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The emperor had monopolized Worf’s time ever since boarding, eager to hear tales of his recent adventures. It was beginning to test Worf’s patience, Picard could tell, but such were the hazards of duty.
    Approaching the atrium, Chen pointed to a row of tapestries on the left. Some bore stylized illustrations of the vessels produced at Ketorix, while others were simple depictions of what seemed to be the family crest. “I expected more depictions of ancestors,” she said.
    â€œPerhaps, given the succession problem, they cannot agree which ancestors should be honored,” Picard said.
    â€œI’m sure you’re right, sir.” Meters from the pentagonal archway into the atrium, Chen focused forward. “On second thought, there’s a big statue up ahead. Maybe they settled on someone after all . . .”
    Fully entering the atrium, Chen trailed off—and stopped moving. She gawked at the massive stone centerpiece in the room. It took Picard a moment to register what the intricately graven image depicted.
    It was Commander Kruge, more than twice life-sized, frozen in a moment of extreme violence with something even larger still. Kruge’s mek’leth was ripping into the neck of afour-legged creature. The victim’s wings, too short to be functional, flared wide over Chen’s and Picard’s heads—an emotional expression, no doubt. It reminded Picard of a statue he had seen in Florence of Hercules battling a centaur: the same violence, the same futile panic.
    Only this was no beast from folklore.
    â€œShe’s Kinshaya,” Chen whispered, mesmerized. Picard glanced at the lieutenant. Not easily ruffled, Chen nevertheless appeared to have been taken aback by the violent display. Griffin-like beings, the fanatically religious Kinshaya had been mortal enemies of the Klingons since time out of memory. They had challenged the Empire several years earlier before the Borg Invasion; the Klingons countered by summarily devastating the Kinshaya capital, Yongolor. The Kinshaya responded by aligning with the Typhon Pact.
    Monitoring the species had been a project for Chen for the past several years. She had come to know and like several Kinshaya. Picard little doubted she felt for Kruge’s victim, even many years distant. “It’s uncanny,” she said, walking around to examine the Kinshaya’s anguished face. “It’s so realistic.”
    â€œIt should be,” resounded a Klingon voice from across the wide chamber. “The sculptor drew on a holographic recording of Kruge in action.”
    Picard and Chen looked across the vestibule to see the speaker. The Klingon entering the room was old. More than a hundred, Picard thought—but not so old that his age impaired his movement. His skin a ruddy brown, he wore a modest coffee-­colored robe, its shoulders draped with a simple black sash. With a padd in one hand, he advanced across the atrium, never taking his eyes off the statue.
    â€œThe battle was right here, you know—on Ketorix, on this spot. Commander Kruge wrested the world from the Kinshaya, killing hundreds just as you see here.” The old Klingon stopped and continued to gaze with admiration. Hair the color of Enterprise ’s hull was bound neatly back to give prominentdisplay to his cranial ridges. A well-coiffed moustache and beard gave Picard the impression of a Klingon of responsibility, though not garish wealth; his precise manner of speaking suggested a scholar. “This was Kruge in the flower of his youth, as your people might say. You admire this piece?”
    â€œIt’s—well, it’s a bit grisly,” Chen said, sounding cautious of offending.
    â€œKruge loved his work. The piece is titled The Last to Fall. ”
    Picard studied the perimeter of the room—and saw alcoves with mementos from Kruge’s life. “Are you the curator here, sir?”
    The Klingon laughed—a