The Left Hand of Destiny, Book 1 Page 12

  He was beginning to wonder why Morjod had gone to the trouble of scheduling a second address so soon after the first if there was nothing new to say when the would-be emperor got to the point. As if he could no longer withstand the pain, Morjod gripped his chest over his heart, hung his head, and dropped his voice so low Worf could barely make out his next words. “My people,” he murmured. “I regret to announce that we have much to mourn this day. We have lost the five jewels of the imperial fleet, four Vor’cha-class cruisers and the mighty Negh’Var.” And his voice cracked here and Worf had to concede it was very nicely done. Morjod inhaled deeply, seemed to rein in his emotions, then continued. “The blood of your sons and daughters was spilled to help the cause of our Federation enemies who want nothing more than to see us kneel before them!” he spat.

  Cries of consternation and confusion erupted from the crowd. Most of the listeners had been cut off from the news feeds all day and probably did not know about the battle with the Negh’Var over the north pole. As one who ordered the cruisers to attack us, he certainly has an interesting perspective on the outcome.

  Morjod looked up into the camera, his eyes infused with anger and hatred. “Martok!” he shouted. “Martok is to blame! Five ships of the line destroyed—and I have cause to believe that many of the Negh’Var’s crew may not have been willing warriors, but victims of Martok’s madness.” (Very clever, Worf thought. Make enemies for Martok among those families who believe the general led their children to dishonorable deaths.) “The cowardly traitor destroyed his own ship, taking with it the crews of the M’ganath, the Ti’voH, the Spear of Kaltad, and the Kerla. But did he die with his ship like an honorable captain? No!” Morjod brought his hand crashing down and snapped off the edge of the podium. “My advisors believe he fled his command even as he ordered the deaths of its crew! And where, I ask you, where could he be but here on Qo’noS, profaning the soil of his people.” He looked at his hand, almost as if he had just noticed that it was curled into a fist, then held the fist before his face. “I pledge to you, my people, that I will find him and bring him to justice!” The crowd rose and roared its approval as one.

  Beside him, Worf heard Jaroun express a desire that Morjod perform a physiologically impossible act.

  “But we must all be wary, my people,” Morjod continued. “This false chancellor may be a coward, but, like most cowards, he is wily. Be vigilant. Especially I ask the children of Qo’noS to keep watch.” Morjod smiled indulgently, and the camera cut to a shot of a group of eager young faces. “Small eyes sometimes see things that their elders do not.” Self-deprecating laughter rang out from the crowd. “Find the traitor. Find every member of his House and bring them to me so that they may face justice!”

  A pan across the crowd provided viewers with an emotionally charged shot of cheering faces, hands raising weapons. Worf saw the cruel eyes of a people collectively hinging on insanity. The hunt is on.

  Morjod’s triumphant grin filled the screen. “But understand, my people, we have not been idle. Even though we have not found Martok, we have laid our hands on a villain almost as vile.” The cheering tapered off as sounds of curiosity mingled with a rising blood lust rose. “I know what you’re thinking,” Morjod said conspiratorially. “Do we have the other traitor, the Federation whisperer, Worf? The answer, alas, is ‘No, not yet.’ But we will find him, my people, and bring him in chains to stand before you. Do not be troubled. But here is another of the faces that corruption may wear.”

  A trio of guards half hustled and half dragged a sack-covered body out into the center of the floor. From her clothing, Worf assumed, a woman. Behind him, a low growl issued from deep in Martok’s throat.

  Morjod strode down the steps from the podium to the floor and grabbed the figure by the scruff of the neck. “Fairer to look upon, no doubt, but evil may wear many guises.” He pulled the sack away and the figure stumbled to her knees, blinded by the spotlights turned onto her.

  Sirella appeared momentarily disoriented until she saw Morjod, prompting her to surge to her feet, fingers curled into claws. Two of the guards snagged her arms and a third attempted to hook her around the waist. This, Worf knew, was a profound mistake on the part of the guards, but anyone who dared touch the Lady Sirella in such a manner deserved whatever punishment she would unleash.

  Sirella elbowed one guard in the throat, then shifted her weight and threw the second over her shoulder. She then maneuvered her knee and hip, leaving the third rolling on the floor clutching his nether regions. Before she could direct her attack on Morjod, he deftly stepped in and skillfully struck the lady on the base of her skull with the hilt of his disruptor. Sirella crumbled forward into a heap, eyes rolling back into her head.

  Morjod looked down at her, an expression of mingled pity and regret flitting across his features. “And so has the corruption of Martok and Worf robbed us all of a once-valiant heart.” He beckoned to the guards to gather up the lady and take her away. Returning to the podium, Morjod stared into the camera. He waited for a count of three, anticipating all would be holding their breath. When all eyes rested upon him, Morjod said softly, “In two days. In the square where the Great Hall stood. She will die.”

  The transmission winked out.

  Worf became aware that he, too, had held his breath; he tried to release it silently. Glancing over his shoulder at Martok, he expected to see his brother smoldering with rage. What he saw worried him even more: icy calm. The general had plunged deep down into himself, swallowing his anger to be used in another moment, another day. “My brother …” Worf began, but it was too late for words.

  “Get me a ship,” Martok hissed, each word snapping out a chunk of air and freezing it into shards.

  “We cannot—” Worf began again, though he knew in his heart that words were worthless.

  “Get. Me. A. Ship,” Martok said again, a little louder this time. Jaroun and Maapek instinctively stepped back, giving the two a clear path to each other. “Now. Build it out of scrap. Steal it from an old widow. Pull one of out of your …” He waved his hand in disgust. “Belay that,” he growled, and turned away. “I’ll do it myself.”

  Worf surged forward and grabbed Martok by the shoulder. “General! You cannot! It is a trap. Think …!” He felt the pressure of Martok’s thumb against the flat of his wrist before his other senses could register the fact that the general had spun to face him.

  “Take your hand off me, Ambassador,” he hissed. “I wouldn’t want to have to slit open a Federation representative.”

  Worf gritted his teeth and fought down the urge to attempt a particularly nasty reverse hold, partly because he was afraid it would not work and partly because he was afraid it would. “I say again,” he said, attempting to remain calm. “Think! Why would Morjod do this? He’s trying to force your hand, to goad you into exposing yourself. You’d never get within striking distance.”

  Anger and fear warred in Martok’s countenance, but just as strong as either of these was an emotion Worf had never seen on his brother’s face. Uncertainty. The general did not know what to do: not for himself, or for his wife and family, but most especially not for the empire that had been entrusted to him. Worf could practically read Martok’s thoughts: At every turn of the battle, I am outflanked. Every time I think I know what my foe will do, I am wrong. Every decision I have made has been wrong. And so, left with nothing, he lashed out.

  “What would you like me to do then, Worf?” he shouted much too loudly. Worf was conscious of the warriors around them, the men and women who had to retain their confidence in Martok. “Let this usurper claim the empire for himself and turn it into an abattoir? And who should be the first to go to slaughter? My wife? And what of my son? Will he be next? Or perhaps yours? He’s a member of my House, too.”

  “I am not counseling anything of the kind,” Worf snarled. “But we must think … plan …”

  “You think and plan!” Martok yelled, spittle flying into Worf’s face. “I’ve had a bell
y full of it! Thinking and planning has accomplished nothing so far today. I say it’s time to act!” Behind them, Worf heard one or two of the warriors shout in affirmation. No! Worf thought. I cannot allow this to happen! They’ll run up to the gates of the First City with their bat’leths drawn and be mown down like hay. …

  “And if you were truly part of my House,” Martok finished, “and not the lackey of Admiral Ross and the divine Benjamin Sisko, you would know what to do.”

  Worf felt his mouth go dry and there was a sound in his ears like distant waves crashing against rocks. He closed his eyes, tried to blink the red out of his vision, then opened them again to see that Martok knew what he had just done and, in some secret way, enjoyed it, and, in equal measure, was ashamed.

  Of its own volition, Worf’s hand crept toward his mek’leth, but before he had a chance to draw it, Maapek was standing before him, thrusting a tricorder into his face. “Worf! Look!” It was the schematic showing the crude sensor grid the sentries had set up. An indicator blinked red, on and off, on and off, and suddenly the other red, the blood lust, departed from before his eyes.

  Ships were coming—a squadron of B’rel-class birds-of-prey, more than enough to level not only their hiding place, but all the Ketha lowlands.

  The ground beneath his feet shook, and Worf heard the sound of approaching thunder.

  8

  DAROK SAT AT the crest of the low hill and studied the landscape. As far as he could see on all sides there was nothing but field upon field of yellowish purple grain swaying in the light breeze. Though he had lived in Shrana, the breadbasket of Qo’noS, off and on since he had become gin’tak to the House of Martok years ago, he had spent very little time outdoors and had never had the chance to see how the grain’s heavy heads rippled and danced in the light breeze. He couldn’t figure out for the longest time what it reminded him of and then, in all of a moment, he remembered his childhood visits to the seaside. His grandfather had owned a small boat and had made his living selling fish to the local training-camp cooks. Darok had spent almost every waking moment of those trips out in his tiny launch, the surf rising and swelling around him, and now here he was, stranded in the center of an altogether different ocean. He put his head down between his knees and inhaled deeply, trying desperately to fight off the queasy sensation that he had experienced on every day of those visits.

  When he had collected himself, Darok looked out over the ocean of weaving stalks and tried to estimate how far he was from the edge of Martok’s estates. He had walked through the balance of the night—six hours or so—at a steady pace of, oh, about four kellicams per hour, so that meant he had gone about twenty-five kellicams, give or take a few. He sighed. Not nearly far enough. The lands around Martok’s compound were vast.

  As dictated by tradition, Martok was expected to produce enough food to feed every member of his House or, as was usually the case, contribute its equivalent to the empire, since few of those members actually lived on his lands. As Martok’s status had grown, so had his holdings, until, by the time he was Supreme Commander of the Allied Ninth Fleet during the war, he had considerable cultivated lands under his dominion. In comparison with the holdings of the oldest families, his property was small. But for a man who had grown up in the Ketha wastelands far to the east, these fields represented a continent. Darok wondered if Martok even knew how much land he controlled, but decided he probably didn’t. Warriors didn’t bother with such details. That had been Sirella’s job.

  Then he chided himself: still Sirella’s job. She would return, as would the general. Darok would never admit it to Martok’s face, but he doubted that the full fury of the empire at its peak would be enough to defeat the general when he gave his whole heart to a cause. This little up-start Morjod would prove to be a minor diversion, at best.

  The sun crept a little higher in the sky, and Darok felt sweat prickle under his heavy jacket. Before he had left the compound, he had changed his clothes and donned what he hoped would look like the garb of a transient worker. Unfortunately, there didn’t appear to be any other transient workers on the road (or, indeed, possibly anywhere in the empire), so he had no idea how good a job he had done.

  He studied the map on his padd and tried to decide if the road he had been traveling was the red line, the blue line, or the tiny green squiggle. As an experienced military officer and the veteran of hundreds … well, scores, anyway … of campaigns, he had assisted with the navigation of gigantic fleets to every corner of known space, but now the task daunted him. He shook the padd and almost threw it to the ground. It shouldn’t be so fek’lhrakt difficult to figure out if the green squiggle was the Great Victory Thoroughfare or Local Service Road Number 82. Someone should mark the besotted roads. Every few kellicams or so would be sufficient, but no. The global positioning system had superseded maps. Which was fine unless you were a fugitive member of an enemy House who knew the government could use the GPS to hunt you down.

  That thought had occurred to Darok only after he had downloaded Morjod’s second transmission, but since no police force had descended on him, he guessed he assumed he was safe for the moment. Though it wounded his gin’tak pride to consider it, he had to concede that he might not be important enough to pursue or, at least, not until other, higher-ranking members of Martok’s House were brought into custody. But, no, he couldn’t let that lull him into a false sense of security. As a fugitive, and more, one with a mission, Darok ran with a keen sense of purpose.

  The old man stroked his beard, considered for a moment how difficult it would be to toss the DiHnaq into a bush, throw away his other possessions, and wander into a small village. Who would question him, after all? No one, that’s who. For a while. And then, after a while, when things settled down, everyone would question him or perhaps just skip the questioning and go right to turning him in for whatever reward there might be out there. He had seen a purge or two in his time. He knew how it worked. He clucked his tongue and slipped the padd back into his inner pocket. “Stop thinking, you old fool. Time to get moving.” Darok stretched his legs, massaged away a cramp, then readjusted the strap on his pack. The butt of the weapon he was concealing in the small of his back had bumped against his hip while he had marched and there was a bruise developing. In fact, his body was one big bruise. Everything hurt except his feet because, fortunately, he had been wearing his good boots when the Hur’q came.

  “All right,” Darok muttered. “Probably the green squiggle is the Victory Thoroughfare, so I’m headed in the right direction.” He looked down the grassy slope to the four-lane blacktop and wondered how safe it would be to travel along its verge. Not much traffic, he decided. No traffic, if you came down to it. Which was part of the problem. If he could flag down a friendly driver, he was fairly certain he could put on the doddering-old-man act long enough to get to the next town and get a fix on where he was, but, alas, there was nothing. Not even any military vehicles, which was odd. What was Morjod up to, then, if he wasn’t even allowing the military out to keep the countryside pacified?

  It was quiet. Too damned quiet. Unless you counted the birds and insects and the occasional louder cry that meant some larger creatures in the woods over to the west were indulging themselves in some pre- or post-hunt bragging. Darok wasn’t worried about them. Much.

  Then he heard another cry, an unnatural cry, the long, swirling whine of an overstressed engine. To be precise, he decided, it was a n’Drel groundcar. Someone was pushing it much harder than they should. N’Drels were meant to be used for long, slow, overland journeys where there were decent roads and some opportunities for maintenance. They were great machines if you treated them well, but whoever was driving this one had no sense of decency.

  The groundcar burst out of the woods to the northwest, slashed through the fields, and mowed down great swaths of grain, antigravs blasting at full power, propulsion units pulsing red. Ten seconds later, two other n’Drels and a single-seated hoverbike crashed out of the brush and raced
across the field in pursuit. Darok’s hill was high enough to offer a clear view, but if he crouched behind his rock, he thought he would avoid detection. Feeling a twinge of something like premonition, he pulled out his tricorder and scanned the lead car. He felt absolutely no surprise when his tricorder pinged. The fleeing figure was the general’s son, Drex.

  Once clear of the forest, the hoverbike rider opened up his throttle and closed the gap between him and Drex in seconds. Hoverbikes, Darok knew, usually traveled in pairs or trios, so he wondered how Drex might have eliminated the others. In the next moment, Darok got his answer. Drex suddenly slowed his car, let the hoverbike race past him, then slid in behind it and accelerated, the engines redlining again. The n’Drel barely even bumped when it crushed the biker down into the soft turf. Darok knew Drex well enough to know that he was undoubtedly grinning broadly right that second. The fact that there were at least two much more heavily armored pursuers right on his tail wouldn’t disturb him. The boy was every bit as arrogant as his father was cautious.

  The two pursuers split up and arced around Drex’s straining vehicle. Obviously, they had not abused their engines as badly as the boy, because they closed the gap effortlessly. A passenger in the car to Drex’s right began to fire a disruptor, though, predictably, it didn’t come very close to hitting. Only a steady hand would hit a moving vehicle when its car was also bouncing up and down. Drex looked back over both shoulders, obviously considering whether he could pull the same trick he had with the hoverbike, but Darok didn’t have much hope for it. Even if the boy did manage to brake and swerve into one attacker, the other would pounce on him before he could accelerate. That probably wouldn’t stop him from trying, though; he had never been the most creative soul and he was probably close to a berserker’s rage. Darok unslung his rifle and slowly and carefully checked the sights. He was, he knew, going to get only one shot.