that ship,” Valandris said.

  “My people too,” Roje said, knowing that only his crew could hear it.

  She punched a control on her armrest. “I am coming for you. Run.”

  Forty-seven

  CATHEDRAL OF STATE

  JANALWA

  A debate between dragons was a thing to see. That is what many of the Kinshaya in the cathedral had apparently decided, overcoming their fears to gather in the rotunda. Shift noticed that at least three Kinshaya were holding up devices either recording or broadcasting the encounter; such was strictly forbidden, but the regime’s guards were paying no notice. In fact, one of the offenders was a guard. The scene was too fantastic.

  The new Niamlar had just put on a show for the crowd. First she had twisted and turned, moving her wings and tail in ways that Shift still hadn’t figured out how to do. Then she had blown a cloud of smoke into the air above her. As it settled, it showered her with sparks that gave her enormous form an eldritch glow. When it faded, the new Niamlar’s hide had changed from silver to gold.

  The Kinshaya stamped in seeming approval. Lieutenant Chen took the opportunity to check on Yeffir, chained to a pillar off to the side. “Don’t free the heretic,” Shift warned. “Get away from her, or I will smite you both!”

  “Come now,” the Golden Niamlar said. “We both know that you don’t have the ability to do that. You’re all talk—and while we’re at it, we should chat about your vocabulary. Your ‘ancient god’ talk is by way of a second-rate holo-novel.” The creature lifted her head proudly to the heights. “A true practitioner researches her role, sometimes for a year or more. You sound as if you picked this up over a weekend.”

  “I believe that is exactly what happened,” Tuvok said.

  Chen spoke to her friend. “Yeffir, when did this Niamlar first appear?”

  “A few days ago,” the chained Kinshaya said, her voice gravelly. “She heralded the arrival of the Breen, and the ships they said they built for us.”

  “The plot thickens,” Dax said. “We saw the Breen officers out on the plaza, but we assumed that was because Ykredna was back in power. But it’s something else, isn’t it?” She gave Shift a canny look. “Jilaan came to extort for herself. But you came for the Breen.”

  “I am a god, one of the thirty-one!” Shift declared, beating her imaginary wings.

  “Spare us,” her golden counterpart said.

  The Vulcan, deep in thought over the revelations, spoke up. “The Blackstone was saved from the Klingons at Cragg’s Cloud by an unseen attacker—and later a lone Breen ship was in the region between that location and the Klingon border.” He turned to look at Shift. “I suspect the Breen destroyed Jarin—and conveyed the cloaked Blackstone to Kinshaya space for the purpose of deception.”

  Dax’s eyes went to the floor as she contemplated something. “Wait. Does that mean that the Breen were behind impersonating Kruge too? The Breen created the Unsung?”

  “No!” Shift blurted, before realizing she had broken character—and, possibly, given away the game. She tried to get back on track. “Why do you vex my people with your prattle?”

  “I would like to know what this Blackstone is,” one of the Kinshaya near Ykredna said. “What do they mean, Great Niamlar?”

  “Until this counterfeit is gone, I will answer no more,” Shift said.

  “Oh, she won’t answer,” the Golden Niamlar said, nearly purring the final word. “But this one was always there with the questions. That’s all she ever did—pumping me for information about the Circle and my powers.”

  Shift froze. “Buxtus?” she asked. It wasn’t possible! No one answered her—and the silence enraged her. She had stabbed Buxtus Cross, left the arrogant little snot bleeding to death on the deck of Ark of G’boj. Sensors had confirmed he was dead.

  And yet, didn’t Cross live in the realm of illusion?

  “You—you can’t be Buxtus,” she said. “He’s dead! I know! I—”

  She went silent—but Tuvok finished her sentence. “You were going to say that you would know because you killed him. I witnessed it.” He turned to the
Kinshaya. “Buxtus Cross was an illusionist who deceived the population of entire planets. With her words, I conclude that the individual behind your war god is Shift, his apprentice.”

  “Apprentice, my eye. She’s a thief,” the Golden Niamlar said. “She may have stolen knowledge from Buxtus Cross, but she stole it from me first.” The serpent twirled around so that her head was facing Shift’s. “Isn’t that right, cellmate? Tell them about it, Vella!”

  Shift blinked. “Ardra?”

  BLACKSTONE

  ORBITING JANALWA

  Ardra!

  Gaw put his fist against his teeth and stared. He and his colleagues had managed to keep their Breen minders from seeing the Starfleet officers on their screens, and they had all heard what had just been said below in their earpieces.

  Cross was dead. Not convalescing back at the Breen base, but probably in a Starfleet morgue. And Shift, loving, sweet Shift, had put him there. She had killed him—and lied about it, to get Gaw and his companions to do her bidding.

  Even more startling, the other Niamlar was Ardra, one of his idols. He had been looking to connect with her when he found Cross instead. Unbelievably, Starfleet appeared to have brought her to Janalwa. Possibilities raced through his mind. The Federation had Houdini; everybody knew that. Had Ardra made a deal?

  And was there room in the deal for anyone else?

  He looked furtively around at the Breen. They were animated, heading back and forth between the illusion control center and the bridge. It wasn’t about what was happening in the cathedral, he surmised, but about something else. The war, perhaps. That gave him a chance.

  The Breen minder saw him looking about and squawked.

  “All right, buddy, all right. I’ll get back to work.” You bet I will, he thought, as he began composing the first of a series of private messages to his colleagues. He had some quick work to do.

  CATHEDRAL OF STATE

  JANALWA

  Ezri Dax watched the two “gods” circling each other. Initially surprised that Shift hadn’t beamed out when the hard questioning began, the captain realized Shift’s Niamlar had no choice but to stay and rebut her accusers. Departing would clear the stage, so to speak, for Ardra and the Starfleet officers to sway the Kinshaya.

  But it wasn’t clear they needed additional swaying. “You are a fraud,” Yeffir said, unchained by Chen. “You are a Breen trick!”

  “Not by the Breen—but for them,” Ardra-Niamlar said. “Shall we show them what we can do, my old friend? Perhaps show them how we instill fear.”

  A flash of light filled the rotunda—and moments later, the golden dragon was replaced by a fearsome-looking Klingon male. All about, the Kinshaya shrieked—but when he opened his mouth, his voice was far from the booming one Niamlar had used. It was Klingon—but it was also soothing. “Don’t exert yourselves, my friends,” the warrior said. “This is just another design of Jilaan’s, from her appearance in your temple long ago.”

  Ykredna, who had been petrified, gestured to the mural on the ceiling. “Yes! He is Kahless, the abomination who appeared to Pontifex Urawak!”

  “Yes—and no.” With a snap of the Klingon’s fingers, he transformed into Ardra. “He was an illusion then, just as Niamlar was.” Her bearing regal, she walked before the Kinshaya and turned to face Shift’s character. “This being is artificial as well, generated by a cloaked vessel in orbit.”

  “The Blackstone,” Tuvok said.

  Ykredna stepped before the remaining Niamlar and eyed her critically. “Is this true? Do you transform as they do?”

  “No. I am eternal.”

  “What she means is that her truthcrafters haven’t had time to bring another character online for her,” Ardra said.

  The dragon stared at her, its expression almost sullen. “You said your people pledged never to reveal their secrets.”

  “You’re not one of my people. And now that it’s been used twice, I think even the Great Lady would say that this trick has expired.”

  Dax crossed her arms. “What will it be, Shift? You don’t seem to be in control of the situation anymore.”

  “That’s what you think.” Niamlar rose to her full towering height. “I have tolerated this whimsy long enough. I command that you arrest these heathens.”

  Ykredna looked at the Kinshaya surrounding her and sensed the mood. “I am not sure what to do, Your Grace.”

  “You will act, or I will return now to the ether. And when I come back, it will be with my chosen Breen sentinels, who will do what my supposed faithful will not!”

  The Kinshaya did not react to her words. Rather, all of them were looking at the dragon’s head.

  “What? What now?”

  “You . . .” Yeffir looked up, mystified. “There is something on your head.”

  Dax moved around to get a better view. The image of Niamlar had indeed changed. Atop the creature’s silvery crown sat a blue headpiece with white lettering. “Okay, that is strange,” Dax admitted. “Your god is wearing a baseball cap.”

  “What is that?” Ykredna demanded, pointing. “What is written there?”

  Niamlar stopped moving—and all were able to read:

  SAVE US

  32,560 KM DIRECTLY ABOVE

  Ardra saw it and laughed. “Gaw, is that you up there? I’m surprised you would work for this charlatan.”

  Really? Dax thought.

  The characters on the lower line transformed into a different set of numbers. “And what is that?” Yeffir asked.

  Dax knew, but she could hardly believe it herself. “That would be the harmonic resonance frequency for a cloaking field.” She knew the Houdini was watching, but she tapped her combadge for good measure. “Aventine, this is Dax . . .”

  Forty-eight

  U.S.S. ENTERPRISE

  ABOVE NARENDRA III

  Enterprise pitched and rolled as it skimmed the upper atmosphere of Narendra III. The starship had made so many close approaches to the world that Picard felt as though he were teaching a Starfleet Academy course on the topic.

  Picard’s challenge differed from the one facing Admiral Riker, whose battle in the Pheben system was still ongoing. The four Kinshaya vessels at Narendra III were up against a planet that had been invaded before and whose colonists were protected by heavy ground-to-space weaponry emplacements. The invaders’ approach, once the orbital defense platforms were down, had been to lob torpedoes from afar, hoping to score hits without risk.

  Picard had faced a choice. Enterprise could make sure that no battlesphere could take potshots with impunity. Or it could act as a secondary ground defense system for Narendra III, intercepting incoming fire with its shields and weapons.

  His crew had given him the option of doing both. They had coordinated their efforts to offer Narendra the best defense a lone starship could deliver. Flight Controller Faur had managed repeated hair-raising passes between the Kinshaya and the planet, while Taro Trinell, in main engineering, had constantly shaped and reoriented Enterprise’s shields to provide maximum protection for the ground and ship alike. Aneta Šmrhová at tactical had the unenviable job of keeping track of the activities of four essentially identical battlespheres—and while the main computer had tagged each of the Kinshaya ships with special nomenclature, keeping track of their activities was a dizzying proposition. Yet Šmrhová had done that and more, intercepting all but the most errant torpedoes with Enterprise’s phasers—and even getting in a few shots at the Kinshaya.

  “Any word on the Klingons, Glinn?” he asked for what felt like the umpteenth time.

  “They’re on the way, Captain.”

  Same answer as before. Picard shook his head and held on for another run.

  HOUSE OF KRUGE INDUSTRIAL COMPOUND

  KETORIX PRIME

  Ketorix was in flames. The center of manufacturing power for Commander Kruge, who had conquered so many Kinshaya worlds long ago, was now falling to that loathsome species. There was no way to sugarcoat it. Two of the battlespheres
had managed to land intact, disgorging their siege equipment and galloping masses of armed Kinshaya into the fire-lit night.

  One of the two birds-of-prey whose exploits he had earlier thrilled to had been damaged; it went down somewhere near the compound. Whether it was destroyed or not, he did not know. Its companion vessel had not been seen for several minutes.

  Most of the members of Tragg’s detachment had gone downstairs to battle Kinshaya storming the ground floor. Before the sensor mounted firmly to the wall so he could broadcast unattended, Korgh transmitted yet another message from in front of the statue in the now open-air atrium.

  “We will continue to fight as Klingons. Our descendants will never forget the name of Ketorix.”

  Weary, he trudged away from the statue. To one side, Tragg pointed to the transmitting device, noting that it was still activated. Korgh waved his hand. “Let the world see us—if anyone watched.”

  Tragg looked at the other warriors—a group of frightened youngsters with less experience than their commander. He took his father aside and spoke to him in the darkest shadows. “We will not win. But we can die as Klingons.”

  “No!” Korgh growled. Enough energy had returned to him for that. “I mean, yes, we should fight. But I will not go down so easily—not when we have just claimed this house.”

  “What other path is there?” Tragg asked.

  Korgh tried to think. “Yes,” he said. “The basement of this building. There is a tunnel out under the exercise yard to an underground hangar. It has the family’s old shuttle—they rarely used it.”

  Tragg nodded. “The Kinshaya would not know it was there.”

  Korgh’s eyes narrowed. “We could rearm, regroup—and return.”

  “Is there another lift in the building?”

  “None that goes there.” Korgh looked down the long hall with its line of offices. “But there is a hidden staircase just inside the door to this level. We could bypass the battle below. Kinshaya do not care for stairs.” He chuckled. It felt good to laugh at anything.

  “We are going down the hall,” Tragg said to his warriors. “Lead the way—but be prepared. As soon as they get anyone on this level, they can provide targeting information for their transporters.”