The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 2

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  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Part Two

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  About the Authors

  For my dad, Col. J. G. Hertzler, USAF, and my mom, teacher of Latin, French, and life

  J. G. H.

  “For the Andorian Girl. She knows why.”

  J. L.

  Acknowledgments

  Firstly, I am ever thankful for the patience and talent of my editor, Marco Palmieri. I am no less grateful for the heart and wisdom of Ira Steven Behr, Executive Producer of Deep Space Nine; for the words of Ronald Moore, poetic soul of the Klingon Empire; and for Gene Roddenberry, the sine qua non of this grand adventure called Star Trek. And most humbly, I must bow to the boundless talent and craft of my cowriter, Jeffrey Lang.

  —J. G. Hertzler

  I’d be remiss if I didn’t acknowledge the producers, writers, and actors who made the Klingons into the rich, highly nuanced culture we know today. In particular, I’d like to pay homage to the work of Gene Roddenberry (naturally), Michael Ansara, Ira Steven Behr, Hans Beimler, William Campbell, Shannon Cochran, John Colicos, Kevin Conway, Gene L. Coon, Michael Dorn, Ronald D. Moore, Marc Okrand, Robert O’Reilly, and no doubt many others whom I omit only out of ignorance. Special thanks to the good folks at the Klingon Language Institute—in particular, Lawrence M. Schoen, Alan Anderson, Roger Cheesbro, and Lieven Lieter—for their help, and to editor supreme Marco Palmieri.

  My thanks also to friends and family who have been so supportive during the “Klingon project,” including Tristan Mayer; Joshua Macy; Helen Szigeti; Annarita Gentile; my wife, Katherine Fritz, our son, Andrew; and, yes, even the dog (hi, Buster!). More than anyone, however, I owe a debt of gratitude to Heather Jarman—friend, advisor, sister in spirit—I literally could not have finished this one without you. May the next one have fewer words in italics and less raw food.

  Last, of course, a bent knee and a fist in the air to my comrade and collaborator, J. G. Hertzler, without whom I wouldn’t have been on this journey. Qapla’ to the Chancellor and kai to the General.

  —Jeffrey Lang

  Part One

  “Sometimes fate plays cruel tricks on us.”

  1

  THE FUTURE

  Angry Fire from Star’s fair daughter / Scorches earth with icy fingers / Wielding flame and cold, She hails their doom… The ancient Trill rune-verse cycled through Ezri Dax’s memory like an errant two-year-old child in the aisles of a market on a festival day, getting in the way of unwary travelers, pestering, nagging, demanding attention. More … important … things to think about, she reprimanded herself. Focus, Ezri— Inhaling too much of the foul, smoke-choked air, Ezri hacked and retched, wishing she could stop for a moment and slide on the helmet to her EVA suit, but those were precious seconds she could not afford to lose. A wave of dizziness threatened to capsize her.

  At least she had thought to activate the magnetic soles of her boots, which meant that she could keep her feet under her, more than any of the others on the Rotarran’s bridge could claim. She glanced over her shoulder and saw Worf clinging to the main weapons console and Alexander right beside him, valiantly trying—but failing—to keep his footing.

  A Klaxon blared. Drawing on Dax’s memories of time spent on Klingon ships, Ezri “recalled” that the alarms, coded by duration and intensity, helped crew members specifically identify the danger the ship faced. This one indicated a major coolant leak in the secondary hull, the kind that would result in a warp-core breach without quick action. More by sound than by sight, Ezri knew that the two damage-control engineers who had come onto the bridge at the beginning of the battle had abandoned their stations and headed for the lifts. Bridge repairs were secondary to what was happening back in the engineering section. All Worf’s clever plans would be for naught if the core breached.

  The deck slid to the left under Ezri as she lifted her left foot to take a step toward tactical. Her right ankle twisted and she fell hard, her right hip and shoulder crashing into the unpadded floor. The heavy Klingon spacesuit—more like a suit of plated armor than any EVA garment she’d ever donned before—prevented her from cracking either her collarbone or pelvis, but even as it was, Ezri knew she would ache in the morning—assuming there was going to be a morning.

  All right, then, Ezri thought, slapping on her right thigh the patch that deactivated the magnetic boots. If I can’t walk, I’ll crawl. She slapped another patch on her left thigh and the knee magnets pulsed to life. A limp, bleeding body she recognized as the navigator Ortakin slid past her as the deck seesawed. A gaping wound in his chest destined him for certain death. Ezri looked on helplessly, unable to attend to the dying man. Another buck and the body vanished from view. Since the filtration units had ceased spinning, the bridge was submerged in greasy smoke billowing from the sizzling and sparking environmental control panels. Fire-control foam that had been gushing from a nozzle in the floor sputtered and died and the flames guttered, then flared. As if we weren’t burning up enough atmosphere as it is, dammit. Might need the helmet after all.

  She reached around and felt to make sure the helmet remained attached to her equipment belt. It was difficult to be sure, since she couldn’t feel it bang against her hip, but, yes, there it was. Almost as an afterthought, she strained to extend her reach a little farther, patting along her back to make sure the other package—the whole reason they were in this stupid situation—was there, too. She found it right where she had strapped it on.

  Leskit, the pilot, regained control of the ship, leveling out the Rotarran. A throb raced through the deck under her hands and knees and, moments later, Worf and Alexander cheered exultantly. A hit, Ezri thought. Good for them. Now all we need is about twenty more of those and we might survive…. The deck bucked up underneath her and Ezri’s arms and legs collapsed. Her ears rang, tiny lights flashed behind her eyelids, and her chest throbbed as though someone had picked up the starship and slammed it into her ribs. She imagined she could feel the symbiont squirming inside her and pictured the new tenant of an unexpectedly raucous hotel slamming on the ceiling to quiet the upstairs neighbors. Another one like that, she thought, struggling to remain conscious, and Dax is going to need a new host.

  The cloud of gray, grimy smoke dropped lower and Ezri lost sight of Worf and Alexander, though she could still hear them impassively discussing what to do next. Strangely, through all the background noise and the blare of the Klaxons, it was difficult to tell when the father spoke and when the son. The timbre of their voices was entirely different, but the pauses, the cool, gruff starts and stops, were remarkably similar. She wondered if anyone else had noticed this, then realized that her mind was wandering. Oxygen deprivation, she decided, and reached aroun
d behind her for her helmet, realizing that Worf and Alexander had been speaking through breathing masks. Her fingers felt clumsy, and not just because of the thick gauntlets. If I don’t do this soon then wielding flame and cold She hails their doom … STOP THAT!

  “My old teachers would be thrilled I could still remember after all these years,” Ezri muttered to no one in particular as she fumbled with the helmet’s clip. “Never mind that the distraction might get me killed….”

  As she slid the helmet down into the suit’s neck ring, another shudder rumbled through the deck, but this one didn’t feel like either a weapons strike or an internal explosion. Ezri twisted the helmet into place and heard the connections click into their slots. Cool air rushed into the helmet and Ezri felt her head clear almost immediately. Status lights flickered into life, no doubt signalling something important about the suit’s status. When Ezri relaxed and concentrated, she could call on her past hosts’ extensive repository of matters Klingon to keep up with such details, but not under the current circumstances. Instead, she tapped the sequence Worf had showed her on the gauntlet’s control set and checked the HUD on the upper left corner of the faceplate. The reading troubled her.

  Ezri learned that she had used up a considerable amount of oxygen during her spacewalk. Yes, she was carrying a supply meant for an adult Klingon and her Trill physiology was not nearly as demanding; as she had expected, her air supply was sufficient to last until the current crisis had played out. On the other hand, her dangerously low battery power threatened to run out before she asphyxiated. A suit this large and heavy would be impossible to move without servomotors and she had been relying on them—much more than a Klingon would. Checking the status display, Ezri found she had ten, perhaps twelve minutes left.

  Damn. Not good. Oddly, this knowledge did not alarm her. In fact, she felt quite calm, much calmer than she should have. Ezri wondered briefly which part of her many-faceted nature was responsible for that, then realized she didn’t give a damn. She may never have planned on being joined, but she wasn’t going to question the benefits, whether consciously utilized or not. Best get to work, then.

  Having lost her orientation in the dense smoke, Ezri crawled until she ran into a console. Dragging herself up to her feet, she found that her aim was better than she could have expected, having crashed into tactical. The station appeared to be intact with most of the controls still functional. Where in the hell are we, and what the hell is going on? she thought, trying to coax the console into action. A quick check revealed that the main sensor grid was offline. If she could pull a visual reading from off of auxiliary feeds, she might be able to ascertain the Rotarran’s position relative to their attackers. The main monitors had gone down during the first wave of the attack, but the backup grids should be able to provide a visual…. Yes, there we go, she thought, grateful for the time her symbiont had spent on Klingon vessels. She tapped in the command that directed the feed to the closest functioning monitor.

  The smoky gloom suddenly became brighter at one end of the bridge. The computer must have directed the visual feed there, she thought, squinting through the haze. Ezri was too far away to make out details, so she half hopped, half staggered the few meters to the glowing monitor, praying fervently that it was still keyed to main exterior camera and not some useless auxiliary view. Somewhere behind her, seemingly an eternity away, she heard Worf shout, “Torpedoes—fire!” So, at least two other people were still alive, unless Worf was issuing himself orders.

  The bottom edge of the monitor image was shot through with fine spiderwebs from one of the direct hits to the Rotarran, but it otherwise appeared to be functional, though the picture made no sense. Ezri had expected to see either the black of space dotted through with glowing blobs when a ship decloaked and fired or the white arc of the planet below them. But this—a crackling white rush—the visual feed must be malfunctioning.

  No. It isn’t. Ezri staggered away until she collided with the navigator’s console, then grabbed it with both hands, as much for reassurance as to steady herself. She wasn’t looking at static, but at ice.

  The flaming Rotarran was plummeting toward the icy surface of the planet Boreth, and they were already much too close for the ship to pull away.

  Angry fire from Star’s fair daughter, she thought, mouth agape. Scorches earth with icy fingers… The silver-white peaks of mountains winked in the sun as the ship spun in, down, down, and the edges of the image reddened with the heat of their passage. Wielding flame and cold, She hails their doom.

  2

  THE PRESENT

  Ezri Dax gave the shuttle’s thrusters a nudge, easing around the edge of a medium-sized asteroid, and thought, This may well be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. That, in and of itself, is remarkable, because if I add up all the stupid things I’ve done in my lives, I’d end up with a monumentally large pile of stupid.

  The shuttle was called the Wardrobe and it was, well, in a word, adorable. Obviously meant to be a vacation craft, the trim, tidy little rental was the kind of ship Ezri would have hired if she were planning a quick run back to Trill and didn’t want to have to be at the mercy of a Starfleet ship’s schedule. When she had asked the agent, a human named Riku, why he called it the Wardrobe, the pleasant old man had replied that he had permitted his eight-year-old daughter to name his three new ships and the other two were named the Lion and the Witch. Then, laughing in a manner that suggested Ezri should understand the joke, Riku had handed her the ship’s papers and the key card and asked that she return to the station by Thursday next week.

  Ezri hated to lie to him, hated knowing that the Wardrobe would likely never return home, but she still retained enough latinum in her personal holdings to cover the cost of replacing it, so Riku would not be out a shuttle. Plus, his daughter would have the fun of naming a new ship something just as baffling. It’s precisely this sort of little lie that permits us to do the things we must do, she thought, mentally shading her words with her best counselor’s tone. Over the past few days on her journey to this remote corner of Klingon space, she’d repeatedly used that rationalization to prevent her from changing her mind.

  Part of her (the part that believed that the Klingons had brought this latest catastrophe on themselves) thought that Admiral Ross and Colonel Kira could help far more effectively than she could. But Ezri had known from the moment she’d read Worf’s one-word message to her that his, and therefore Martok’s, situation was desperate. On the surface, his message had been simply “now,” but Dax had understood what had not been said: The House of Martok has need of you. And part of her (not exclusively Jadzia and Curzon, surprisingly) knew she would honor her obligations or die trying. Dax was nothing if not loyal.

  Sighing, Ezri popped the thruster and initiated another passive scan. She watched the panel patiently, hoping that this time she’d obtain a different result. When the scan pinged nothing resembling a Klingon starship, she sighed again. Worf, I’m going to throttle you….

  * * *

  The conversation with Kira, predictably, had not gone well.

  “I have to take emergency leave.”

  “Why?” Kira had asked in her best I’m going to be reasonable tone.

  “Because there’s an emergency.”

  “Where? Back home? Something we can help with?” She spun her desk viewer toward her and began to check for debarkations in the direction of Trill or Sappora VII.

  “No, not back home. Elsewhere.”

  “Elsewhere? Where elsewhere? Elsewhere Earth? Elsewhere Alpha Centauri? Give me some help here, Ezri.”

  “Elsewhere elsewhere, Colonel.” Dax said, sitting straighter in her seat. “I don’t believe I’m required by protocol to tell you my destination, only when I’ll return.”

  Sinking back into her chair, Kira narrowed her eyes and replied, “No, Lieutenant. You’re not required to tell me, but I guess I’d like to think that I’ve earned some trust.”

  Ezri almost gave in then. She despe
rately desired to tell someone about the mission she was about to embark upon, but Worf’s message—though terse, in the typical Worf style—had been clear. He needed her to drop everything and join him immediately. Klingons. What is it with them, anyway? True, it had been Jadzia who had sworn the oath, but as Worf had made clear, Ezri had inherited all the privileges and responsibilities inherent in being a member of House Martok. Admittedly, Ezri would be lying to herself if she didn’t confess a degree of curiosity and excitement, but it didn’t make the corresponding compromises any easier.

  “I … appreciate your offer, Colonel,” she said. “But I have to respect the wishes of … others in this regard.”

  Kira puffed through her nose, which Ezri interpreted as a sign that she could go, but the sigh, it turned out, was simply the colonel’s way of mustering her strength to bring out the big gun. “Have you told Julian where you’re going?”

  For a terrifying moment, Ezri imagined she was sixteen again. She was sitting in her mother’s office being quizzed about who was taking her out that evening, where they were going, and did she know what time the curfew was? It was almost enough to make her race for the door screaming, but she fought down the urge. A fleeting image—one of Jadzia’s memories—bubbled up to the surface and she remembered a time when she and Kira had talked late into the night about the intricacies of their respective attachments, Jadzia’s to Worf and Kira’s to Odo. Both of those relationships were over now, the first irretrievably and the second, well, time would tell, but they had agreed that the essential ingredient in those relationships was trust. If Kira can use a big gun, Ezri decided, then so can I.

  “Julian trusts me,” she said quietly. “As you should.”

  Kira opened her mouth to respond, but no sound came out. She pressed her lips together, opened her mouth again, then closed it a second time. Finally, she said, “You’ve read the latest reports coming out of the Klingon Empire?”