It was a crisp spring morning. The rising sun cast long shadows across the white gravel. The wind was icy cold, but the sunlight felt good on Harper's cheek as she stepped out of the shadows under the ship. The sky over Tellar Prime was a piercing baby blue-- so blue it hurt to look at it. All around them, the horizon rose sharply into jagged, snowy peaks. In the west, one of the planet's three moons was a ghostly crescent above a distant crag. McGovern stepped out of the open hatch, the fine gravel of the landing zone crunching under his boots. He breathed deep the biting air. 

"Just like Aspen," the general commented. "Except, all the time." Behind him, Gordon was unfastening the trunk from the ship's deck. The wind brought a chill into the ship. He decided he needed something warmer to wear, and opened up the trunk. 

Strickland came down the metal stairs and stepped out of the hatch yawning. "How did you guys sleep?"

"Like a baby!" McGovern beamed. "The Tellarites do couches right."

"I could use a cup of coffee," Harper said, sticking her hands in her jacket pockets. 

"I know a place not far from here," Strickland said. They then noticed McGovern was carrying a small cup.

"Where did you get coffee – oh, good lord!" Harper recoiled in horror. Strickland looked into the cup to see the bottom moving and squirming. 

"Is that what I think it is?" Strickland asked. "You got that from the Klingon booth back on Alpha Centauri, didn't you?" 

Harper stared at McGovern. "I can't believe you brought that awful gagh with you! All this way?!?"

"Gagh isn't awful," McGovern said. "They're just misunderstood. I thought I'd keep them as pets. Look," he said, pointing to one of the squirming, maggoty creatures, "I named this one Jerry." 

"Get that away from me!" Harper said, stepping away. She stopped, and looked over McGovern's shoulder. Gordon was standing outside the hatch, wearing his long, maroon Nogura coat. The storage trunk floated alongside him like an obedient dog. 

"Very sharp," said Strickland. 

"Hey, looking good, doc," McGovern commented. 

"I feel funny," Gordon said. "Only the general staff wears coats like this. I feel like I'm impersonating an officer."

"Are you wearing general staff insignia?" McGovern asked. "No, you're not. It's just a coat. And you are an officer, after all." 

"It's very nice," Harper said as she stepped up to adjust his collar. The thick wool felt good under her fingertips. The high collar framed Gordon's kind face, the sharp lines of his chin, his soft, brown hair tossled in the wind. The coat accentuated his broad shoulders, thick chest and strong arms... Despite the cold, Harper felt her cheeks flush. 

Strickland pointed to McGovern's cup. "Shouldn't that be gaghs?"

"No," corrected McGovern. "Gagh is a collective term. You can have one gagh or many gagh. The plural of gagh is gagh."

Harper slowly turned, and spoke through angry, clenched teeth. "Can we talk about something else..?"

"Aaaaah!" said Captain Vic, hopping down from the open hatch, his hoofs landing hard on the gravel. "A beautiful day!" The Zar Madill sat parked on a square of white gravel about one square acre in size. It was one of many squares that surrounded the city of Baroosh, the largest city on the plains of Katac, in the eastern hemisphere of Tellar Prime. Two hundred meters to the south, another ship was crossing over a broad, yellow pasture towards a similar landing pad.  

"There should be a transport at the bottom of the hill to take you into the city," Captain Vic said. 

"You're not coming in with us?" McGovern asked. 

"I must tend to my ship. If I do not see you again before you leave the planet, have a safe journey."

Strickland walked up to Captain Vic and placed his hands on the Tellarite's arms. "Safe journeys to you, too." 

Harper zipped up the front of her Starfleet surplus jacket and adjusted the wide collar. It was blue, with a horizontal white stripe across the front. McGovern wore a dark blazer with numerous pockets. Strickland wore a tartan overcoat with a green scarf. Gordon felt self-conscious in his long maroon coat, but Harper couldn't help stealing glances back at him as they walked down the slope to the adjacent highway. A streamlined, bug-like vehicle sat parked before them, hovering centimeters over the road. Tall, yellow grass swayed in the chill wind. Gordon looked down the highway, and noticed several other similar vehicles waiting to serve arriving passengers and crews. 

There were several short buildings across the highway. Several were built of grey stone, but most looked like adobe structures. Each had a small courtyard facing the road. There seemed to be little flags in several windows. Beyond the highway, the towers of Baroosh dominated the northern horizon. 

The doors of the vehicle hissed open. A bored Tellarite in a pink outfit with a brown scarf looked over his shoulder from the drivers seat. "Destination?"

The group stepped up into the vehicle. "Do you know where the Georgetown Inn is?"

The Tellarite nodded. "Not far. Watch your step." Gordon gave Harper a hand as she stepped up into the vehicle. There were no seats inside– a line of poles provided hand-holds for people to hold on to. The trunk came in for a landing just inside the hatch. Once everyone was inside, the doors hissed shut, and the vehicle began to move. 

"Where are we headed?" McGovern asked. It was warmer inside the vehicle. Sunlight streaked in through the many windows. 

"The Georgetown Inn," said Strickland. "Sort of a human hostel. I've been there before. We can rest up and get a good meal before moving on." 

"We need more supplies, too," the general said. The vehicle turned down a side street, and with a loud hum moved deeper into Baroosh. The passing buildings got bigger and taller. Gordon watched in fascination. 

"Is it some kind of holiday?" Gordon asked. "Or does everyone like to fly flags here?"

Harper leaned over to look out the windows. Indeed, almost every window had a little handkerchief-sized flag hanging outside, flapping in the breeze. Each one was black, with a red fringe. "It's no holiday," she stated. "Those are funeral flags." All four of them were looking out the windows now. Everywhere they looked, the little funeral flags appeared, dotted across the urban landscape. Harper faced the others. "Someone very important here has died."

The vehicle turned another corner, and pulled off the road and through a gate. They passed under the bare branches of two trees and into a small courtyard. They could hear the vehicles engine winding down as they came to a halt. "Georgetown Inn," announced the driver. The doors hissed open.  

Gordon activated the trunk and drove it out onto the courtyard. "Thank you very much," Harper said as she stepped down out of the vehicle. Strickland followed, but McGovern turned back towards the driver. 

"Who died?" he asked. The driver said nothing. McGovern leaned closer, and pointed to a black flag across the street. "I said, who died?" 

The driver merely shrugged his shoulders. "Downam." The doors closed in front of McGovern, and the vehicle hummed away back into the street. The courtyard was built of cobblestone, and led to a three-story dark adobe building. Tall, rectangular windows faced the street. A peaked archway beckoned them to enter. 

"Let's get checked in," Strickland said. Inside, the lobby floor was made of thick planks of dark wood that creaked and groaned with every step. Two humans were sitting in chairs reading books. Strickland found the front desk. A tall, bald human looked up at them. 

"Captain Strickland?" the bald man said, smiling. "It's been a while! Since before the Dominion War!"

Strickland shook the bald man's hand. "Hello, Carl. How's business?"

"Picking up," the one called Carl replied. "People are starting to travel again." The others joined Strickland at the desk. "How can we help you today?"

"Rooms for four," Strickland said. "Close together, if you got them. We'll be staying one night, maybe two."

"No more than two," McGovern added. 

Carl smiled politely. "I can put you all on the second floor, rooms two B, C, D and E." Carl handed out four metal rods: keys for the Tellarite doors. He also handed out some folded sheets of paper. "And here are some local attractions you might be interested in. There is a brunch in the café in two hours."

"Sounds great. Thanks," said Strickland. 

He pointed to the far end of the lobby. "The lift is over here."

Harper sniffed the air. "I smell coffee," she said.

Carl smiled. "I'm proud to say our café has the best coffee on the planet," he announced. 

Harper smiled. "I'll be in the café," she said, shouldering her backpack. She started to leave, but then turned to the desk again. "Oh, I was wondering. I keep seeing funeral flags everywhere. Who died?"

"I've been seeing them, too," Carl admitted. "Apparently, it was some important Tellarite officer. I didn't catch the name." Carl turned to help another customer who had approached the desk. 

"The bus driver said his name was Downam," McGovern said as they walked towards the lift. 

Harper stopped in her tracks and stared at McGovern. "I beg your pardon? He said Downam?"

"Yeah," said McGovern. "Somebody you know?"

Harper had a confused look on her face. "That's odd," was all she said. "That's very odd..." 

The three males went upstairs and got settled in their rooms. Each had a bathroom with real water, so they each took long, hot showers. Meeting downstairs for the brunch, they found Harper sitting by herself next to the windows. Her tricorder lay on the table in front of her. The blue and white jacked hung over the back of her chair. The café had tables of thick, glossy wood, which dazzled in the morning sunshine. There was a buffet of various fruits and vegetables, as well as plenty of coffee. Harper looked up as they approached the table. 

"So, what's the plan?" she asked as the others sat down. 

"Baroosh's main tourist industry is mountain climbing," McGovern said. "There's outfitters all over town. We can pick up everything we need here."

Strickland took a bite of fruit. "What we should do is go shopping, pick up some touristy junk stuff, and get what we need along the way. That should disguise what we're doing." 

"Good idea," said Harper, sipping her coffee. "What's our next step after here?"

"Gerata," Strickland said. "In the Neutral Zone. That'll be the jump-off point to Toren II." Harper was staring out the window again. The others followed her gaze. Out in the courtyard, two Tellarites were raking leaves up from the yellow grass. Each moved slowly, their eyes down. Each wore brown scarves around their necks. 

"Frannie," said McGovern quietly, "who's Downam?"

"It's not a who," she said. "It's a what." Harper turned to face the others, looking around to see if anyone close by was listening. "Let me show you something." She picked up her tricorder and punched up an image on the screen. She showed it to the others. It was a picture of three-pronged trident. 

"This is how ancient Tellarite society was set up," she explained. "Each prong stands for one of the ranks of people. You had the military, the clergy, and the royalty. These were hereditary classes. However, once they started trading with other planets several hundred years ago, people from each class became rich merchants, so the merchant class was created." She pressed the small screen, and the trident became a four-pronged pitchfork. 

She waved her hand at the picture. "These are the Dow-- the ruling classes that run Tellarite society; they make the laws, they make all the decisions... but then, there's this." She pointed to the handle of the pitchfork. "That's the common people; ordinary laborers, the farmers, the grave-diggers, the janitors, the brick-layers–"

"You mean, like, the Untouchables in old India," Gordon said. 

"Exactly. By law, they can't vote in general elections, can't own property, can't marry someone in another class..." She nodded to the Tellarite workers in the courtyard. "They are the Downam." 

"That can't be legal!" Gordon said. "Tellar is a member of the Federation."

"–Which doesn't interfere in the internal affairs of member planets," Harper reminded. 

Strickland nodded. "I remember reading about legislation to get Downam the vote a few years ago."

"The authorities were all behind it," Harper replied, "...in public. In private, they added enough secret provisions to the law to keep most Downam from ever voting. There's laws against mistreatment and discrimination, all of which are pretty much ignored."

"That stinks!" McGovern said. 

Strickland rubbed his chin, thinking out loud. "So... who was it that died?"

"I don't know," McGovern said, "but it had to be somebody important."

After brunch, the four of them walked down the chilly streets to a nearby bazaar. Narrow streets led to rows of tiny, shaded shops. Throngs of Tellarites met them in the streets, their feet clop-clopping down the hard pavement. They picked up some knick-knacks and souveniers, all the time on the lookout for equipment they'd be needing. 

At a mountaineering outfitters, McGovern tested their selection of dynamic rope. He pulled a length tight between his hands to feel the strength. "Excellent!" he decided. He pointed to a stack of rope, tied into loops. "How long is each loop of rope?"

"Thirty kwangas," replied the Tellarite merchant. 

"What's that in Federation meters?"

The Tellarite sighed, and rolled his eyes. "You would ask me that..." He checked a conversion chart he had tacked to an overhead beam. "About one hundred two meters."

"Perfect," said McGovern. "I'll take three-- no, make that four loops. Where are your harnesses?" 

In another part of the store, Strickland was looking at some leather belt pouches. To his left, he noticed an elderly Tellarite janitor running a mop across the floor. He wore a brown scarf, the ends tucked into the front of his overalls. Strickland pretended to look at some ornaments on the wall as he worked his way over to the janitor. 

"Hello," Strickland said. The janitor glanced up, nodded, and went back to his work. "My name's Warren. What's yours?" When the janitor didn't answer, Strickland leaned closer. "Hey, I'm just a working stiff like you," he said quietly. 

The janitor's eyes darted left and right. "Please, I do not want trouble."

"It's all right," said Strickland, holding up his hands. "It's okay. What's your name?"

"I am Kotu," came the quiet response. Strickland nodded. 

"Nice to meet you, Kotu." Strickland picked up a flange and pretended to look at it over. "I keep seeing funeral flags all around town, Kotu. Who died?"

"Downam," Kotu sighed, and pushed on his mop again. 

"I know he was a Downam, Kotu. Who was he? What was his name?"

A sudden noise made Kotu jump. It was another customer, halfway down the next aisle, ratting a stack of metal pans. The janitor became very anxious. He drew his mop closer and started to rush away– but stopped as he passed Strickland. 

"Ojon," Kotu whispered. He turned to face Strickland, the anguish radiating from his eyes. His voice was choked with sadness. "Be Dae Ojon. He waits at Paratakall." The janitor called Kotu rushed down the aisle and disappeared around a corner. 

Strickland stood there for several moments, very confused. He said nothing as the group returned to the inn that afternoon. The four gathered in Gordon's room before heading downstairs for supper. McGovern was very pleased with himself about his acquisitions. "Look at this," he pointed to the coils of rope. "You can't get quality like that just anywhere." 

"There's a couple of ships headed out for Gerata this week," Harper reported. "I saw a notice on a board near the bazaar. We should see if we can contact the captains." 

"I'll get on the channels right after supper," Strickland said. "There's a pretty big Tellarite population on Gerata. I'll bet they're regular commuter runs." 

"I found this in the street," Gordon said, pulling a funeral flag out of his pocket. "One of the merchants was going along tearing them out of windows."

"Why on Earth would they do that?" Harper said. 

Gordon shrugged his shoulders. "He was tearing them down and throwing them in the gutter." 

"Oh, I found out who died," announced Strickland. "Somebody named Be Dae Ojon."

McGovern froze in his tracks. He slowly turned around and whispered, "Ojon? You don't mean Field Colonel Be Dae Ojon, do you? Commander of the 55th Baroosh Volunteers?"

"I've heard that name," Harper said. 

McGovern's face was incredulous. "He's dead? God... I didn't think anything could take that old war horse down."

"I've never heard of him," Strickland confessed. 

"I'm not surprised," McGovern said. He sat down hard on the edge of the bed. "If he was Downam, that makes sense. I'll bet they all were. The government wouldn't want to publicize someone like that."

"The 55th Regiment of Infantry," Harper said, "Tellarite Land Force, was originally mustered about twenty years ago to fight Orion pirates in the outer systems. I used to hear them mentioned in security briefings while I was in Starfleet." 

"Orion pirates, at first," said McGovern. "But pretty soon they got assigned every crap job in the quadrant. Every suicide mission, every hopeless situation, the Tellarites would send in the 55th. No casualty reports, no news pictures, just results... and the 55th kicked serious butt."

"There was a rumor they fought off a Borg incursion all by themselves," Harper said quietly. 

"Wouldn't surprise me," McGovern said. "In the marines, we heard stories of the 55th, and always tried to get intel on them. All we ever got was the name of their commander: Be Dae Ojon. Guy worked his way up through the ranks. Took command when his Dow commander was killed in battle, and they just left him in charge. I heard over the years he lost an eye, a lung, half his jaw, and had to have over a hundred needleslugs removed from his body after a hostage situation in one of the colonies." 

"My God," Gordon breathed. "Those things are made to mutilate victims."

"Exactly," said McGovern. "But Ojon took the hits and knocked down a wall to kill the terrorists. Tough old bird. And now he's dead? That's what the flags are for?"

"They fly funeral flags in honor of a fallen hero," Harper explained. "Traditionally, the flags stay up until the sunset after the hero's funeral."

Gordon looked at the flag in his hand, rubbing the fabric between his fingers. The edges were frayed and faded by the weather. "This is good material, but very worn. It's been outside for a long time."

"Who told you it was Ojon?" McGovern asked.

"A janitor at the mountaineering place we stopped at," Strickland explained. "He seemed really shook up. He also said, ‘He waits at Paratakall.'" 

"That's an old cemetery outside of town," Gordon said. "It was listed in that pamphlet of interesting places to visit."  

"That must be where he's buried." McGovern stood up, his face grave. "Well, damn... I guess we'd better get something to eat. Life goes on. And then, we still need to find us a ride to Gerata."

Supper in the inn's café was an assortment of local salad dishes, as well as baked vegetables and breads, all served buffet style. The clientele was mostly human, with a couple of traveling Andorians; they took their meals up to their rooms. At an adjoining table they met Matt Stokes, captain of a ship called the Blue Corsair. He was taking passengers and supplies on a supply run to systems along the Romulan border, including Gerata. Stokes agreed to take the four as passengers in exchange for a copy of all the music recorded on Harper's tricorder. "We're also taking a shipment of tango fruit. They love those things on Gerata. We should be lifting off at noon. Landing pad 44."

"Pad 44," repeated Harper. "We'll be there."

Morning came early to the city of Baroosh. A cloud front had moved in from the south during the night. Gordon slept like a rock on the luxurious bed in his room. He woke up rested and refreshed. Downstairs, the lobby was still dark. The café was not open yet, but he could hear cooks in the back preparing the morning's breakfast. He was about to go back to his room when he noticed McGovern leaning against one wall, watching the gathering dawn through the lobby windows. 

"Good morning, General," Gordon said. "Sleep well?"

"Hardly at all," McGovern admitted. "I got to thinking about Ojon and his regiment. In the marines, we heard about the dozens of campaigns the 55th got sent on over the years. The Tellarite government never released any casualty reports on them, so we don't know how many died, or what their names were. Ojon was the only name that ever came out. I made me think of all the men that I've served with... all the ones that didn't come back from missions. Every man that ever died under my command, I remember them. I remember every one. Their faces, their names... How could anyone let those names get forgotten?"

Gordon didn't know what to say. He patted McGovern on the shoulder. "They're not forgotten, general," he said finally. "And they'll never be. Not as long as you remember them."

McGovern looked up at the ash grey sky, then turned to Gordon. "The I guess I'd better stick around a while, huh?" Behind them, cooks began to set out dishes and cutlery. 

"Come on, general," Gordon said. "Let's get some breakfast."

The others soon joined them in the café. It was still early, but Strickland was in a hurry to get going. They packed the newly-acquired equipment in the storage trunk and floated it back downstairs to the lobby. Harper turned in their keys. Carl at the front desk was helpful in getting them transportation to Pad 44. Outside, as they waited for their vehicle, the day did not brighten much. Rough, grey clouds rolled across the sky, bringing an icy chill through the streets of Baroosh. The colors of their coats seemed muted and dull. Above the courtyard, the tree branches were bare and still. 

They heard an electric hum, and a red transport vehicle appeared down the street. It turned into the courtyard and came to a stop in front of the inn. 

"We need to go to Landing Pad 44, please," Harper told the driver. The brown scarfed Tellarite silently nodded. When everyone was inside, he closed the doors and pulled the vehicle back onto the street. 

They rode in silence, holding onto the poles for support. It was still early, and there were not many vehicles on the street. Harper did notice several groups of Tellarites walking down the sidewalks. Some carried boxes, or tools, or pushed along carts of stone and metal. All wore brown scarves. 

"Frannie," said McGovern, "I thought you said they only kept the funeral flags up until after sunset."

"The sunset after the funeral," she replied. "That's the tradition."

"Then, why are those flags still up?" They were passing through a business district. The storefronts were bare, but beyond the stores were blocks of apartment buildings. In each window hung a black funeral flag. Harper checked both sides of the vehicle. Windows up and down the street still had funeral flags, gently undulating in the slight breeze. 

"That's odd... They must not have had the funeral yet," she concluded. "It's custom to bury the dead within a day or two. How very strange." Moving out of the business district, the vehicle pulled into a wide highway. Ahead, they could see several space ships parked in a row along the freeway. To their right, a long stone wall appeared parallel with the road. Beyond the wall was a short hill, covered with slabs of cut stone laid out in rows. 

"There," pointed Gordon. "That must be Paratakall, the old cemetery. It was on the map." Harper leaned over to look at the groups of Tellarites clustered outside the low, stone wall. They passed a side road leading to the arched gate of the cemetery. In a field of yellow grass adjacent to the side road were tents of various sizes, and many more Tellarites, many more brown scarves. The vehicle slowed suddenly, and the driver pulled into a parking space on the left side of the highway. The doors hissed open. Before them, a wide path led up a short hill. Beyond, the top half of the Blue Corsair was visible parked on Landing Pad 44. 

Gordon pulled the trunk out of the vehicle and started it crawling up the slope to the ship. It moved slower with all the added weight inside. The vehicle backed up into the highway and sped away. All the way up the slope, McGovern kept looking over his shoulder at the cemetery across the road. The wind felt wet and cold. The slope evened out as the path reached the landing pad. Captain Stokes stepped out from under the shadow of the ship, wiping his hands on a rag as they approached. 

"I'm still waiting on that shipment of tango fruit," he said. "So it's gonna be a while. If you want, you can go ahead an make yourselves at home." 

The Blue Corsair sat parked on the pad, it's retractable feet making creases in the gravel. Conduits hung from the hull of the ship, running to pipeline valves along the edge of the pad. An elevated platform descended from the belly of the ship. Gordon guided the trunk onto the platform. Strickland and Harper joined Gordon on the platform, and a crewman flipped a switch to make it ascend back up. 

"Aren't you coming, Dave?" Strickland called. 

"I'm gonna go for a walk," McGovern yelled back, pointing towards the cemetery. He stood at the top of the slope. "Get me some culture." 

The Corsair was much bigger than any of the civilian ships they'd traveled on so far. Carrying a crew of ten, it had room for twenty-five passengers on two different decks. From the outside, it looked like an enormous trout. Gordon guided the trunk into his cabin, which had its own toilet and shower. "Now, this is traveling!" he said, bringing the trunk in for a landing. 

"Where did David say he was going?" Harper asked as she put her backpack in her cabin. 

"For a walk," Strickland answered from inside his room. "He's probably gone over to look for that colonel's grave."

"He'll be all right, won't he?" asked Gordon, hanging up his maroon coat. "I mean, he can't get into any trouble over there, could he?" The hallway was silent. Then, Harper appeared in the doorway of her cabin. Strickland appeared, and then Gordon's face poked out of his doorway. They looked at each other for a moment... then, without a word, they grabbed their jackets and hurried back towards the platform. 

McGovern stood along the highway, watching for a break in the traffic. When one appeared, he hurried across the highway, the chill air working its way inside his clothes. The side road led to a small parking lot in front of the arched cemetery gate. On the other side of the road was a stretch of yellow grass, and then the tents. There were a dozen tent structures of various sizes, each made from a patchwork of materials. He could smell a campfire burning somewhere. McGovern walked up the road. It was a clear path from the highway straight to the gate. He easily walked through the gate and into the cemetery. 

Ankle-high yellow grass carpeted the hillside. Lined-up among the grass were thick slabs of stone, each the size of a closet door. They were the graves. The rows of slabs stretched on beyond the close horizon. McGovern walked between the rows. He noticed most of the slabs had carved lettering. He could not read the inscriptions. Many were cracked with age. Some had portraits of the deceased. Each stone was wet from all the moisture in the air. McGovern passed a pair of old Tellarites walking hand-in-hand, a human with a bouquet of flowers, and an Andorian with a small camera. He stopped at the junction of two paths. A granite spire half again as tall as he marked the spot. From there, he could see a handful of crypts and headstones scattered among the graves, but most of them were marked with simple, flat sections of hard stone. There were more granite spires spaced evenly across the fields. 

McGovern walked back to the arched gate to find Gordon, Harper and Strickland walking up the path towards him. "There you are," Harper said. The clouds seemed to be parting in the east. 

Strickland was looking at the tents next to the cemetery. "What's going on over here?" he asked.

"Let's go see," McGovern answered. They stepped off the path and started towards the tents. Harper noticed several Tellarites in brown scarves tending a small campfire. Another was tightening a tent rope. Upon closer inspection, the tents were made out of blankets and patched squares of used canvas. 

"Can I help you?" came a voice. It was a young Tellarite female, barely past puberty, her eyes wide over her small, snouted nose. Her tattered clothes seemed woefully unfit for such brisk weather. 

"My name is Frannie Harper," the admiral said, stepping forward. "These are my friends. Why are you camping here, if I may ask?"

"We wait with Ojon," replied the female. 

McGovern frowned. "Ojon?"

"He waits beyond," came a huskier voice. A tall male stepped out of a tent and pulled a blanket around the female's shoulders. She pulled the corners close to her chest. "In there," the male pointed, indicating a tent made from a large blue tarp. "I am Tobia. I served under Ojon for many years, many wars. I remain at his side."

"I don't understand," Harper said to the male. "If Colonel Ojon died, why isn't he buried yet?"

"Downam," replied Tobia. "He was Downam. Paratakall is a Dow cemetery. No Downam has ever been buried in a Dow cemetery... But, Ojon was different. He was a hero– a hero to all of Tellar, Dow and Downam. He deserves to be buried in Paratakall, along with the other heroes and kings and ministers who rest there." 

"But, we are Downam, too," the female spoke. "We cannot enter a Dow cemetery without the permission of a Dow. And... and they will not give permission."

"Ojon gave his life for this planet," Tobia said, his frustration adding a growl to his voice. "He deserves a resting place of honor. But the government says because he was Downam, he was nothing. Nothing!"

Strickland cleared his throat. "Couldn't he be buried in a Downam cemetery instead?"

"There are no Downam cemeteries," Tobia replied bitterly. "Not worth the space, the Dow claim. Downam bodies are cremated, ashes spread from hilltops." Gordon noticed several other Downam coming out of the tents to listen. "We may not deserve a resting place, but Ojon does! He deserves place of honor among the heroes of the Tellar. And so, we wait. We wait with Ojon. Maybe if we wait long enough, government will let us take Ojon into Paratakall. There," Tobia pointed, over the stone wall to a bare spot on a little rise. "That is where he deserves to be. Where he can be at peace."

Gordon looked at the tattered tents. "How long have you been waiting?"

"Ojon passed into the next world 183 days ago," the female replied, her lips quivering. "He is only one Downam. Only one. Surely, one Downam would not tarnish Paratakall..."

"Six months?" coughed Harper. "You've been waiting out here with his body for six months?"

Gordon looked at Strickland. "That's why the funeral flags are all worn and torn everywhere." 

McGovern stepped forward. His voice was gracious. "May we pay our respects?" he asked. 

"Of course," Tobia replied. "This way." The male led the four humans around a line of domes to the big blue tent. There was a short line of Downam waiting to enter the tent. When the last one came out, Tobia pulled open the flap. 

One by one they filed in, McGovern bringing up the rear. A pair of torches burned on the ends of poles at the far end of the tent. They illuminated a rectangular shape, lined up along the center of the tent. Ojon's coffin. McGovern rubbed his hands together for warmth – then stopped cold. He came forward and put his hands on the coffin. Chips of paint came off in his hands. His fingertips ran over rough, broken wood, and there was a hole in the side big enough to put his hand through. 

"What the hell? This is his coffin? This is the coffin of a hero?"

"It is the coffin of a Downam," Tobia said sadly. "Dow will not allow a Downam to be buried in a Dow coffin."

McGovern was incredulous. "What the–? Is this a door? You took pieces of a door to make this? This is junk! This is garbage! He deserved better than this!"

The female came forward. "It is the best we could do!" she cried, tears welling in her eyes. "We cannot get wood for a decent coffin! We cannot have one made! No one will help us!" An angry growl rumbled in the back of McGovern's throat. He angrily stomped out of the tent. The others followed. 

"It's not right!" McGovern cried at the sky. "It's not fair! And you can't bury him because you can't get in the cemetery?" 

"Only Dow may walk there," Tobia replied. 

"But... but I've seen humans up there. Andorians, too. They're in there right now! They can go in the cemetery."

"They are Dow, too," said Tobia sadly. 

"What?" McGovern said, not understanding. "What?" He looked to Harper for help. 

"They're people, David," Harper explained. "That's why they can walk in the cemetery. That's what Dow means: people."

"So... what does Downam mean?"

Harper looked into his eyes. "Not people."

McGovern stepped away, his fist pounding his hip in fury. His angry breath wheezed through clenched teeth... Then he stopped. He slowly turned, and looked back over their heads. The others followed his gaze, and saw he was looking hard at the bare spot on the rise beyond the wall. When they looked back at the general, his thinning grey hair blowing in the breeze, his jaw was set, his muscles were flexed, and his eyes cold and determined. He had come to a decision. 

"Where's a shovel?"

The Tellarites in the camp stood there stunned, until someone came through the line carrying a small shovel. Strickland, Harper and Gordon each looked at each other. McGovern grabbed the shovel and went back into the blue tent. The others followed him inside. 

"You guys don't have to help me," McGovern was saying. 

"Hey, we're in this together," Harper replied. 

Gordon nodded in agreement. "And I am supposed to stay close."

"We'll need something to support from underneath," Strickland was saying. 

"Here," Harper pointed. There was a pile of logs in a corner of the tent, probably to keep them dry for firewood. She found two straight branches, each about two meters long. 

McGovern laid the shovel on top of the crude coffin. "It won't be long now," he whispered. Harper handed one branch to Strickland. They pointed the branches under the coffin. Gordon and McGovern grabbed the other ends. Together, they used the branches to lift the coffin off the makeshift sawhorses it was resting on. Harper and McGovern were in front, with Strickland and Gordon following. 

"Got it?" Strickland asked. 

"Yeah," said Gordon.

McGovern pointed towards the tent flap. "Let's go."

Tobia was at the tent flap. He pulled the flap open to let them pass, but they all still had to duck their heads. Once outside the tent, McGovern got them pointed back out the way they entered the camp – back towards the arched entrance to the cemetery. The stone wall was off to their side. A pair of Downam appeared on either side, carrying more shovels. They gently laid them on top of the coffin. Another laid down a loop of coarse rope. 

"Wouldn't it be easier to carry him over the wall?" Gordon asked, grunting as they walked. Their feet sank into the soft earth under the weight of the load.

"No!" said McGovern. "No sneaking in. He's going in the front door, just like everybody else." They maneuvered the coffin over the yellow grass. When they got to the side road, Harper and McGovern waited as the others got the back end of the coffin turned towards the arch. The road was hard-packed, so walking was easier. 

Under the arch, they made it inside the cemetery proper. Gordon looked over his shoulder. A group of about twenty-five Tellarites, all with brown scarves, stood watching just outside the entrance. Some were crying. Others were standing tall, with proud looks on their porcine faces. 

"Now where?" Harper asked breathlessly.

"About thirty paces up this slope," McGovern said. "Then off to the left, just over the bank." The handful of people in the cemetery suddenly took notice of them. Gordon was holding his load, but also looking carefully at the others. McGovern was straining under the weight, and Strickland's face was getting very flushed. 

"Wait," said Harper. "Stop. I'm losing my grip."

"Let's set it down," McGovern suggested. They laid the coffin down on the tall grass. Each took a deep breath as they stood back up. Harper unzipped her blue jacket.

"Sorry about that," Harper said. She flexed her fingers. She looked back at Gordon, her silver hair blowing across her face. 

"Let's switch sides," Strickland suggested. "So we don't get worn out."

"Good idea," Gordon said. Just then, something hard bounced off the top of the coffin. 

Harper turned, surprised. "What the–?"

"That was a rock!" Strickland realized. "Somebody threw a rock at us!"

"Incoming!" McGovern called out. They ducked as two more rocks came sailing through the air. Both landed in the tall grass beyond them. Harper looked up. 

"There!" she pointed. At the bottom of the slope, two Tellarite males were chucking rocks at them. They did not wear brown scarves. 

McGovern was furious. "Why those little–!"

"David, no!" Harper said. "Come on, let's get moving." They switched sides, and as one lifted the coffin again. McGovern led them a little further up the slope. 

"Okay, this way," he said, pulling them off to the left. Beyond the crest of the bank, the hill fell away in a gentle grade. Yellow grass blew in the wind. They stepped between stone slabs until they found an empty space. 

"This looks good," Strickland suggested. The others needed no convincing. They laid the coffin down. McGovern stretched his back as he stood. Harper rubbed her arm. Gordon looked back over the bank, but did not see the troublemakers following them. 

McGovern grabbed a shovel from on top of the coffin. "Let's get started." Each took a shovel, and they started digging into the soft earth. Digging was easy until the hole became waist-deep, then they hit a layer of soft clay. Digging became more of a chore from that point on. Gordon stopped to take off his maroon coat. As he pulled one sleeve off, he froze. "Oh, my God."

The others looked. At the bottom of the slope, the Downam in the little camp had lined up along the stone wall to watch them. They were not alone. Close to a hundred Tellarites in brown scarves stood together in the lonely wind. Gordon took up his shovel again.

"Oh, wonderful," Strickland said. He looked up as another raindrop dotted his face. "Perfect."

"Let's get this done," McGovern prodded. With renewed vigor, the four chopped through the layer of clay. Harper had to stop to catch her breath. One by one they climbed out of the hole, until only Gordon remained. He worked to even out the bottom of the hole. 

"Okay, that's good," McGovern proclaimed. Strickland helped pull Gordon out of the hole. Uncoiling the rope, they looped it under the coffin, and then used it to lift the box off the ground. Carefully, they positioned it over the open hole. 

"Careful," Harper said, straining under the weight. In uneven jerks, the coffin was lowered into the grave. When it rested on the bottom, McGovern was unhappy that the coffin did not lay perfectly flat. It would have to do. 

"Wow," said Strickland. Below them, the crowd on the other side of the stone wall had swelled. They could barely make out the tents anymore, there were so many Tellarites watching them. "How many is that?"

McGovern squinted. "Three hundred, three fifty maybe."

"Where'd they come from?" Gordon asked, picking up his shovel. 

The four of them filled up the hole in record time. The blade of Harper's shovel scraped a neighboring stone slab as she scooped up the last of the moved earth. 

"Who's that next to him?" Strickland asked. Harper looked close at the inscription.

"I think that's the word for king," she said, trying to read the markings. 

McGovern used the flat of his shovel to pack down the mound of earth. "We don't have a marker for him," Gordon pointed out.

"Here," Strickland said. He held out a fist-sized rock. "That's what they were throwing at us."

"It'll have to do," McGovern said. He took the rock and laid it on top of the mound. The four stood next to the grave in silent respect. 

"Come on," Harper said finally. "We have a ship to catch." The four pulled their jackets back on. They shouldered their shovels and turned back up the bank. McGovern stood silently, then straightened to attention, and brought his hand up in a full military salute. 

"This is for you, Colonel Ojon," he whispered. "This is for you... and for every soldier who ever died alone." A ragged sigh escaped from his chest, and he looked up into the ash grey skies. I won't forget you, boys, he thought. McGovern wiped his eyes, and joined the others at the top of the bank.

"Well, we–" McGovern stopped in his tracks next to the others. At the bottom of the slope, about fifty Tellarites stood among the graves staring at them, faces angry, rocks in their hands. 

"What do we do?" Strickland asked quietly. 

"Don't look at them," McGovern said, lifting his shovel. "Head for the entrance." The four started down the slope, stepping between the stone slabs. The crowd watched as they descended. 

"Keep walking," McGovern instructed. He followed the others, keeping an eye on the angry mob to their side. 

"Downam!" someone shouted. A half dozen rocks flew through the air. McGovern raised his shovel over his head just as a rock bounced off the blade. 

The whole crowd was shouting now. "Downam! Downam scum!" Rocks were landing all around them. Harper yelped as one struck her in the arm. Several bounced near their feet. Another thudded hard against Strickland's chest. He staggered, but Gordon grabbed his arm and helped him along. The arched entrance was thirty paces away. 

"Hurry!" McGovern yelled, and he pushed the others down the slope. The rain of rocks continued. There was a rush of air– and suddenly all McGovern could see was the yellow grassy slope, rushing up to meet him. He felt his chest hit the ground. There was something wet on his forehead. He dropped the shovel, and pushed on the ground with both hands. He rose up enough to see hooves all around him...

"David!" Harper was yelling. "David, get up!" McGovern looked up. A dozen Downam had rushed into the cemetery and formed a line between them and the crowd, shielding them from the hail of rocks. Harper looked up in time to see a stone bounce off the head of the Tellarite immediately in front of her. A spray of blood splashed across her face, and the Downam fell at her feet. 

"Come on, let's go!" Gordon was yelling. He and Harper helped McGovern to his feet. At the archway, a line of Downam stood waiting for them. As soon as they were through the arch, the Downam formed a circle around the group. The crowd in the cemetery roared with anger. 

"We've got to get to the ship!" Harper yelled above the noise. The throng of Downam understood, and parted to form a path back towards the highway. Rocks continued to bounce off the ground, and heads. Strickland could not see a thing beyond the backs of the protecting Downam. He hurried along between the lines of Tellarites, leading the others towards the highway. 

Pavement appeared under their feet, and the crowd thinned out enough for them to see all traffic had stopped on the road. Trucks, busses and personal vehicles clogged the highway for as far as the eye could see. Hundreds of Downam surrounded them. Harper stood on her toes to see above the crowd. On the far side of the highway, she could see the Blue Corsair still waiting for them. The noise blended into a deafening static. Police vehicles hovered overhead. 

They made it to the far side of the highway. As they worked their way up the path, McGovern could see clubs in the hands of approaching Tellarites. The Downam closed ranks and stood shoulder to shoulder, forming a straight path to the ship. McGovern kept urging the others onward. He looked to his side, and something hit him across the cheek. 

McGovern staggered from the blow. One of the Dow Tellarites had pushed his way between the Downam. McGovern did a double take. He couldn't believe his eyes. "Captain Vic?"

"Filthy Downam-loving slime!" the Tellarite captain spat at McGovern. "We will not allow that garbage to lie in our holy ground!"

"Oh, yeah?" yelled an angry McGovern, wiping blood off his cheek. "Who are you gonna get to dig him up? Grave diggers are all Downam, remember?"

Hands appeared at McGovern's shoulders, and he was helped up the slope. They'd made it to the landing pad. The Blue Corsair loomed above them; rocks bounced off its hull. Dozens of Downam circled the landing pad, holding off the hundreds of shouting Dow that were closing in on the ship. The top of the slope was a pool of angry Tellarites. 

The others were already on the platform. "Hurry, David!" urged Harper. A Downam appeared at McGovern's side, helping him along. 

"Thank you!" He said. It was Tobia. "From all of us, everywhere, thank you." 

"You are Downam!" came a shout from the crowd. "You are trash!"

Tobia turned to the shouting Tellarite. "No... No! I am not trash! I am Downam... no longer!" Tobia stood tall. He reached around his neck and pulled down the brown scarf with a jerk of his hand. Dozens around him gasped in surprise.  "I am a person! I have rights!" He held the scarf high above his head. "We are people!" he yelled. "We have rights!" 

McGovern joined the others on the platform. It began to rise into the belly of the ship. Below them, hundreds of Downam were tearing off their brown scarves and waving them in the air. "We are people! We have rights!" came the chant. "We are people! We have rights!" As the hatch closed beneath them, they could still hear the chanting. 

Gordon helped the others into the ship's saloon. Captain Stokes hurried past them in a trot, dodging furniture and pipes. "You folks sure do know how to make an impression!" he said, dashing towards the bridge. "Cast off!" they heard him yell. 

Thrusters fired from under the ship. The sudden blast of air drove the mass of Tellarites away from the landing pad. The great ship lifted, and the metal feet retracted back into the hull. Harper leaned over one of the portholes and saw what had to be thousands of Tellarites swarming the cemetery, the highway, the rooftops, a sea of brown scarfs churning beneath them ... The ship turned, and she lost sight of the ground. They ascended into the low-lying clouds. Within minutes, the ship was safe in the blackness of space.

The sound of rushing air from the compressor vents was the only sound in the saloon. The four lay exhausted across the cushions. Their clothes were torn and splattered with mud and blood. Gordon's knee was scraped; he had his medical kit open, scanning Strickland's bruised chest. Harper took a towel and wiped the caked mud from her hands. Gordon watched closely. "Are you all right, admiral?" he said.

"I'm fine," she said. "And please, call me Frannie."

"All right. Frannie."  

McGovern sat deeply in an easy chair. With a handkerchief, he dabbed at a cut on his eyebrow. He looked at the bloody rag. "That's gonna leave a mark..."