STAR TREK: DS9 - The Left Hand of Destiny, Book One Read online

  “Is yours?” Pharh asked.

  “No,” Martok said. “Not anymore. He’s been dead for many years.”

  “Oh. Sorry. But he was?”

  Considering the question, Martok realized there was no simple way to answer it. Klingon fathers are supposed to be many things: stern, demanding, and even, he supposed, ruthless. But difficult? No, he supposed not. A Klingon child always knew precisely what his or her father wanted from him or her. Didn’t they? Martok thought about Drex and wondered if his son had ever felt like his father was being unnecessarily obtuse. And what about old Urthog? Martok had felt like he was disappointing his father, but he couldn’t say precisely why. Did that qualify as being difficult? He shook his head, as much to answer his own question as Pharh’s. “No,” he [192] said. “My father was not ‘difficult.’ I did not understand him, but that was not his fault. I think he was waiting for me to understand him, but I was never able to do that. Perhaps if we had had more time together before he died ...”

  “I’m pretty sure the only thing my father’s trying to tell me is ‘Make more profit.’ ”

  “What’s so difficult about that?” Martok asked, shaking off his revelry. “It sounds like the same thing every Ferengi says to his children.”

  “It is,” Pharh replied. “But I think that I wanted to hear a little more than that.”

  “Such as?”

  He shrugged. “Other things. I don’t know. Maybe ...” But the thought trailed off into silence.

  “Maybe what?”

  “Maybe, like ‘Why?’ ”

  Martok laughed and pounded the steering yoke. “Gods of my ancestors, we are in mortal danger! A philosopher! Save us all from philosophical Ferengi!”

  Pharh squirmed, embarrassed. “I’m not ... philosophical. Anything but. I think I might just be simple. Too stupid to get it all. Everyone else seems to.”

  Chuckling, Martok shook his head. “I knew a Ferengi like you once,” he said. “A long way from here. You two would like each other.”

  Pharh looked at him curiously, but didn’t press him for a name. Martok thought they were both talked out and, more, that it was time to consider stopping for a rest, when Pharh said, “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”

  This might be the right moment to bare my teeth and snarl, Martok thought, but stopped himself. The boy [193] had been willing to answer his own rather personal questions. And, besides, if he was talking, he might be able to stay alert longer. “Go ahead,” he said.

  “Why is the chancellor of the Klingon Empire wearing beggar’s clothes and driving a fifty-year-old Federation vehicle across the Ka’Toth plains?”

  He stared directly at the Ferengi for much longer than was strictly safe, but he wanted the boy to squirm a little. Surprisingly, he didn’t. “You’ve mistaken me for another.”

  “Please,” Pharh said. “I’m simple, but I’m not stupid. And I watch the news feeds. Shouldn’t you be off with your army somewhere preparing to take back the First City or something like that?”

  Glowering out at the road, Martok found that it was getting too dark to see without the headlamps, so he jabbed the button that turned them on. In the sudden glare, he discovered that his eye ached badly. He needed to sleep soon. “I’m going to meet my army when we get into the city,” he said.

  Martok could feel Pharh staring at him. Finally, after several seconds, he said, “Uh-huh. How big is your army?”

  “Vast,” Martok answered quickly. “Huge. And they’re all going to transport into the center of the First City and crush Morjod on my command. It will be a glorious bloodbath.”

  “Right.”

  “I withdraw my earlier comment. You aren’t much like most other Ferengi I’ve met,” Martok growled, then jerked the steering yoke to make sure they hit a rut in the road as hard as they could. “Most of your people, I’ve noticed, tend to try to ingratiate themselves to others. [194] Particularly when those others might be potential customers.”

  While retightening his shoulder harness, Pharh responded, “Probably because you’ve never met a Ferengi when you weren’t in a position that they would want to ingratiate themselves.”

  It required a moment’s thought to untangle the syntax, but when he finally did Martok let go with a short bark of a laugh. “You’re probably right,” he said. “But don’t you think you should be trying to curry favor now while you have the chance?”

  “Probably,” Pharh said. “But it’s been a long day. I’ve most likely been written out of the family contracts by now and I’ve had a roof fall in on me. Oh, and had one of my trucks stolen by a Klingon chancellor. Perhaps I’ll be more polite after I’ve seen your army.”

  “Perhaps,” Martok said, and jammed on the brakes, bringing the Sporak to a skidding, sliding stop. Then he turned off the engine and fixed a stare at the Ferengi. “And perhaps this is the place where you should get out and start walking.”

  “Walk?” Pharh repeated, his voice rising. “Where?”

  “Anywhere you wish,” Martok answered. “But not with me. The road ahead ...” He inhaled and let his breath out sharply. “... is mine. Thank you for the use of your vehicle. I will endeavor to make sure you are compensated for its use.”

  The dashboard lights cast strange shadows around the Ferengi’s eyes, but Martok could see them glitter and found the returned stare to be disconcertingly direct. Neither one spoke for several seconds until finally Pharh lowered his head, then reached for the release on his harness. But just as he was about to pull up on the [195] buckle, his hand jerked away and, instead, tugged on the straps. “No,” he said. “I don’t think so.”

  “You don’t think what?”

  “I don’t think I trust you to remember to send me compensation. I think you’re exactly the kind of Klingon who will forget to do something like that.” His voice grew deeper and more nasal. Martok suddenly felt like the Ferengi had been possessed by the channeled spirit of Quark: “ ‘Vehicle? What vehicle? Did I borrow a valuable piece of equipment from a struggling entrepreneur and forget to pay him for its use and/or destruction? Oh, well, never mind, I have too many other important things to do, people to see, and enemies to kill. It’s only money, after all. Nothing that a warrior should be concerned with.’ ” Pharh shook his head. “No, I’m coming with you. To see your ‘army’ and talk to your quartermaster.” He looked back up at Martok. “Unless you object.”

  Martok glanced out the windshield at the darkening sky. They had reached the inner circle of the Ka’Toth plains and he knew that by dawn they would be able to see the spires of the First City in the hazy distance. He turned his gaze back at the Ferengi and asked, “Do you know how to drive this thing?”

  “Yes.”

  Martok opened his door and said, “Fine. I’ll be back in five minutes, and then you can take us as far as the edge of the city. We’ll talk again then.”

  “All right.”

  Before he slid out of the truck to look for a private place to relieve himself, Martok looked back over his shoulder at Pharh and asked, “Do you have any idea [196] why you’re doing this? I mean, besides wanting to get paid for the use of the vehicle?”

  The Ferengi blinked once, furrowed his brow in thought, then said, “None whatsoever. Maybe I’ll think of something while I’m driving.”

  Martok nodded as he slid out onto the packed earth. “Well,” he said, “at least you’re honest about it.”

  12

  THE LADY SIRELLA’S lower back ached, as did her thigh and calf muscles, her neck and, more than anything, her feet. She had been standing for more than twenty-three hours, if her internal clock was accurate and, naturally, it was. Standing with her back straight, her feet together, and her head up, Sirella maintained the correct posture to look down her nose at anyone who dared peer at her through the cage bars.

  If she desired, Sirella could sit, but that would mean resting in the foul, freezing water that covered the floor of the room into which her enemies had put her after
parading her before the populace. She suspected she was in the basement of one of the government buildings near the Great Hall, which would explain the cracked walls, the broken plumbing, and the gritty mist filling the air. Adjusting her footing slightly, Sirella permitted herself one tiny cough, just enough to clear her throat. [198] She refused to give her captors the satisfaction of believing she might be uncomfortable.

  The red glow of a single emergency lamp lit the room (obviously power had not been restored to the district, a problem that would not linger if she was in charge), and though she did not see a surveillance camera, Sirella assumed there was one somewhere nearby monitoring her. In truth, Sirella lived her life believing that somewhere nearby, everywhere she went, there was a surveillance camera monitoring her.

  They meant to publicly execute her the next day. She knew this much and conceded that this was, from a strategic point of view, an excellent plan. If Martok was still alive—and there was no doubt in her mind that he was—he would attempt to rescue her then, as would Drex and any other member of her House who could find his or her way into the First City. The daughter of Linkasa had no illusions about whether members of any of the other Houses would aid her. Her family’s Houses—her father’s and her mother’s—had been powerful, but never popular. They had not attempted to make alliances with the High Houses or curry favor with the Low. It had not been their way. And the House of Martok? She allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. The House of Martok had not needed alliances or popularity, for they had possessed a power no chancellor’s House could claim for many generations: merit. Martok, she believed, had risen to power because it was Right. He was the only man who could lead the people through the dangerous days that she perceived before them, days of flux and change, days of chaos and wonder. At times, Sirella felt a mist before her eyes, a veil that she felt she might be able to lift aside and peer through to see the glorious future.

  [199] There it was now before her. Sirella lifted her hand to push the veil aside, expecting wondrous enlightenment. Before her mind could open, a shock wave of what might have passed for giddiness in other women passed through her.

  A form approached her. Sirella noted the light walk on the balls of its feet and guessed that a woman approached, a tall, powerful Klingon woman, and not some tiny alien thing. As she came closer, Sirella observed that her visitor wore neither boots nor armor, though she carried a weapon, an unsheathed blade, above her head. The warrior woman moved in a slow, stately manner that befitted a member of a noble house, but her gestures evinced a playful side. Pride and dignity existed in this woman, yes, but also a wicked gleam, a sense of humor that Sirella found entrancing. Here is one whom I could call friend.

  A sword’s length away from the cage, the woman stopped, her blade extended so that its tip touched one of the bars. For a fleeting second, Sirella wondered if she was meeting her executioner and then concluded she could not be. It was too soon. Would she be freed? This seemed just as unlikely. A mist still hung between them so Sirella could not make out the woman’s face. She tried to ask “Who are you?” but the words caught in her throat.

  Abruptly, the swordswoman shifted her grip, spun around on her toes while twirling the weapon, then swung it forward in a glittering arc. It is an execution after all, Sirella thought, struggling to keep her arms stiff at her side. She would not scream or give them the satisfaction of seeing her surprise. There was no way to avoid the blow, so she would not dishonor herself or her family by trying.

  [200] But the blow did not come. The tip of the weapon hung in midair and Sirella saw that it was not a bat’leth after all. The woman vanished and there, before her, hung the prow of a Klingon ship. Its running lights blinked serenely and the engine nacelles pulsed with silent power. Sirella reached out to touch the bridge, the place where she would sit when the time finally came, when she would see ...

  “What do you think she sees,” a woman’s voice asked, “that she stares so intently?”

  Sirella resisted the urge to jerk her head toward the sound, instead slowly sliding her eyes toward the patch of shadows farthest from the red lantern.

  A second voice, a man’s, responded, “I cannot imagine. She may simply be transfixed with terror.”

  The woman chuckled, a low, throaty laugh that echoed ominously in the dank darkness. “The Lady Sirella transfixed with terror?” she asked, her tone chiding. “I think not.”

  “Then plotting her escape?”

  “Perhaps, though I suspect that by now she has correctly analyzed the situation and determined that there is no escape.”

  “Composing her last words?”

  Again the chuckle. “I doubt if the lady would waste her last seconds with something as mundane as words. She has always let her actions speak for her, has she not?”

  The patch of shadows shifted and Sirella perceived two figures, both wearing long cloaks with deep mantles. Sirella had an astonishingly good memory for voices and though she had identified the male voice as Morjod’s, she was certain she had never before heard the woman’s.

  [201] “Perhaps,” Morjod said, “she would like to say her last words now so she’ll have more time for actions later.”

  Sirella considered a couple of choice epithets, but decided gathering information took precedence. She knew she wouldn’t be able to ask direct questions, but she might be able to make inferences from her captors’ responses. “It is a mistake to give your enemies time to compose last words or consider last actions,” she said haughtily. “I can assure you that my husband and I will not make this error when our positions are reversed.”

  With a chuckle, the woman replied, “Should we find ourselves in that situation, I only hope that you will act swiftly. I don’t believe I could stand to be in near proximity to so much smug self-satisfaction.” No useful information there, Sirella thought. Except, of course, that she hates us. But this led to another, more interesting thought: Why do they hate us? She could understand that Morjod and his ally (lover? mentor?) coveted power and felt that she and Martok were impediments to their rise, but hatred? What value was there in hatred for a warrior or even a political opportunist?

  Morjod left the shadowy corner and stared at her, his eyes blazing. “You are smug, aren’t you?” he asked. “You will not be when you learn your fate tomorrow. Would you like to know what we have planned for you?”

  Yes, Sirella decided. He hates us. Or me, at least. He would reach through the bars and strangle me if he dared. This is most interesting. She replied, “I do not need to know. My fate has been assured since the day I was born. It is the same as all living things: I will die. [202] Everything dies, little dictator, but death does not frighten me. Can you say the same?”

  Morjod’s gaze flickered almost imperceptibly, though not before Sirella saw that she had scored a hit. He clenched his teeth together and hissed, “Today is a good day to die.”

  “Is it?” Sirella replied and arched an eyebrow. “I think it would be a much better day to kill.”

  Reaching for his d’k tahg, Morjod launched himself at Sirella’s cage, and she silently praised her mother’s name for the opportunity she was about to have. First, she decided, she would wrest his weapon from him and pin his arm; then, a little work on the eyes and nose. Sirella didn’t like his cheekbones, either. There was much work to be done there, too.

  “Morjod!” the woman commanded. “Stand away!” And Morjod instantly took two steps away from the cage.

  Oh, ho, Sirella thought. And now we know who holds the leash. What a miserable little targ he looks. Sirella almost laughed out loud when she saw the expression on Morjod’s face, but resisted the urge because she knew she was about to learn something valuable.

  “Leave us now,” the woman said softly.

  “But ...”

  “Leave us. Now.”

  Morjod stepped back into the shadows and slunk away through the hidden entrance. Even when she stared directly at it, Sirella could not see how the door was concealed, b
ut she knew that if she could free herself from the cage she would be able to find her way out.

  “He listens well,” Sirella said when the two women were alone.

  [203] “He does,” her visitor agreed. “Most of the time.” And the tone of her voice answered one of Sirella’s questions.

  “Children can be both a blessing and a curse,” Sirella said. “Depending on how well they were raised.”

  “He had the best upbringing,” the shadow woman replied, “but he is still young, impulsive. He requires guidance.”

  “Which you are happy to supply.”

  “It is my role. I am happy to fulfill it.” Sirella sensed the woman’s smile when she answered. She knew that Sirella knew the truth, but she did not wish to end the game. Oddly, Sirella realized that she, too, was enjoying their discussion. Perhaps she was more vulnerable to loneliness than she would have suspected. “And what of your son, Drex? Have you not found him to be ... challenging?”

  Sirella hesitated before responding. She did not want to give the enemy any information that would lead to Drex’s capture, but as she considered her situation, she decided she could probably gain more data than she could possibly give up. “He is,” she said, “his father’s son. In more ways than one. He reminds me so much of his father when we first met. He has his father’s pride, his temper, his ... stubbornness.”

  “But not his ...” The woman hesitated. “His sagacity? His wisdom?”

  Laughing out loud made her back and shoulder muscles ache, but Sirella could not resist, then despised herself for her weakness. “Ha! No. Not those. Perhaps someday, but not yet. To be fair, my husband did not develop those qualities until he was much older than Drex is now, and not without help.”

  “So you understand what I face?” the visitor said. [204] “Men require guidance. Even when the raw stock is good, they must be molded and shaped. Don’t you agree?”

  Sirella kept her face immobile, but she could not help but remember Martok when they first met, he little more than a callow boy. Even then, he had possessed many of the virtues she required in a husband, but they required refining. Making him into a man had been difficult. Not unpleasurable, but difficult. Losing herself in memory for several moments, it was an effort of will to bring herself back to the present. Again, she was appalled by her weakness and an edge of anger crept into her voice. “Enough. This discussion serves no purpose and you bore me.”