"Then lower your shields," said Kurn, pressing his advantage, "and prepare for our arrival."

The Klingon on the relay station hesitated-but only for a moment. Then, looking as if he'd just eaten something distasteful, he turned and barked an order over his shoulder.

"Our shields have been lowered," he reported. "You may beam aboard the station whenever you please."

That was Picard's cue. Still wearing the cloak he had used on Terjas Mor, he picked up the hood and brought it down over his face. After all, it would arouse instant suspicion if a human were to beam aboard alongside Kurn.

Since Kahless and Worf might also have been recognized, they donned their hoods as well. Only Kurn went bareheaded.

Picard and his lieutenant set their disruptors on stun.

However, their companions, Klingons through and through, did nothing of the sort.

Worf's brother then reached for the remote transporter controls set into his armband. He tapped out the proper sequence and glanced at the captain-as if to make certain he was ready for what would follow.

Picard was ready, all right. The next thing he knew, he was standing on what appeared to be the relay station's main deck, almost face-to-face with the Klingon he'd seen on the monitor.

Kurn interposed himself between them, so the station Comm ander wouldn't be tempted to try to peer inside the hood. Of course, that didn't stop the other Klingons present.

Each of them looked up from his duties and wondered at the newcomers. The captain noted that the Klingons were all armed-not that that was a surprise. And he was certain their disruptors weren't set on stun.

"I want to download secured transmission records," Worf's brother announced. "My ship's computer is ready and waiting. All I need is your help to get past the security codes."

The station commander glanced at Picard, Worf, and finally Kahless. Then he turned back to Kurn.

"You travel in mysterious company," the Klingon observed.

"My choice of companions is not your concern," Kurn snapped. And then, to throw out a bone: "A man in my position finds the best bodyguards he can, Klingon or otherwise. Now, the help I asked for?"

The station commander frowned. Obviously, this wasn't going to be as easy as they had hoped.

"You have not yet stated your reasons for coming here," he maintained. "It's one thing to allow you entry, considering your position with the Defense Force. But to circ.u.mvent the security codes, I would require clearance from the homeworld. I have not received any such clearance."

Kurn grunted. "And if I told you I was here on Council business? And that the Council does not wish its dealings to be known beyond these bulkheads?"

The station commander thrust out his beardless chin.

"In that case, I would still require some form of-was Kurn didn't allow him to finish his statement. Instead, he backhanded the Klingon across the mouth with a closed fist, sending him staggering into a bulkhead. When the station commander looked at him again, there was hate in his eyes and lavender blood running down his chin.

But by then, Worf's brother was aiming his disrupter pistol at the Klingon's forehead-just as his companions were pointing theirs at the various other personnel on the station.

Kurn took a step closer to the station commander, keeping his weapon level. The look in his eyes said he wouldn't think twice about using it. In fact, he might relish the experience.

"Thank your ancestors I am a merciful man," Kurn bellowed. "But I will not ask you again." He tilted his head to indicate the communications console at one end of the room. "Do it-or you will wish you had."

Suddenly, Picard heard a shout from somewhere behind him. He whirled just in time to see yet another Klingon emerge from behind a sliding door-a Klingon with a weapon in his hand. He must have been working in a storage area when Kurn's group arrived.

And now, he had returned to the main deck-only to see his comrades held at disruptor-point. Under the circ.u.mstances, the man's reaction was understandable.

The captain sympathized.

But that didn't mean he was going to stand there and present an easy target for the Klingon's disrupter fire.

Ducking to his right, he watched the disruption beam pa.s.s him and strike a bulkhead, where it disintegrated a good part of the thing before its destructive energies wore themselves out.

That could have been me, Picard told himself. At the same time, he returned his adversary's blast-crumpling the Klingon where he stood.

It might have ended then and there. However, their comrade's entrance gave the stationkeepers the chance they'd been looking for. Or so it seemed to the captain, as the place turned into a chaotic mess of hurtling bodies and flailing limbs, not to mention the occasional errant disrupter beam.

"Watch out!" cried a familiar deep voice.

Before Picard could determine what he had to watch for, he saw Worf rush past him-in order to meet another Klingon head on. The human winced at the bone-jarring sound of their clash, and was only slightly relieved when he saw his officer had come out on top.

A disrupter beam sizzled by his ear. Turning, Picard aimed at the source of it and let fly with a beam of his own.

It hit a stationkeeper's hand and knocked the pistol out of it. And before he could recover, Kahless slammed his fist into the Klingon's jaw, sending him sprawling.

But before the captain could seek out another target, he felt something strike him in the back of the head. There was a moment or two that seemed very long, much too long, and then the floor rose up to meet him with a sickening impact.

Tasting blood, Picard turned his head to see what was going on. Something descended on him-something big and dark and powerful-looking. He was about to lash out at it with the heel of his foot when he realized it was Worf.

"Captain," said his tactical officer, evincing obvious relief. "When I saw you go down, I was afraid they hadPicard waved away the suggestion. "The point is, they didn't," he said. With Worf's help, he got to his feet and surveyed the place.

About half the stationkeepers were unconscious. The rest of them were gone without a trace. Fortunately, the station commander was among those who still remained.

With Kahless's help, Kurn dragged the Klingon over to the main console and placed the commander's hand on the appropriate padd-the customary Defense Force security bypa.s.s. Abruptly, the console lit up with a pattern of green and orange lights.

"Qapla", was said Kahless, smiling.

"Qapla' indeed," agreed Kurn, as he set out to download the transmission records. It only took a minute or so, once they had access to the system. Had it been a Federation system, it wouldn't even have taken that long.

"Your computer has the information?" the clone asked.

Worf's brother nodded. "The transmission is complete."

"Good," said Kahless.

Lifting his disrupter pistol, he trained it on the console and fired. The thing was consumed in a matter of seconds.

"Now," he declared, "these burden beasts will be unable to call for help when they come to."

In fact, the "burden beasts" in question were already stirring. Picard looked at Kurn, who nodded once and worked the controls on his armband.

The captain drew his next breath on Kurn's ship.

Kahless snorted, a sound of triumph. Worf eased himself into the pilot's seat and brought the ship about as his brother went to the sensor panel.

Picard joined Kurn. "No sign of any transmission, I trust?"

Without looking up, Kurn shook his head. "None. And to my knowledge, there are no backup systems. Klingons are not enamored of redundancies."

Except when it comes to parts of your anatomy, the captain thought, remembering how Worf's biological redundancies had enabled him to walk again after his back had been broken. But as with so much else, he didn't say it out loud.

"Wait," said Kurn. "There is a transmission."

Kahless came over to see it with his own eyes. "I do not understand," he said. "I destroyed the communications panel. You all saw it."

"It is not coming from the station," Worf's brother explained. "It is being sent there from somewhere else.

The emperor snorted. "That's more like it. What does it say?"

Kurn brought it up on his monitor. Of course, Picard couldn't read Klingon very well. He had to wait for the others to provide a translation.

But after only a few moments, he could tell that the news was not good. Suddenly, Kahless blurted a curse and turned from the console.

The captain looked to Kurn. "What is it?" he asked.

"It is about the scroll," Worfs brother told him. He glanced at the emperor. "It was tested for authenticityand it pa.s.sed. Apparently, even the clerics of Boreth are now satisfied the thing is authentic."

The Heroic Age In the center of Tolar'tu, Kahless held Shurin's battered body in his arms and roared at the gathering storm. Rain fell in heavy, warm drops, mixing with Shurin's blood and marking the dirt at the rebel's feet.

"This was my friend," Kahless cried. "Shurin, who never knew his father or mother, who lost an eye fighting Molor's wars. Yet he saw more clearly than most men, for he was among the first to turn against the tyrant."

With a sudden heave of his powerful arms, the outlaw raised Shurin's loose-limbed corpse to the heavens.. ore importantly, he made it visible to the vast mob gathered before him-an a.s.semblage of rebels that packed the square from wall to wall and squeezed into the narrow streets all around.

Nor was he the only one with a dead man in his hands.

There were hundreds of others clasped by friends and kin, grim evidence of the efficiency of Molor's soldiers and the sharpness of their swords.

But for every rebel that fell, two of the tyrant's men had gone down as well. For every one of Kahless's outlaws, two of Molor's soldiers. And in the end, that had been enough to save Tolar'tu from destruction.

Not all of it, unfortunately. Not the outer precincts, where the enemy had smashed and burned and gutted at their warlord's command. But thanks to the courage of these rabble and riffraff, this square and the buildings around it had gone unscathed.

"What will I tell this man of courage," Kahless raged when I see him on the far side of Death? What will I say took place after he left us? What tale will I bear him?"

There were responses from the crowd, guttural demands of vengeance and promises of devotion. He couldn't make out the exact words for the echoes. But he could see the expressions on the rebels' faces, and by those alone he knew he was reaching them.

Strange, the outlaw thought. He had always been able to reach them this way, hadn't he? He had just never paused to reflect on it. Kahless raised Shurin's body a little higher.

"Will I tell him his comrades came as far as Tolar'tu, then faltered? That at the last, they spit the bit and allowed his death to come to nothing? Or will I tell him we persevered, and went on to Qa'yarin, and trampled the serpent there under our heel?"

This time the answer was so deafening, so powerful, Kahless thought the buildings around him might crumble after all. It was like being in the center of a storm, the likes of which the world had not known since its beginnings-a tempest made of men's voices and clashing swords and a yearning so fierce no enemy could stand against it.

Truth to tell, Shurin had broken his neck falling off his starahk in the midst of the battle. Kahless himself had seen the beast stumble and throw the man to the ground, and he had seen Shurin lie still as other beasts came and trampled him.

It might not have been that way if the man hadn't had too much bloodwine the night before. Or if he had slept more instead of rolling gaming bones halfway to morning.

But that was not the picture the outlaw wished to paint-and since he had been the only witness to Shurin's death, he could paint it as he liked. The one-eyed man would be an a.s.set in death as he was in life. A hero if necessary, a martyour if possible. Shurin himself would have laughed at the notion, but he was no longer alive to have a say in the matter.

Lowering Shurin's corpse, he laid it on the ground.

Then he stood again and waited for just the right moment.

"Wait!" Kahless shouted suddenly, as the cheers began to die down. "Stop! What in the name of our ancestors are we doing?"

The throng grew quiet, peering at him through faces caked with dirt and blood. What sort of question is that?

they must have wondered.

"Are we insane?" the outlaw asked. "Just because we have triumphed in a few small skirmishes, does that make us think we can win a war? Molor is no petty despot, cowering in his keep. He is the master of all he sees, power incarnate, the hand that clutches the throat of the world entire!"

There were protests, some of them heartwarmingly savage. But Kahless had more to say. As it happened, a lot more.

"And who are we to dare this?" he bellowed. "Not soldiers, not warriors, only old men and children who have become skilled at pretending. We have learned to fool ourselves. We have learned to believe we can tear down the mightiest tree in the forest, when all we have in our hands are our fathers' rusted dk tahgmey!"

"No!" cried a thousand voices.

"Lies!" thundered a thousand more.

"We are warriors!" they rumbled. "Warriors!"

"For that matter," Kahless roared, "why should we fight at all? For honor? For dignity? We have none of these things-and we deserve none! We are outlaws and worse, less than the dirt beneath the tyrant's feet!"

"More lies!" came the thundrous reply.

"We are Klingons!" they stormed.

"Molor will fall!"

"For honor!"

"For freedom!"

And on and on, one shout building on another, until they were all one cry of rage and purpose, one savage chorus with but a single idea burning in their minds-to tear down the one who had brought them so much misery. To pry Molor loose from his empire and grind his bones to dust.

And as if in support, the skies answered them, crashing and lightning and pelting them with rain. But the rebels didn't budge. They stood there, their hearts raised as high as their voices, and let the water from the heavens run over them and cleanse them.

Kahless smiled, but only to himself. They had needed their spirits bolstered after such a hard fought and b.l.o.o.d.y battle. And with the power he had discovered in himself, he had done what was necessary.

Molor might beat them yet. He might show them the depth of their foolishness at Qa'yarin. But it would not happen because the rebels' courage had not been fanned to a fever pitch. If they failed, it would not be because Kahless had not done his part.

And who knew? Perhaps in ages to come, warriors would sing of the battle at Tolar'tu, and the speech a rebel had made there. Not that it mattered to Kahless if he was remembered or not.

He glanced at Morath, who was in the first rank of onlookers. The younger man remained calm and inscrutable as ever, as the rain matted his hair and streamed down his face.

Morath was truly the backbone of this rebellion. Kahless might have been its voice, its heart, but it was his friend who made it stand straight and tall and proud.

Well done, Morath told him, if only with his eyes. You have put thefire in them. You have spurred them as no one else could.