Hell's Heart by John Jackson Miller

this area five minutes before the ceremony. Should any trouble require evacuation or reinforcement, we can deactivate the field instantly.”
    â€œExcellent.” The Klingon gazed toward the center of the plaza. “And Kahless?”
    â€œPresent,” Picard said, trying to force a smile.
    His expression didn’t fool Galdor. “So is he here or isn’t he?” He laughed loudly. “You don’t sound sure.”
    Picard cast a glance around and stepped in closer to Galdor. “We . . . may have a problem.”
    â€œProblem? There can be no problems. I have slain them all, with cuts to the throat.”
    â€œI am not sure about this one.” Picard took a breath. No, there was no better way to put it. “Kahless suspects that the Battle of Gamaral may not have been the great victory it was vaunted to be.”
    For a moment, Galdor looked as if he had no idea what to say.
    Then, he slowly asked, “How . . . did he form this suspicion?”
    â€œKahless wanted more information about the battle for his speech. Commander Worf interviewed several of the nobles aboard.”
    â€œThat’s a relief,” Galdor said. “I was afraid the emperor had met some of the nobles himself. Then he definitely would have formed an opinion.” He looked keenly at Picard. “Will he speak out during the ceremony?”
    â€œWorf thinks he might. And as I am responsible to you, I wanted you to be aware.”
    â€œThank you,” Galdor said, although his tone didn’t seem overly appreciative. “I am sure Worf tried to dissuade Kahless. Does he want me to speak to the emperor?”
    â€œWorf wasn’t sure it would help—but it is your right to try,” Picard said. “ Would it help?”
    â€œIt would not, because I would be forced to speak truthfully to him.” He turned and gestured to the columns ringing the circle and the names engraved upon them. “Of course these were no heroes—and their progeny present have inherited all their flaws. Shall I tell you of the battle?”
    Picard nodded.
    â€œThere was a general. The leader of the uprising.” Galdor started walking across the plaza. “You will not find him in the official records; because of his crime of disloyalty, his name is no longer spoken. But the family knew it, and I know it.”
    He pointed outward, above the columns and the trees to the darkening sky beyond. “Five House of Kruge battle cruisers pursued the general to Gamaral. Why he came here for his last stand, even the family’s secret history does not say. But it does tell the rest: the cruisers that chased him here were manned almost entirely by mercenaries and hirelings. Not Klingons— aliens! —in the pay of the nobility. Nobles who counted their precious skins too dear to expose them to battle.”
    Picard went white. “You don’t mean—?”
    â€œI do. Today is the first time any of these ‘veterans’ have ever laid eyes on Gamaral. They have never set foot on it.”
    The captain could barely believe it. Honor was important to him—and everything to a Klingon. He was helping to honor heroes who had never seen the battlefield. He looked from column to column, reading the names until he had to find something else to focus on. His eyes fell at last on Mount Qel’pec, slowly vanishing into the twilight.
    Galdor stepped beside him and stared at the same scene while he began again. “Whatever your people thought of Commander Kruge, Captain, he was a true Klingon—and his standards were high. He thought his kin to be layabouts, reckless, or both. That is why he put his faith in his trusted officers instead.” He paused, and his eyes narrowed. “Had the officers only found an heir to back, their uprising would have been considered legitimate. An acceptable act in the battle to control a house—to preserve ­Kruge’s