The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Read online

  K’Ehleyr laughed, head thrown back, shoulders shaking. “That’s rich,” she said, wiping her eyes. “The best part is that I know you actually believe that. All those years on the Enterprise, all that time on Deep Space 9, and those things just happened to you. I love it.” She sobered suddenly and then stared at him, seemingly studying his face. “You’re such an idiot. Nothing just happens to you. I doubt very much if there are ten other people in the entire quadrant who have been so often at the center of things as you have in the past, oh, decade or so. Admittedly, in galactic terms, that’s not a long time, but in a Klingon context, it’s epochal.”

  Worf bristled. He didn’t like the turn the conversation was taking.

  Then, as if she had just remembered an old mutual acquaintance, K’Ehleyr asked, “How’s Alexander?”

  Taken by surprise, Worf said the first thing that came to mind. “He’s grown, a soldier of the empire. I was supposed to see him today … no, yesterday … but then all this happened.”

  “Do you like him?” she asked with perfect equanimity, as if she were asking what color his eyes were.

  “I … He … I love him. He is my son. I am his father.”

  “Yes, well, those two things usually go together. But do you like him?”

  Worf pondered the question for a moment, then admitted, “I do not know him well enough to like him or dislike him. He is much more like you than he is like me.”

  K’Ehleyr seemed pleased by that observation. “Good. I’m glad to hear that. If it’s true, though, why is he a soldier? Couldn’t he be doing something more constructive with his time?”

  “Alexander is serving the empire. We were, until very recently, at war.”

  “We’re always at war,” K’Ehleyr said. “Whether we acknowledged it or not is another issue entirely.”

  “He wishes to serve,” Worf said, but couldn’t help but notice the note of defensiveness in his voice.

  “He wishes to please his father, I think. Next time you see him, ask him what he wants to do to please himself.”

  “I … All right,” Worf conceded. “I will. But if he says, ‘Be a soldier,’I will not ask him again.”

  “Fair enough,” K’Ehleyr said, and stood up, brushing nonexistent dirt from her hands. “It’s time for me to go now.”

  “Wait,” Worf said, and stood up, too. The top of his head barely came to the middle of K’Ehleyr’s abdomen. “I have to ask you …”

  “What?”

  “Why … why are you here?”

  She seemed surprised by the question, but then smiled and reached out her hand to stroke the hair above Worf’s forehead. “Because I wanted to see you. I wasn’t expecting to see you as a child, but I’m glad I have. You were very cute.”

  “That’s all? You’re not here to … deliver a message or make a prophecy or offer advice?”

  “I don’t think so. Or, wait … Maybe I am. I wanted to mention this to you, anyway.” She reached behind her back and, with a big flourish and jaunty smile, as if she were performing a magic trick, pulled a bat’leth out of thin air. She twirled it above her head in a shining arc, then tossed it from hand to hand, twirling the blade as if it were no heavier than a juggler’s tenpin. Then she grasped the blade with one hand, set the end on the point of her finger, and balanced it there while, with her now free hand, she pulled another object from behind her back. It was, Worf saw, an unadorned cup, no more than a clay or ceramic vessel. She twirled it up on her index finger and kept it there, shifting her weight lightly from side to side, both objects swaying in opposition.

  “Would you like one of these?” she asked.

  “What?” Worf asked. “Why would I … ?”

  K’Ehleyr flipped the cup into the air, kicked it out the door with the side of her foot, then grasped the bat’leth with both hands and swung it down at Worf’s neck. “Wrong answer,” she said.

  * * *

  Worf woke up.

  Maapek stood before him, having just touched his shoulder with the tip of his finger. “Are you all right, Ambassador?”

  “Yes,” Worf said. “Of course. Just resting my eyes.”

  They went back to work on the communications console. The early evening after the Endless Day (Worf believed that would be the title history would bestow upon the day Morjod destroyed the Great Hall) passed uneventfully. In rotation, most of the crew was even able to rest intermittently. Worf and Maapek worked until the moon rose and Martok ordered them to stop. While Maapek ate and napped, Worf meditated, then ran through some basic mok’bara forms, just enough to work out some of the cramps in his back and neck. He grudgingly had to admit to himself that the years were beginning to catch up with him and he could no longer expect to work all night without feeling the effects. Even his meditation had been difficult and broken by disturbing thoughts of his son, who was supposed to have been in the First City when Morjod’s madness began. Worf was uncertain whether his son was strong enough or wily enough to weather the uncertainties and trials he would face if he stayed in the city. He hoped that Alexander would have sense enough to make it to the Federation embassy. Like Worf, Alexander held dual citizenship. His next best alternative would be to lose himself in a crowd and keep quiet about his family affiliation.

  After Worf had broken his fast and cleansed himself as best he could, he joined Martok in front of a low fire where also sat Jaroun, K’Tar’s second-in-command of the Negh’Var and the ranking Defense Force officer. Worf knew little about Jaroun, except that he was large and young and his family had wielded considerable political clout. Both his father and an uncle had been on the High Council, and Worf wondered if either man had been in the Great Hall when Morjod had brought it crashing down. Perhaps Jaroun now was nursing a vendetta or perhaps they had been among the conveniently absent and Jaroun held other ambitions. One way or another, Worf decided, he would have to be watched carefully.

  Maapek also joined them, partly because of his exemplary work and partly because he had seen much of the information Worf was about to divulge and including him would be the best way to convey to him the need for discretion. Worf had few doubts about the communications officer’s loyalties, but there was no such thing as a bad time to impress upon a young officer the importance of keeping his mouth shut.

  As far as Worf knew, Martok had not slept at all, but the chancellor looked more alert than when Worf had called upon him the day before to go to the crew’s celebration. While he had been working, Worf had noticed the general circulating among the fires, working on morale. Being with his warriors was like food and strong drink to him, Worf reflected. The general could sustain himself on loyalty alone.

  “So,” Martok began, stirring the fire with a thin branch and staring into the flames, “tell me who he is. Teach me about my enemy.”

  Worf glanced at Maapek, a shared moment of disquiet, then began: “I wish there were more to tell you. Morjod seems to have successfully kept much of his background off the public and military comnets. They present a general picture of a young warrior and politician who has been making his way up the ranks, but has managed to keep the spotlight shifted elsewhere. The press attributed this to modesty, which they find dull; Imperial Intelligence did not pursue his story because he did not match their model of a potential threat to the government.”

  “Then we can only hope that their leaders were in the Great Hall when it collapsed,” Jaroun grunted.

  Worf paused, pinned Jaroun to the ground with a glare, then continued without comment. “Probing deeper, however, we discovered that Morjod is quite well connected. Maapek pieced together this picture from information found in various public databases.” He turned toward the communications officer, who seemed surprised by the spotlight. It was also, Worf thought, never too late to work on your presentation skills.

  “Uh, we, that is, I found that Morjod won his seat on the High Council by winning a personal combat with one, uh …” He flicked on his padd and looked up a reference. “… V’Tec, uh,
several years ago. Since then, he has used his position to attract a core group of followers to his cause.”

  “Which is?” Martok asked.

  “That is one of the mysteries, Chancellor,” Maapek said, warming to his subject. “It is not clear how Morjod was able to capture such devotion when his cause seemed designed only to appeal to the most conservative elements of Klingon society. He promised an empire free of influence from the Federation and the Romulan Empire, but offered very few specifics about how this could be achieved. He promised a stronger military and a return to ‘the Old Ways,’ though, again, he was short on particulars. In general, he was laughed at by the progressives and ignored by the moderates who were in power.”

  “Even Gowron ignored him?” Worf asked.

  “I never heard his name spoken before yesterday,” Martok said. “And Gowron was distracted by the war.” He twisted the shaft of the twig back and forth in the embers, sharpening the point. “A war we were losing when Morjod won his seat on the council. I begin to understand this man. Go on.”

  Maapek continued: “Over the next two years, Morjod managed to move allies into key positions through canny political maneuvering, reassignments, trials by combat, and assassinations.” He paused, then asked, “Chancellor, do you know the odds of any warrior defeating any other warrior in a trial by combat?”

  Any warrior with political connections knew the answer to the question. “About fifty-fifty,” he responded. “Trial by combat is a poor way to settle an argument. That’s why it is so rare these days unless honor is at stake.”

  “Precisely. And do you know how many of Morjod’s supporters have won their positions in trial by combat?”

  Martok shook his head.

  “Ninety percent,” Maapek said disbelievingly. “And the two who lost, we think perhaps he wanted them to lose. As if someone was getting too popular.”

  “Or was figuring out more than he should,” Worf added.

  “I see,” Martok said, pulling the stick from the flames and rubbing the point against the rough stone floor. “And what factions does Morjod control now?”

  Worf took up that topic. “It is an impressive—and strategically compelling—list.” He handed Martok a padd with detailed specifications for him to study later. “The short answer is everything he needs: worlds, stations, fleets. While the rest of the council was fighting the Dominion War, Morjod built a power base, amassing resources, preparing for the day when he could take control.”

  “And now the day has come,” Martok said, briefly studying the list. A couple of entries made him bare his teeth. “Answer this: Would he have moved this soon if Gowron were still chancellor?”

  Worf was prepared for this question. “Probably sooner,” he said. “If Gowron had remained chancellor, Morjod would probably have destroyed the council and claimed control in the name of winning the war. The change in power probably delayed his plans. If nothing else, he had to conceive of a new tissue of lies.”

  “Ah, yes,” the general said, half smiling. “‘Martok the Mongrel and his puppetmaster, Worf.’ You have to admit, as tissues of lies go, it’s compelling. He speaks to people’s fears.” He slashed the glowing point of the stick through the air. “It cuts deep. And how have the people responded to Morjod’s overtures?”

  Martok would not like the answer to this question, but it looked like he already suspected the truth. “It is difficult to know for certain,” Worf began, “since most of the news feeds have been shut down or are being monitored, but it appears as if the Defense Force and Homeworld Security have accepted Morjod as their new leader.” Worf hastened to add, “It’s not clear how deep into the ranks this acceptance goes …”

  “Stop it, Worf,” Martok said. “You do not need to be concerned with my feelings. I understand what we’re facing. This sort of bold and daring action, it is … romantic. It appeals to a warrior’s vanity. Young men believe it is precisely the sort of thing their glorious ancestors might have done, and old men like myself, who should know better, they think it may be their last chance to recapture something they never truly had.” He sighed resignedly and once again thrust the point of the stick into the flame. “No,” he said, “I am very impressed with this strategy. It shows a depth of thinking, a slyness, that goes beyond anything even Gowron might have conceived, and that, my friends, is an accomplishment.”

  Worf was nonplussed. He hadn’t expected this response.

  Martok pulled the stick out of the flame and studied it again. Peering at the point with his one good eye, he continued, “But he is an idiot, a dangerous idiot. First, I don’t believe for a second that the young fool I saw speaking at the Great Hall is the man who arranged all this. He does not possess … what is the word? … the genTag, the depth of character. This means someone else is doing his planning for him. Young Morjod is the true puppet, my friends, and our first task will be to find out who his puppetmaster is. Second, you must realize that whoever it is pulling the strings will not stop at taking control of the council and setting up the young fool as emperor. No, whoever it is won’t be satisfied until they’ve remade the empire in their own image. Mark my words: Within the week, Morjod will begin talking of the glory days of expansion, when the sight of a Klingon cruiser on the port bow made Starfleet captains soil their command chairs. …”

  Jaroun laughed at these words, but the laughter grew hollow when no one joined him. “The risk of his strategy, my fellows in arms, is that,” Martok continued, “the Federation and the Romulans will say, ‘The Klingons have lost their minds,’ or, perhaps, ‘The Dominion has taken control again,’ or some such excuse, and they will come here with many, many starships and when the dust settles …” He threw the stick into the fire. “There will be no new days of glory under Morjod, my friends. No New Empire. No empire at all, in fact. He will destroy every last vestige of the Klingon soul if he has his way.”

  “Chancellor …” Maapek began, but Martok waved him to silence.

  “I know what you wish to say,” the general said. “You were expecting me to lead you to some new beginning, weren’t you?” He studied Maapek’s face, then glanced over at Jaroun. “And you, too,” he said. “Ever it shall be when a new leader takes control. Always we say to ourselves, ‘This will be the one. He will tell us what to do, how to act, what we will need to know to be great again.” Martok shook his head. “What is true is that we will have to fight simply to save what we have. Once Morjod is disposed of, we will have much rebuilding to do. No, there will be no New Empire, no return to glory. Morjod has assured that.”

  “Perhaps this is not the best time to discuss such matters,” Worf said, worried about where this topic would take them. Martok steered dangerously close to topics that Worf knew would impact morale.

  “No, Worf?” Martok asked. “Then when? When I am reinstalled as chancellor? Can you see me having this conversation with the next High Council, whoever they are?”

  “My intention is not to deflect you, Chancellor,” Worf said, attempting to employ some of the diplomatic skills he was supposed to have learned in Starfleet. “I only meant that this time might be put to better use in planning our strategy.”

  Jaroun, who had been looking like a man who had just been told to go swimming in full armor, grasped at this life preserver. “Yes,” he said. “What are we to do next?”

  “Do?” Martok asked. “We stop him before he does to the entire empire what he did to the Great Hall. We find the generals who are still loyal to me and we organize an assault. …”

  “That may not be so simple,” Worf interrupted. The time had come to provide information he had really not been looking forward to imparting. “As far as we can tell, any generals with whom we may have been able to ally ourselves are either dead or have declared themselves loyal to Morjod.” He took the padd from the chancellor and brought up a new list.

  Martok scanned the list and appeared to grow angrier at each new name. “Larok,” he muttered. “I fought with him on Heldriff’
s World. Now … dead. Executed! And Ag’hel … serving for that madman.” Several other names provoked curses or exclamations of wonder and anger. If the chancellor hadn’t been agitated before, Worf saw that he was now. Martok was about to slam the padd down onto the stone when Worf saw a green light on the display flashing rapidly. Without apology or asking leave, he snatched the padd from the chancellor.

  “A new transmission,” he announced. “I set the device to scan for any further public addresses from Morjod.”

  Martok was already on his feet. “Where can we watch?”

  Maapek pointed at a monitor station that he had yanked from a console and set on a small cart. “Here, Chancellor,” he said, then pulled his padd from his belt. Starfleet padds were much prized among the more open-minded members of the Defense Force. He pointed the device at the monitor and activated it.

  Morjod leaned forward over a podium, the Imperial Trefoil looming large behind him. The camera revealed only a few people seated in high-back chairs to either side of the podium, by the look of them, Morjod’s new High Council. Worf did not see anyone else in the frame, but he heard the low, throbbing undertone of many voices speaking at once. It took a moment or two for Worf to recognize the location from which Morjod was transmitting, but finally he saw that they were looking at the Emperor’s Amphitheater, the largest room in the emperor’s official residence, indeed, the largest room on Qo’noS. It was, Worf thought, an obscene breach of protocol by the usurper. It staggered him. Only the emperor was permitted to speak from that place. How can he be so brazen? Worf wondered. Why haven’t the people risen up behind Kahless? And then he felt the sting of doubt. But where is Kahless? Unless … he is already dead.

  Worf thrust these thoughts away and focused his attention on Morjod, who had already finished his brief preamble and was launching himself into the main body of his speech. His theme was the same as before: Klingons would rise from the ashes of ignominy, resume their warrior heritage, and become the preeminent species in the galaxy. Worf rankled at the thought that any of his race believed that there was any ignominy to rise from or that they weren’t the greatest warriors in the galaxy, but he recognized that this was not the point.